West Of Here Part 22

"How much time do you need? Two weeks do it?"

Rita nodded, wiping her eyes.

"Let me talk to J-man. Thornburgh and I are drinking buddies." Rita daubed her smeared mascara and looked at Krig hopefully for the first time. "You drink?"

Krig smiled. "Does the pope s.h.i.t in the woods?"

SITTING SHOTGUN IN the Goat, Rita was ashamed of herself for feeling better, but the shame was a lot easier to swallow than the cold hard facts: that her son was likely brain-damaged, her relationship was a powder keg, and she was likely to spin in the same circles the rest of her days - unless she took the initiative to change her orbit. Why risk the heartache, the loss, and all the attending mess? Why confront the naked truth if you couldn't change it? Why not just feel better? Her thoughts turned reflexively to Randy, and she tried to chase them off, with little success. He was doubtless at home on the sofa, four beers deep into a six-pack, offering up his signature brand of wry commentary aloud to various television advertis.e.m.e.nts. the Goat, Rita was ashamed of herself for feeling better, but the shame was a lot easier to swallow than the cold hard facts: that her son was likely brain-damaged, her relationship was a powder keg, and she was likely to spin in the same circles the rest of her days - unless she took the initiative to change her orbit. Why risk the heartache, the loss, and all the attending mess? Why confront the naked truth if you couldn't change it? Why not just feel better? Her thoughts turned reflexively to Randy, and she tried to chase them off, with little success. He was doubtless at home on the sofa, four beers deep into a six-pack, offering up his signature brand of wry commentary aloud to various television advertis.e.m.e.nts. Ford, my a.s.s ... Pff, NAPA, yeah right, Never Any Parts Available. Ford, my a.s.s ... Pff, NAPA, yeah right, Never Any Parts Available. Midway through beer six, Randy would begin to wonder where the h.e.l.l Rita was with dinner. She'd have to tell him she'd been at the clinic with Curtis all evening. He'd grumble about it, but what could he do? She'd pick up a BBQ beef and some Jo Jos from Circle K to placate him. Him. It was always about him. Another guilty finger prodded her at the thought of Curtis. She was using him as a happy hour excuse. Suddenly, she had half a mind to ask Krig to turn back toward the plant. If the Monte Carlo would start, she could still squeeze in a half hour of visiting time. Midway through beer six, Randy would begin to wonder where the h.e.l.l Rita was with dinner. She'd have to tell him she'd been at the clinic with Curtis all evening. He'd grumble about it, but what could he do? She'd pick up a BBQ beef and some Jo Jos from Circle K to placate him. Him. It was always about him. Another guilty finger prodded her at the thought of Curtis. She was using him as a happy hour excuse. Suddenly, she had half a mind to ask Krig to turn back toward the plant. If the Monte Carlo would start, she could still squeeze in a half hour of visiting time.

Last Thursday, Curtis had showed marked improvement. The burns were healing nicely. He'd finally issued his first sound. Baby talk, sure, but the specialist was heartened. He said there was light in the boy's eyes, that he seemed to want to communicate something.

The Bushwhacker was slammed when Krig and Rita arrived. Molly was working the bar and the floor, circling the room like a frantic mud shark. Krig spotted an empty stool next to Jerry Rhinehalter and figured if Rita sat in it and Krig loomed like a buzzard, they could probably chase Rhinehalter off in ten minutes flat. The guy was probably supposed to be at a little league game or something anyway. He had a whole gaggle of kids. But as Krig was considering this course of action, a two-top opened up in the far corner, and he ushered Rita across the crowded bar, even as Molly began busing the table. Krig was hoping for a little familiarity from Molly to help him break the ice with Rita. Hear about the Wal-Mart fire? Guess it was arson. Hear about the Wal-Mart fire? Guess it was arson. Something like that - some little piece of news. Something that engendered familiarity or confidence, something that said Krig belonged here. Something like that - some little piece of news. Something that engendered familiarity or confidence, something that said Krig belonged here.

"I'm out of Kilt Lifter," she said, promptly sashaying off with a loaded bus tray.

"That's Molly," explained Krig.

"Yeah, I know. I used to work with her at Gertie's."

"Small world."

"Mine sure is," said Rita.

After two PBRs, Rita was able to put Curtis and Randy out of her mind. She found that she liked listening to Krig talk. He was pretty smart. His mind had scope. A lot more scope than Randy. Mostly, Krig was a good distraction. He talked about all kinds of weird s.h.i.t - Big-foot, Atlantis, something called the Bimini Road. She hoped he was picking up the tab but kept ordering two-dollar PBRs just in case.

"You never know," he was saying. "There's a lot of unexplained phenomena out there. You know anything about string theory?"

"No."

"Me neither, really. Google it - it's some pretty tripped-out s.h.i.t, I know that much. Parallel universes and that kind of thing. Worm-holes. Dark matter. I saw it on the Science Channel - not that I put too much stock in the Science Channel. Their Bigfoot coverage is c.r.a.p."

"Mm," said Rita.

"Sorry, if I'm talking too much," said Krig.

"No, no."

"I have boundary issues."

"It's okay," said Rita. "It quiets my head."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

Thus encouraged, Krig proceeded to enlighten Rita on - among other subjects - the musculature and carriage of the female Sasquatch featured in the Patterson footage. You couldn't fake something like that. You have to look at the muscle groups. Watch the flexation in the legs and the b.u.t.t. The bending of the knee joints and stuff. You couldn't fake something like that. You have to look at the muscle groups. Watch the flexation in the legs and the b.u.t.t. The bending of the knee joints and stuff. Krig talked about the cultural tracks of Sasquatch through centuries of Salish and Klallam cultures, hoping Rita might have some unique Native American insight to offer - something along the lines of what Meriwether Lewis Charles Running Elk had offered him at the Seven Cedars Casino. But Rita just nodded all the while, sipping her PBR at a pretty good clip. Krig talked about the Gaussian curve of the footprints. Krig talked about the cultural tracks of Sasquatch through centuries of Salish and Klallam cultures, hoping Rita might have some unique Native American insight to offer - something along the lines of what Meriwether Lewis Charles Running Elk had offered him at the Seven Cedars Casino. But Rita just nodded all the while, sipping her PBR at a pretty good clip. Krig talked about the Gaussian curve of the footprints. Believe me, a hoaxer just isn't going to understand the weight distribution of a biped that size enough to fake something like that. He'd have to be some kind of expert on the mountain gorilla - there's no way Patterson knew all that stuff. Believe me, a hoaxer just isn't going to understand the weight distribution of a biped that size enough to fake something like that. He'd have to be some kind of expert on the mountain gorilla - there's no way Patterson knew all that stuff. But never did Krig broach the subject of his own experiences along the sh.o.r.e of Lake Thornburgh. That's one boundary he wouldn't allow himself to cross. But never did Krig broach the subject of his own experiences along the sh.o.r.e of Lake Thornburgh. That's one boundary he wouldn't allow himself to cross.

The more Rita listened to Krig, the more she leaned into his curiosity, the more she liked that Krig didn't profess to have all the answers. Krig was willing to speculate, willing to wait and see. This seemed healthy. Rita had decided long ago that she already knew all the answers. Stunted. That's how she felt. Like a frost-damaged tree - as if no amount of warmth could ever undo the damage. And yet she seemed to be thawing with each PBR. Until finally it wasn't enough to listen.

"Do you think people can change?" she said.

Krig very nearly broached the subject of his encounter on Lake Thorn-burgh. Certainly that experience had changed him. "Yeah, sure."

But it was as though Rita could hear him thinking. "I mean change themselves."

Krig gazed into his beer, spun it in his grip, and finally took a big gulp. "Well," he said. "After my dad left, and my mom was ... well, she went a little nuts ... I was sort of forced to be the -"

"I don't mean adapt. I mean change. change. Completely reverse everything that's come before. Obliterate it. Because you decide to, not because something else decides for you." Completely reverse everything that's come before. Obliterate it. Because you decide to, not because something else decides for you."

Krig was pensive once more. All these questions made him thirsty. Why the sudden turnabout in Rita? Why did it seem that the boundaries were always shifting? Krig had no idea where the line was anymore. "Hmm, okay," he said. "How about this? Back in my JV days, I was a point guard - I distributed the ball, I tried to make everyone around me better. It was my instinct to pa.s.s, see? But Gasper and the rest of those clowns just couldn't finish. I mean, not even a d.a.m.n layup. It was like throwing perfectly good pa.s.ses into the abyss. And none of them could shoot from the perimeter, so we couldn't beat a zone. So after soph.o.m.ore year, I decided I could help the team more by shooting. So I developed a wicked -"

"You're talking about your role on a team. In high school. I'm talking about you. Me. Without roles." Rita gazed out the window. "Can we really be whoever we want to be, now that we've collected all that we are?"

Krig knew the answer was no - for all the mysterious possibilities and unexplained phenomena in the world, the trappings of ident.i.ty wouldn't seem to budge. The whole process of becoming was reductive; each choice was like another bar in the prison of self. Everything got smaller. This from a guy whose name had been reduced to a single syllable.

"I think it's an uphill battle," he said, at last. "You'd need a lot of momentum."

"But you still think it's possible?"

"I do," he lied. "Maybe the key is to let the person you want to be make your choices."

Choices, ha! Krig knew about choices. Krig knew that you didn't always choose for yourself, no matter who you were. Sometimes other people chose for you. Who pa.s.sed up a hoops scholarship to Eastern Oregon to stay with his mother? Really, didn't she make that choice for him? He could've been a biologist, a primatologist, an anthropologist, instead of some half-baked cryptozoologist bulls.h.i.t artist. Maybe then, somebody would believe him about the upper Elwha, maybe then somebody would take him seriously. Maybe if he'd drawn different boundaries for himself in the first place. But he didn't, did he? Because he was scared s.h.i.tless, that was the real reason. That's why he never left P.B. - he was afraid. Exhibit A: his trip to New York for his twenty-first birthday. He was gonna see Ewing at the Garden. He was gonna check out the Chrysler Building, see the Museum of Natural History (he even read books back then). He was gonna drink beer in Times Square, eat a steak at the 21 Club, maybe even take in that dumb Miss Saigon Miss Saigon on Broadway. on Broadway.

And what happened?

He flew into LaGuardia and totally wussed out on taking a bus to the subway, like he'd promised himself. He took a cab straight to the front door of the hostel on 103rd and Amsterdam, where he checked into a room with six farting Dutchmen. He was too intimidated by it all. He felt vulnerable. Once he finally quit procrastinating with his toiletries and ventured out into the Manhattan night, he didn't make it far. He almost walked into Oscar and Tony's, around the corner, and almost ordered a beer. But peering in the window, he paused, got indecisive, made a false start toward the door, made another, but stopped himself. When he felt he was being watched through the window, he felt like a total p.u.s.s.y and fled to the corner store, where he bought three Foster's oil cans and a pint-sized plastic Statue of Liberty coffee cup to drink them out of.

Where did he go with his coffee cup and his beers? To the pulsing variegated madness of Times Square? Did he stroll along the edge of Central Park? Did he sit on a bench and watch the rich pageantry of the Big Apple as it pa.s.sed him by?

Not quite. He went straight back to the hostel, where he spent the evening playing b.u.mper pool by himself, listening to Sinatra on the old phonograph. He hated Sinatra. What a cheese-d.i.c.k.

The next day, he ventured as far as Sal's Pizza, twice. He returned to the corner store to stock up on oil cans for his Statue of Liberty cup. He got pretty proficient at b.u.mper pool. Even old blue eyes started growing on him. Gotham was never the same after Krig's barnstorming birthday weekend. They're still talking about him in Times Square.

He never went back to New York. He never went anywhere. After that, he stayed right in Port Bonita, where he was once a double letter in hoops and wrestling. Port Bonita, where he could curl up in the familiar security of his one-syllable name. Yeah, okay, maybe people do change. Maybe they get more afraid the fewer choices they make.

"I'm sorry," said Rita. "G.o.d, I'm a wet blanket. Let's play darts."

They played 301 and two games of cricket. Krig tried to let her win every time, but she sucked too bad. They talked about movies, and Krig resisted the urge to bring up Sasquatch: Legend Meets Science. Sasquatch: Legend Meets Science. They talked about music, and Krig was willing to forgive her for hating Jethro Tull, even willing to forgive her for saying she hated "him" instead of "them." They talked about some of the crazy s.h.i.t they did in their youth. Krig told her about wrestling weaner pigs, about locker-room shenanigans - neglecting to mention that he was invariably on the a.s.s-end of these shenanigans. Of course, he avoided his adventures in New York. They talked about music, and Krig was willing to forgive her for hating Jethro Tull, even willing to forgive her for saying she hated "him" instead of "them." They talked about some of the crazy s.h.i.t they did in their youth. Krig told her about wrestling weaner pigs, about locker-room shenanigans - neglecting to mention that he was invariably on the a.s.s-end of these shenanigans. Of course, he avoided his adventures in New York.

As the evening progressed, Rita made up a whole new youth for herself, one without the creepy stepdad and the couch surfing. She painted the rez of her youth as the person she wanted to be might have experienced it. She painted an adolescence that might have been Marcia Brady's. She even invented siblings. A brother Joe and a sister Gail. A household of rank-and-file orderliness. A silver tiara on prom night. And each fiction was more thrilling and liberating than the last.

Rita was giggling in the pa.s.senger seat as Krig pulled off of Marine and into the back lot of High Tide. Her laughter ended abruptly when she noticed a shadowy figure sitting on the hood of the Monte Carlo.

"Oh s.h.i.t."

"What?"

"Turn around - no, it's too late, just let me out here."

"What is it?"

"Randy."

"So what's the big deal?" said Krig, pulling up next to the Monte Carlo. But hardly had he uttered the words, before the big deal became perfectly clear. In a flash, Randy was wrenching Krig out of the driver's seat, even as Rita tried desperately to pull him back into the idling car. But Randy won the tug-of-war, and Krig soon found himself facedown in the gravel lot, breathless, the right side of his torso burning like fire and ice.

Rita leapt out of the car and tried to pull Randy off, but she was no match, never was.

"Shouldn't have crossed the line, douchehammer!" Randy observed, delivering a crisp right foot to the kidney. "How does it feel now, f.u.c.kstick?"

Krig would remember thinking if he could only get to his feet, he could take this shrimp. And he could have. He could have rolled to the left and popped up - Christ, shouldn't that have been his f.u.c.king instinct? Once he got on his feet, he could have had his way with the little ferret. He had the size, the reach, the superior strength. He could've rolled, popped, and bing-bang, he'd have been on his feet. Done a quick duck under, and got him low. Pretty soon he'd have had all that weight on top of him. If he rushed Krig, Krig could've got him in a body lock and shook him around like a rag doll. Better yet, got him in a head shuck, and start twisting that skinny little neck. Either way, he could've had him. But where was Mr. Double Letter? Mr. Double Letter was flat on his beer belly, wincing at each blow, saying to himself, Just get this over with.

Krig watched dazedly as Randy forced Rita into the Monte Carlo through the driver's side, kicking and screaming - at least she she was putting up a fight. was putting up a fight.

With one arm on the wheel and the other fighting her off, Randy whipped the car in reverse, swung a 180, and immediately stalled.

Krig had a window there. A chance to turn the tides. A chance to revise his history. All he had to do was get his fat a.s.s off the ground and rush the car as Randy turned it over - once, twice, three times, three times, with no success. Krig could have ripped that little weasel right out of driver's seat and pummeled him. with no success. Krig could have ripped that little weasel right out of driver's seat and pummeled him.

But he didn't, did he? Worse, he distinctly remembered thinking - after Randy's third failed attempt at turning the car over - C'mon, start, start, d.a.m.n it! C'mon, start, start, d.a.m.n it! He remembered thinking, He remembered thinking, Don't flood it, you idiot, you're gonna drain the battery. Don't flood it, you idiot, you're gonna drain the battery.

And even more vividly than Krig remembered the shame and humiliation, he remembered the relief that washed over him when the engine caught on the fifth try, and Randy and Rita tore out of the gravel lot.

AN HOUR LATER, Rita collided with the edge of the bathroom door but only after Randy called her a wh.o.r.e and struck her with a backhand across the face that sent her careening across the hallway into said bathroom door. After much shouting, and more shoving, Randy cried like a baby for forty-five minutes, apologizing profusely for his very existence. I can't help it, I can't help it, he whimpered over and over. he whimpered over and over. I just love you so much. I just love you so much. And before she even realized it, her eye had swollen half shut, and Rita found herself comforting an inconsolable Randy on the bed until two in the morning, eventually succ.u.mbing to his s.e.xual advances. For ten minutes, he f.u.c.ked her even harder than usual and, having spent himself inside of her, rolled over and fell quickly to sleep. And before she even realized it, her eye had swollen half shut, and Rita found herself comforting an inconsolable Randy on the bed until two in the morning, eventually succ.u.mbing to his s.e.xual advances. For ten minutes, he f.u.c.ked her even harder than usual and, having spent himself inside of her, rolled over and fell quickly to sleep.

Rita lay awake half the night, worrying. Why did she have to get poor Krig involved? What if he was badly injured - what if he was dying in that parking lot right now? She had his cell number, what was she waiting for? After two six-packs and all the excitement, Randy was out cold. When Rita couldn't stand it anymore, she stole out from under the covers and across the darkened room. The floor was still strewn with Curtis's laundry. She tiptoed out into the creaky hallway and quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.

In the darkness, she located her purse on the kitchen counter, fished out her cigarettes, her cell phone, and a lighter. In only a nightshirt, she snuck out the back door and down the steps. The night was considerably colder than she had imagined, clear and moonless. The stars were spattered brightly in a wide brushstroke across the sky. Rita padded in bare feet through a dew that was turning to frost, around the back corner of the house to a single lawn chair on a buckled slab of concrete overgrown with long gra.s.s. She pulled her knees up under her nightshirt for warmth and lit a Merit. Clutching her cell phone, she looked briefly up at the sky and shivered. How was it possible that the stars burned cold? How was it possible that they burned at all? The sight of them caused Rita to shiver once more. She pulled her legs in tighter under her nightshirt and smoked her Merit down to the filter and snubbed it out on the concrete. She lit another before dialing.

"Krig?" she said, just above a whisper.

"What up?" he said groggily. "Who is this?"

"It's me, Rita."

Krig sat up in bed in the glow of the television. "Hey."

"Are you ... are you okay?" she said.

Locating the remote on the pillow beside him, Krig turned off the TV and settled into the darkness. "Yeah. A little sore, I guess. What time is it?"

"I don't know," said Rita, exhaling. "Late. Or really early."

"What about you?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Everything is fine. I just ... I'm sorry that I ..."

"No worries. I needed my a.s.s kicked, I think."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"It's you you I'm worried about." I'm worried about."

"I can handle myself," she said. "But thanks."

They lapsed into silence. Krig could hear Rita smoking.

"Krig, I ... all that ... tonight, when I was ... look, I ... I better go."

"Say it."

Silence again. The sound of Rita smoking.

"All that stuff I told you tonight, that stuff about me growing up - none of it was true. I don't know why, I just ... I guess I just wanted to step outside of my life, you know? I was having fun."

"I think I get it," he said. "I've made up stuff before."

"I wasn't lying to you because I ... I don't want you to think ..."

"Really," said Krig. "It's okay. I don't think anything. I think your boyfriend is a d.i.c.k, but other than that ..."

"Thanks. I mean for, you know, defending me, I guess."

"Defending you? That's a laugh. I didn't even defend myself. myself. Jesus, I may as well have been a pinata." Jesus, I may as well have been a pinata."

Rita stopped her giggle short when a light snapped on in the trailer. "s.h.i.t."

"What is it? You okay?"

Rita snubbed out her cigarette. "I gotta go," she said.

the specialist AUGUST 2006 2006.

Doubtful, that's the vibe Rita got from the specialist. She saw it in the first cursory blue-eyed glance he bestowed upon her when they met in the corridor. He didn't inquire about the black eye; in fact, he hardly seemed to notice it. Still, Rita could feel the force of his doubt as he leafed through his clipboard distractedly, his golden brows scrunched upon his tanned forehead: doubtful of her qualifications as a mother, as a woman, as a human being. Rita could tell that he blamed her for Curtis.

"We think he understands us," the specialist said, not looking at Rita's black eye. "And we know for certain he can hear us. The tests show he can hear us." Here he heaved a sigh and shook his head doubtfully. "Frankly, I'm at a loss; we're all at a loss. There's no edema, no clotting - nothing to suggest trauma. Nothing in the EEG points to neurodegeneration. In short, we're finding nothing to account for the deficits. The tests have told us all they can tell us, I think. I'd like to send him to a specialist."

"I thought you were the specialist."

"A different specialist," said the specialist. "Someone nontraditional." For the first time, he looked at Rita's black eye, and Rita looked back at him defiantly, but the specialist did not shrink from her gaze; he merely shook his head doubtfully and made a notation on his clipboard.

It was raining pitchforks when Rita emerged from the clinic. She sat in the driver's seat of the Monte Carlo in a desolate stupor, listening to the rain a.s.sault the roof with a clattering both sharp and dull. She had no notion of where to go from there. Mechanically, she fired up the Monte Carlo and found herself heading in the direction of home.

Rita tried to remember a time when home was not at the very least an ambiguous proposition. She had to go all the way back to the summer of her eleventh year, when her parents were experiencing "difficulties," and Rita lived with her grandparents two miles off of the rez, near town. Only then, in the absence of her mother's bitter silence, relieved of the eggsh.e.l.l uneasiness inspired by her stepfather, did Rita come to know something other than cold comfort. Only by subtraction had she ever experienced the ease and succor of domesticity. With her grandmother, Rita spent her days making lavender cakes, and mending clothing, and folding laundry with one eye on the television set, while her grandfather was at work canning. In the afternoons, Rita and her grandmother would drive to town on errands, with Rita's grandmother sitting rigidly in the driver's seat of the old red truck, all five feet of her, clutching the wheel fiercely. She looked like a potato doll, though she couldn't have been fifty. That was 1979. Poco was all over the charts. Chic, Anita Ward, the Little River Band. Every afternoon in the truck, on the drive to Swains, or the grocery, or Coast to Coast, Rita hummed along with the radio. Her grandmother chimed in with smiling eyes for Eddie Rabbitt and Shalamar. Sometimes they drove as far as Jamestown, past the spit, beyond Happy Valley, around Sequim Bay, to the tribal center. Rita loved these drives. The world felt big and full of possibilities.