Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

After she was done with the pants, she came to the bathroom door and said, “Open up. I want to see that cut.”

“No,” I said. “I’m in my underwear.”

“I have seen a man in his underwear before,” she said.

This declaration from her brought to my mind several questions that I wanted to ask—the kind of questions Dr. Buckley has told me are inappropriate. So I kept my mouth closed, even though it was difficult.

I opened the door, and she barged in and knelt in front of me.

“Turn around,” she said.

I did as I was told. Now my underwear-covered butt was in her face. I was so embarrassed.

“Looks like it nicked you,” she said. “Have you had a tetanus shot?”

“November twenty-sixth, two thousand and eight, from Dr. Rex Helton,” I said.

“OK, good. I’m going to put some peroxide on it. Stay where you are.”

She stood and began looking through the cabinet drawers in the bathroom, which I couldn’t see but could hear. Finally she said, “Aha,” and the next thing I knew, the spot on the back of my leg was cold and tingly. Next she pressed hard on my injured spot as she affixed a strip bandage to it.

“Good as new,” she said, and she left. I put on my pants. I had a boner, so they didn’t fit right.

Kyle stirs as I’m heading back to bed.

“What time is it?” he asks. I left the light on in the bathroom by accident, and it is casting a yellow bar across his face.

“It’s 3:03 a.m.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. Why are you awake?”

“I had a dream.”

“About what?”

“I don’t want to say.”

I sit down on the edge of Kyle’s bed, and he sits up and gathers his legs into his arms.

“Was it a bad dream?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You can tell me about it if you want.”

Kyle sets his forehead on his knees. He speaks, but he doesn’t look at me.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“You know how you and that lady were talking about how your parents died?”

“Yes.”

“I dreamed that my mom died. She was reaching out for me, and I was reaching out for her, and I couldn’t reach her and she was gone.”

Kyle looks up at me now. He’s crying. I understand it. I feel like crying, too, when I consider such a dream. Donna is my good friend.

I tell Kyle something I’ve never discussed with him.

“Do you remember when we first met?” I ask.

“Yeah. You were painting your garage. I helped you.”

“Did you know that a couple of days after that, I had a dream about you?”

“You did?”

“Yes. I dreamed that you were dangling off the rimrocks above Billings and that I was holding on to you, only I dropped you and you fell.”

Kyle is looking directly at me. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his nose.

“I woke up and I drove to where your mom worked and I asked her to call your grandmother in Laurel and make sure you were OK. I was freaked out, and I freaked out your mom, and for a while she wouldn’t even talk to me.”

“Wow.”

“That was as scared as I’ve ever been, Kyle. I don’t keep statistics on such things, but I’m confident that’s true. But here’s the important thing: What I dreamed wasn’t real. You didn’t fall off the rimrocks. That’s how I know your mom is fine.”

“I want to go home.”

This surprises me. Two days ago, Kyle couldn’t wait to get away from Boise. Now he wants to go back. I’m flummoxed.

“We’re meeting your mom and Victor in Wyoming on Saturday. Technically, that’s tomorrow.”

“Can we go early?”

I think of the plans I have for later today. I want to help Sheila Renfro paint the repaired wall in room number eight. I want to take a walk around Cheyenne Wells, if it stops snowing. I want to find out more about Sheila Renfro. I want to see if I can make her smile again.

“Aren’t you having fun?” I ask.

Kyle leans across the bed and puts his hands on my head, which startles me a little bit, and then he musses my hair.

“Of course I’m having fun, douche.” It’s the first time he has called me a name and not meant it in a bad way.

I reach out and muss his hair back. “You’re the douche.”

“No, you are,” he says.

“No, you are,” I say.

“No, you are,” he says again.

I lunge for Kyle, pretending that I’m a champion wrestler, and I knock him onto his back on the bed. I then lie gently across him and try to bundle his legs with my free arm. I’m going to count him out.

Kyle tries to throw me off. “What are you doing?” His voice is high. I lean into him so I can pin him.

“GET OFF!” he screams. “GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

I let him go and I push myself off the bed and I run to the other side of the room. Kyle is screaming and crying and, oh God, maybe I hurt him. I clap my hands over my ears and I say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and Kyle makes himself into a ball on the bed and he cries.

I hurt him. I hurt him really bad.

Twenty-three minutes go by. Twenty-three minutes of Kyle crying, a little less, and then a little less, and twenty-three minutes of me apologizing a little more, and then a little more.

When Kyle finally tells me what happened, after he makes me swear that I will not tell anyone, I am sick to my stomach.

I didn’t hurt Kyle. Some big kids at his school did. They trapped him in the locker room, just him and the three of them, and they pinned him down, and they did bad things to him.

I have to get him home. I promised I would not tell anyone what he told me, but there are 267.5 miles between here and Cheyenne, the capital of Wyoming, that I can drive this morning, and during that time I can talk to him and convince him that he must tell his mother. We can get to Cheyenne and I can call Donna Middleton (now Hays) and tell her that we have to meet somewhere so she can have her boy back and they can figure out what to do.

It’s 3:47 a.m. when I leave the handwritten note on the front desk for Sheila Renfro.

Sheila Renfro:

Something has come up, and we had to leave early. If there are any other charges, please add them to my bill. I’m sorry I won’t be able to help you paint.

Thank you for mending my pants and for the taco soup and the Jell-O brand gelatin. Good luck with your motel. We enjoyed our stay.

I leave the note and the room key, and then I go outside to the car, where Kyle is waiting for me.

It’s dark and cold, and nobody is moving in Cheyenne Wells except for us. The Cadillac DTS skids in the deep snow as we turn onto Highway 40, headed west.

“I’m sorry, Edward,” Kyle says.

“You never have to apologize to me,” I say. “You’re my best friend.”

From the logbook of Edward Stanton, as recorded by Kyle Middleton:

Time Edward woke up today: Dont know. He was awake when I had that bad dream. He said it was 3:03. I guess 3:02.

High temperature for Thursday, December 15, 2011, Day 349: Dont know. Its weird that hes keeping temps in Billings while hes not there.

Low temperature for Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know.

Precipitation for Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know.

Precipitation for 2011: Dont know.

New entries:

Exercise for Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know. We saw that oil pump and stuff. He helped that lady at the motel I guess.

Miles driven Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know. We drove to the oil pump. That was like 20 miles or whatever. We tried to drive to Wyoming but hit the snowplow and Edward got hurt. That was like 50 miles or whatever. 70 I guess. Who cares.