Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

“OK,” I say. “I figure you owe me two hundred and eighteen—”

“What? That’s not fair. I don’t—”

“Just hold on. I’m not going to make you pay it back in actual dollars. But you have to pay it back in deeds.”

“What do you mean, deeds?”

“Every time you take a walk with me, I’ll credit ten dollars to your account. You refused to walk tonight, and that wasn’t nice, because I had to stay here with you instead of getting the exercise I need to beat my diabetes.”

“OK.”

“Every time you call your mother and tell her you love her, I’ll credit ten dollars to your account.”

“This will be easy.”

“It might be. But listen—every time you call me a name I’ll charge ten dollars to your account. Every time you’re rude to someone, like you were with that woman at Wingers when you said, ‘You need to fill my drink more often,’ I’ll charge ten dollars to your account. If you curse, I’ll add ten dollars to your account.”

Now Kyle looks less sanguine (I love the word “sanguine”).

“OK,” he says.

“Now,” I say, “show me those three dollars.”

Kyle digs in his pocket and pulls out three crumpled bills.

“Let me hold them.”

He hands them between the beds to me.

“I’ll keep these,” I say. “Now you owe me just two hundred and fifteen.”

He sits upright. “No!”

“Yes.”

“That was a dirty trick, douche.”

I grab my notebook off the end table and make a notation. “Make that two hundred and twenty-five.”

Kyle flops onto his back, covers his head with a pillow, and lets out a muffled scream.

He doesn’t talk to me the rest of the night. He watches his shows, and when I try to talk to him, he pretends not to hear me. I do not like the silent treatment. My father used to do this to me, especially after I became a teenager and he and I did not get along very well. I don’t think it is mature. However, it would be a stretch to say Kyle is being rude about it. He is just sending me a very clear, silent message. I wish now that I had put a codicil in our agreement that would reward him for being sociable.

At 10:00 p.m., I tell him that it’s lights-out, that we have another long day of driving ahead of us. He doesn’t answer me, but he does turn down his bed and climb in. I shut off the light.

I lie on my back and stare into the darkness. Tomorrow, we will drive 517 miles to Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, a route that will take us most of the way across Wyoming, down into Colorado near Denver, and then, finally, on smaller roads into southeastern Colorado and to our destination.

I close my eyes and my brain provides a picture of how I remember Cheyenne Wells from 1978, the last time I was there. Not much comes to mind—grain elevators, a railway line, and a big, wide-open sky that always seemed to hold huge clouds. Southeastern Colorado, in my recollection, has a lot in common with the eastern part of Montana, where I am from. Neither place has the big mountains that outsiders seem to associate with the states they’re in. It occurs to me that it has been so long since I saw Cheyenne Wells, this will be like visiting it for the first time. Even as detail-oriented as I am, I know that memories are imprecise renderings of places and times. I am eager to see it again and to reconcile what I see with what I remember. I hope sleep comes soon. Strangely, I hope my father visits my dreams again. I realize that I find comfort in that.

“Edward?”

Kyle’s voice is soft. I’m surprised to hear it.

“Yes?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yes.”

I hear rustling in the bed next to mine as he shifts his weight under the covers.

“I just want to say thanks for letting me come with you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I listen as he flops over in bed, and soon I can hear that he’s asleep.

Maybe Kyle is still a sweet young man. I hope so. He’s sending conflicting signals—that much is certain. If he were on Jersey Shore , they would probably call him “The Enigma.” (I love the word “enigma.”)

From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

Time I woke up today: 7:38 a.m. A very familiar time for me. The 209th time this year I’ve been awake at this time.

High temperature for Tuesday, December 13, 2011, Day 347: 32 (according to the Rock Springs newspaper). Nine degrees warmer than the high the day before.

Low temperature for Tuesday, December 13, 2011: 20. Same as the low the day before.

Precipitation for Tuesday, December 13, 2011: a trace amount.

Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches

New entries:

Exercise for Tuesday, December 13, 2011: Kyle refused to walk with me, so I didn’t do it. I’ve decided that we will walk at lunch, even if it costs us time on our 517-mile trip to Cheyenne Wells.

Miles driven Tuesday, December 13, 2011: 490.8

Total miles driven: 1,203.8

Gas usage Tuesday, December 13, 2011: Filled up in Boise: 9.747 gallons at $3.0199 per gallon, for a total of $29.43. Filled up in Brigham City, Utah: 13.209 gallons at $3.2399, for a total of $42.80. I am giving up on trying to project my gas usage and costs; the variables in price and consumption are too great. I will, of course, continue to write down the actual amounts as I accumulate them.

What Kyle owes me for the music he purchased: $215. He called his mother this morning and told her he loves her, and I credited $10 to his account. After he handed the phone back to me, Donna said, “What did you do to him?” She meant that I had done well, I think. That made me feel good.

Addendum: I am excited today. It will take many hours, but I will see Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, and that makes me happy. However, my happiness is kept in check by my reminding myself that it’s highly unlikely that I will arrive in Cheyenne Wells and the townspeople will congregate (I love the word “congregate”) around me and say, “Edward, we are so glad you came. We’ve been waiting for you.” Life doesn’t work that way. Yes, my father has been showing up in Cheyenne Wells in my dreams—although he did not last night, as far as I remember—and, yes, I have begun to wonder whether that means he wants me to find something there, but I have to remind myself that I am someone who trusts facts above all, and this idea that my father is guiding me toward something is not a fact. It is a fantasy. I have to remember that so I am not disappointed.

I am glad Kyle is with me on this trip. I wasn’t sure I would be, but aside from a couple of small problems, it’s been good to be with him. I hope that continues.

After I stop the car for the second time on the 107-mile stretch between Rock Springs and Rawlins, Wyoming, so I can pee, Kyle asks me this question:

“Why do you pee so much?”

I think it is reasonable for him to ask, given the frequency of my urination. So I tell him. “I take drugs that cause me to pee. It’s so my body doesn’t retain water. It’s part of my treatment for my type two diabetes.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s called a diuretic.”

“How many times do you pee a day?”

This is an astounding question, and I instantly feel foolish for not having an answer. I really should be tracking this on my data sheets.

“A lot,” I say. “In the first four hours after I take my pill, it’s especially frequent. Also—I hope this doesn’t gross you out—but it’s much more pee than it has ever been before. I can’t prove this empirically, because I never bothered to measure my pee before I started taking this pill. That would have been gross. But I can tell.”

It now seems to me that we’ve gone about as far as we can with this subject, but Kyle keeps going.