Miriam Toews - The Flying Troutmans

He asked me if I had a boyfriend and I said yeah, well, no, past tense. But I still loved him. I thought I did.

Adam said that was cool, that was beautiful, right, why should I stop, we were always meant to be moving in a love direction, always.

We drove around the dark suburban streets of Flagstaff looking for basketball courts and Logan. Adam played an old Pavement CD and talked the whole time about a variety of things and I tried to listen and occasionally interject with some thought of my own or some polite encouragement but mostly I was thinking about what a colossal mess I’d made of things and trying mentally to defibrillate myself. I was seeing Logan everywhere and then not seeing him. I was having a panic attack. I was having trouble breathing. Adam stopped talking and put his hand on my knee and asked me if I was okay.

No, I said.

Do you want to stop for a minute? he asked.

No, I said.

Different music? he said.

No, no, it’s good, I said.

We’ll find him, said Adam, I guarantee it. Honestly. We won’t stop looking until we do.

I told Adam about my father, how he’d drowned in the ocean after rescuing Min and me. And how I used to search for Min all the time when we were kids. She’d take off and scare the shit out of everyone, I said. One time she broke out of the hospital and ran eight miles in a rainstorm in her nightgown, barefoot, with cops chasing her the whole time.

I told Adam how I was still hoping to be with Marc someday, how futile that was, and how tomorrow was the day that we were supposed to find Cherkis, but probably wouldn’t. I told him that Min had run away, again, from the psych ward and that Logan had said he was going to do whatever he wanted to do and I didn’t know what any of it meant.

Adam parked the truck in front of some ugly, prefab houses and turned off the ignition. He looked around at the houses and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

Canadians are not that different from us, after all, he said. What would happen if you slid over just a little?

Well, we’d be closer, I said. I slid over and he put his arm around my shoulders, again, and sang a Leon Redbone song in a really low key.

My mom used to sing that to me, he said.

I thanked him for his friendship and he said I was welcome and thanked me for mine and then he started the truck again, I slid back to my side, and we resumed our search for Logan.

We finally found him at a court next to a high school, not too far from the motel. It was pitch black but he’d aimed the van lights at one of the hoops so he could see what he was doing. He was playing music softly too, some soul. When we saw him I asked Adam to stop the truck so we could watch him shoot for a few minutes and I could cry from monumental relief without him noticing.

I told you we’d find him, said Adam.

C’mon, I said, we both know you didn’t have a clue.

Mmm, yeah, but you gotta bel—

Don’t say you gotta believe, I said.

Nope, okay, he said, I wasn’t. I was gonna say you gotta bleed.

We were quiet, watching Logan make basket after basket and trying to hear what music he had playing in the van, but it wasn’t loud enough.

So, Hattie, he said.

So, Adam, I said.

Would you be at all interested in necking for a short, short period of time, he said. I mean, look, he pointed at Logan, the kid’s all right, right? Although he does have a cast.

I said no, I didn’t want to neck, I had to assemble the troops, reunite the troika, but I’d like to kiss him at least once.

Have you ever kissed an American? he asked.

Hmmmm, I said, let me think about that for a minute. He waited. No, I said, not really, no. Have you ever kissed a Canadian?

Well, yeah, he had, you know how it goes. He smiled and shrugged.

Yeah, no, I said. I kissed him.

Goodbye, Adam.

Goodbye, Hattie.

Love direction, he said.

I said, Always, dude, ’til the end of time, and got out of the truck and walked towards the light.

Logan was wearing shiny, black basketball shorts way down low on his hips, with blood red boxers bubbling up on top, like he’d cut a major artery in his ass. He’d taken his T-shirt and hoodie off and his back was shiny with sweat. He was skinny and pale. Scars, faded hickeys and plaster cast. Where had he got that scar from anyway? He was darting around under the net, blocking and being blocked by imaginary players and going in for layup after layup.

Hey, gangster, I said, your pants are falling off.

He whirled around and then back again, to the net, and caught his rebound and stood there breathing heavily and looking at me.

What are you doing here? he asked me.

Give me that, I said. He threw me his ball and I took a few shots and missed.

Okay, I said, quick game of Horse, let’s hurry, Thebes is alone in the room.

I thought you’d be really mad, said Logan. It had started to rain and Marvin Gaye was singing “What’s Going On” softly in the van.

I am really mad, I said, but I don’t know what to do about it.

He beat me at Horse and then as we walked to the van we took turns throwing the ball, hard, at each other. I aimed for his head but he caught it every time and beaned it back at mine.

Jerk, I said.

Control freak, he said.

What? I said. You have got to be kidding me.

Not really, he said, you’re—

I’m gonna break your other arm, I said.

We got into the van and it wouldn’t start and I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand the way my father used to do when his car, along with all the other aspects of his life, broke down.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I said, now you’ve killed the battery. I tried again.

Well, don’t flood it, man, said Logan.

I thought about the other options I’d had that evening, the roads less travelled. I could have been necking with a sweet, American hippie in the back of a truck under a full yellow moon. At the very least I could have been asleep with Thebes, the human giraffe, all tangled up around me. Or, maybe, I could have been in Paris singing like Piaf and swinging from street lamps with a bottle of Bordeaux in one hand and Marc at an open window with a flower box, beckoning me to join him upstairs for some gallant lovemaking and some shrugging off of life’s tiresome little tragedies.

How did you find me? asked Logan.

By looking, I said.

I’m just asking, he said, you don’t have to—

Just…you know what? I said. I shook my head. Let’s not talk. Let’s pray.

I don’t pray, he said.

Do now, I said. Pray that this fucking piece of shit will start so we can get the hell out of here.

We were quiet for a minute. Our eyes were closed. Okay, I said. Here we go. I tried to start the van and nothing happened.

We gave up on prayer and got out of the van and played another game of Horse and then tried the van again. This time it started, and we took off for the motel.

Somehow I’d lost my room key, maybe I’d left it in Adam’s truck, and Logan hadn’t bothered to take one when he left, so I had to go to the front desk and ask for another one. The woman asked me if I had a little girl with me.

Well, yeah, I said, she’s in the room.

She’s been making some long-distance phone calls all the way up to Canada, said the woman. I had to help her with the code.

Thanks, I said. I’m really sorry—

I thought about calling the police, said the woman.

What? I said. Why?

She was all alone, said the woman. How was I supposed to know you hadn’t left her there?

Yeah, well, yeah, but…I know, but she was okay, right? I had to go find this guy — I pointed at Logan — and I did check on her at one point…I know. I know. Normally…I left her a note, I added.