Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

He took a breath. “Actually, I am needing help,” he heard himself say.

“I will bring shuttle van,” said Leonardo, who had graduated from delivering pizzas to driving an airport shuttle. “We can fit many things.”

“I have car,” said Katya.

“I have car also,” said Yoshi.

“I will bring pizzas from delivery mistakes,” said Diego. “They will be from past night but still very good.”

“Old food?” said Aaron. The students laughed hard, so he knew they forgave him.

On Sunday morning they arrived at his place at nine o’clock, as if they were meeting for class, except they were all on time. The Brazilians brought cheese bread and coffee, and the Thais brought bags of dried mango and durian chips. Aaron had everything packed, and he stood with the garage door rolled up, waiting for them.

“Where’s Melvin?” asked Ji-hun. Melvin was the only student missing, except for one of the Bolors, who’d had to work. He had not said he was coming, nor had he said he was not coming. He had, as usual, said nothing, letting the conversation swirl around him as though he were not really part of it. Aaron wondered whether the others had actually expected him to show up.

“He left a message on my cell,” Tommy said. “This morning before I was awake. He has some problem with his fiancée’s visa paperwork, so he will meet us at the new apartment.”

Sure enough, when they pulled up at Aaron’s new address two hours later, there was Melvin, leaning against the building. The other students greeted him, and he put on gloves and helped them unload the shuttle van.

“Melvin,” Aaron said as they carried in boxes together, “can I talk to you after everyone leaves?”

“I must go home very quickly,” Melvin said.

“It won’t take long,” Aaron assured him.

The Thais were the last to go, and when Tommy called to Melvin, asking whether he needed a ride, Melvin turned and said, “Thank you, but I must talk to teacher Aaron.” He was at the window that looked out over the ocean, and Aaron wondered whether Melvin was the sort of person who felt hopeful when he looked at the ocean’s vastness or overwhelmed by his own insignificance.

“Do you mind sitting on the floor?” Aaron said, because it would be awkward to sit on the bed, awkward even to suggest it. They sat and leaned back against the wall. “Thanks for your help today,” Aaron said.

“It is my pleasure,” said Melvin, bowing his head at Aaron. Aaron looked at the crumpled side of Melvin’s face, remembering how it had risen slowly in the basement, the eyes filled with shame.

“Melvin,” he said, “we never talked about what happened in the basement.” He saw fear in Melvin’s eyes, and he added quickly, “And we don’t have to. I understand that maybe you don’t want to talk, and that’s fine. I just want to say that if you do want to talk, or you have questions, or just need help with something, you can ask me. Okay?”

Melvin kept his eyes down.

“I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you,” said Aaron. “Can I get you anything? Water? A beer? Leftover pizza?”

“I must go,” said Melvin.

“Thank you for your help,” Aaron said again.

At the door, Melvin looked up. “It is the stigma of my life,” he said sadly.

“What is?” said Aaron, but Melvin had already turned to leave.

* * *

When he and Winnie had pulled off the interstate in Needles late in the afternoon, Aaron could not remember which direction to turn to get to the motel. He went right, but after several blocks, he decided he should have gone left, so he turned the car around, and there it was, nondescript and unappealing, the sort of place that people looked for when they wanted to sleep without frills. He pulled into the parking lot, and they got out. He showed Winnie the spot where Britta’s boyfriend had punched and kicked him until he announced that he was gay. He laughed and said, “Beaten up until I said I was gay,” and then, “What if Britta doesn’t work here anymore?” which was what he had been saying since they left Minnesota, and Winnie replied the way she had been replying. “We’ll find her,” she said. “We’ll figure out what happened to Jacob.”

She put her arm through his, and they walked toward the front entrance of the motel, but when they got to the door, he stopped. “I can’t do this,” he said.

“Of course you can. We’ll do it together. Okay? You’re just nervous.”

He leaned against the wall beside the door. “No,” he said. “I really think I should not do this. If Jacob’s dead, there’s nothing more I can do about it. Not really. Right?”

She nodded.

“So what would it change for me to know?”

“Well, you’d know for sure. Sometimes clarity is important.”

He remembered the force with which Lex had kicked him that night, desperate to know the truth about what Britta had been doing in his room. But had knowing changed anything? Had it made Lex understand the woman he loved any better? Had it made Britta love him more? Had learning where his mother had been all these years made Aaron forgive her any faster?

“Clarity is important,” he agreed. “But maybe clarity is sometimes about knowing what you don’t need to know. For months I’ve been thinking about Jacob, imagining his life before that day and his life after, and maybe I’ll go through the rest of my life wondering about him, but it’s okay. I saved him. I was running away, saving myself, and I saved him as well. Maybe that’s enough.”

Winnie put her hand on his shoulder, the shoulder he had used to break down Jacob’s door. He remembered the feeling as it gave way, the certainty he had experienced as he saved Jacob’s life. Was certainty what Walter felt as he drove out of Mortonville that Sunday afternoon with Aaron beside him? He’d never asked him, but he thought he might, someday soon, because there was so much about Walter he didn’t know.

The motel wall was warm against his back. He turned back toward the parking lot. As they drove past the front office, he slowed the car and glanced inside. A young woman stood behind the front desk. He thought it was Britta, but he couldn’t be sure. It could be any young woman.

* * *

Before he dialed, he planned out what he would say. “This is Aaron,” he would begin, “and I’m calling to see how you are and to apologize for not calling sooner.” He wrote the words out and practiced reading them aloud, but it was like the script he had used when he was twenty-two and working for the political campaign, like something you read to a stranger. In the end, he decided just to see what happened, even though spontaneity and the unknown were everything he hated about the telephone, but when he heard Walter’s voice, Walter sounded like a stranger, like someone who required a script.

“It’s Aaron,” he said.

On the other end, Walter was running water, washing dishes maybe, and the sound of the water stopped abruptly. “Aaron,” Walter said. “I got your letter. I see that you haven’t lost your flair for metaphor.” Just like that, he sounded like Walter.

“I miss you,” Aaron said, but that was unfair because it gave the wrong idea about why he was calling, so he said, “That’s not why I’m calling.” Except that made it worse.

“Why are you calling?” Walter asked. He was not going to make it easy, and why should he? He’d made things easy all those years, and look where that had gotten him.

Aaron did not answer right away. He wanted Walter to know that he appreciated everything he had ever done for him, but all the ways that he thought about conveying his gratitude sounded like clichés. He could not imagine anyone being convinced by clichés, though he knew people were. People listened to pop music, didn’t they? They wept at musicals and exchanged Hallmark cards. But not Walter.