clinks his Zippo open
and sucks the joint to life.
"We
have to go in," Ben says.
None
of us say anything. It's as though Ben had not uttered the sentence we'd all
just heard. Or perhaps we were trying to pretend it was a sentence that didn't
properly belong to the moment, a glitch in the soundtrack.
Then
he says it again.
"We
have to go into the house."
"What house?"
"Nice
try, Randy," Carl says.
Randy
shrugs, passing up to Carl while waving a hand to sweep the smoke that escapes
his nostrils back into his mouth.
"I
don't see why we have to do anything," I say. "It's not our
issue."
"You're
right. It's not an issue," Ben says. "It's a human being."
"You're
saying Heather's still in there? You saw something new last night?"
"I
watched. Stayed up till dawn watching," Ben says. "But no. I didn't
see anything."
"So
how do you know she's in there?"
"I'm
saying she might be. And if she is, she needs help. Our help."
Randy
rubs the elbow of his shirt over the window, clearing a circle from the
condensation. He stares out at a group of girls in designer jeans climbing the
hill toward school, their backsides swaying with each step, before they
disappear behind the returning mist of his breath.
"Here's
the thing I don't get," Randy says. "What does this have to do with
us? Maybe you, Ben. But I wasn't the one up in your room spooking myself
shitless. I didn't see a thing. So where do I come into it? Where does anyone
but you come into it?"
Ben
nods. "You didn't see what I saw. But now you know what I saw.
Which amounts to the same thing."
"It
does?" Randy says. "Yeah, I guess it does."
"No,
it doesn't," I say, taking the joint Randy offers me. "We're not involved. And that's how it should stay.
We go
into that house and if—and this is a big mother of an if— if something's
happened in—"
"Don't
bogart that thing," Carl warns. I take a perfunctory haul and pass it on.
"What
I'm saying is that if we go in there and find something bad, we're part of it.
We're implicated, or whatever."
"Implicated,"
Carl says. "Very good, Trev."
He
waves the joint by Ben. Ben only rarely partakes on these smoky mornings, so he
surprises us by expertly nabbing it before it's out of reach. A quick hit and
his eyes turn glassy, the whites bleached clear.
"She's
missing," Ben says. "And we have a piece of information nobody else
has. It's a question not of whether it would be right to act on it, but of how
wrong it would be if we didn't."
"Fine,"
I say, exhaling a blue cloud against the windshield. "You've established
that as far as you're concerned, you are duty bound to do something. So go tell
the police about it."
"As
if they're going to listen to me."
"Why
wouldn't they? You're a witness."
"Not
really. Not in a court-of-law way."
"So
if the pigs aren't going to take you seriously," Carl says, pinching the
roach, "why should we?"
Ben turns
all the way around to look at us in the back seat. His face shrouded in curls
of smoke.
"You're
my friends," he says.
And
that was it. Our undoing, as the Coles Notes described what followed
from the dumb decisions of kings and princes in the Shakespeare we never read.
Why?
We were good guys. Unquestioned loyalty. A soldier's duty. This is what the
coach, our fathers, every hero we'd ever watched on the Vogue's screen had
taught us. It was certainly the highest compliment in a dressing room, as in
"Carl was a good guy out there tonight when he put that fucker on a
stretcher for spearing Trev." Standing up for the fellow wearing the same
uniform as you, even if it made little sense, even if it meant getting hurt.
This is how it was supposed to go in hockey games, anyway, and in war movies,
and in the lessons handed down from
and sucks the joint to life.
"We
have to go in," Ben says.
None
of us say anything. It's as though Ben had not uttered the sentence we'd all
just heard. Or perhaps we were trying to pretend it was a sentence that didn't
properly belong to the moment, a glitch in the soundtrack.
Then
he says it again.
"We
have to go into the house."
"What house?"
"Nice
try, Randy," Carl says.
Randy
shrugs, passing up to Carl while waving a hand to sweep the smoke that escapes
his nostrils back into his mouth.
"I
don't see why we have to do anything," I say. "It's not our
issue."
"You're
right. It's not an issue," Ben says. "It's a human being."
"You're
saying Heather's still in there? You saw something new last night?"
"I
watched. Stayed up till dawn watching," Ben says. "But no. I didn't
see anything."
"So
how do you know she's in there?"
"I'm
saying she might be. And if she is, she needs help. Our help."
Randy
rubs the elbow of his shirt over the window, clearing a circle from the
condensation. He stares out at a group of girls in designer jeans climbing the
hill toward school, their backsides swaying with each step, before they
disappear behind the returning mist of his breath.
"Here's
the thing I don't get," Randy says. "What does this have to do with
us? Maybe you, Ben. But I wasn't the one up in your room spooking myself
shitless. I didn't see a thing. So where do I come into it? Where does anyone
but you come into it?"
Ben
nods. "You didn't see what I saw. But now you know what I saw.
Which amounts to the same thing."
"It
does?" Randy says. "Yeah, I guess it does."
"No,
it doesn't," I say, taking the joint Randy offers me. "We're not involved. And that's how it should stay.
We go
into that house and if—and this is a big mother of an if— if something's
happened in—"
"Don't
bogart that thing," Carl warns. I take a perfunctory haul and pass it on.
"What
I'm saying is that if we go in there and find something bad, we're part of it.
We're implicated, or whatever."
"Implicated,"
Carl says. "Very good, Trev."
He
waves the joint by Ben. Ben only rarely partakes on these smoky mornings, so he
surprises us by expertly nabbing it before it's out of reach. A quick hit and
his eyes turn glassy, the whites bleached clear.
"She's
missing," Ben says. "And we have a piece of information nobody else
has. It's a question not of whether it would be right to act on it, but of how
wrong it would be if we didn't."
"Fine,"
I say, exhaling a blue cloud against the windshield. "You've established
that as far as you're concerned, you are duty bound to do something. So go tell
the police about it."
"As
if they're going to listen to me."
"Why
wouldn't they? You're a witness."
"Not
really. Not in a court-of-law way."
"So
if the pigs aren't going to take you seriously," Carl says, pinching the
roach, "why should we?"
Ben turns
all the way around to look at us in the back seat. His face shrouded in curls
of smoke.
"You're
my friends," he says.
And
that was it. Our undoing, as the Coles Notes described what followed
from the dumb decisions of kings and princes in the Shakespeare we never read.
Why?
We were good guys. Unquestioned loyalty. A soldier's duty. This is what the
coach, our fathers, every hero we'd ever watched on the Vogue's screen had
taught us. It was certainly the highest compliment in a dressing room, as in
"Carl was a good guy out there tonight when he put that fucker on a
stretcher for spearing Trev." Standing up for the fellow wearing the same
uniform as you, even if it made little sense, even if it meant getting hurt.
This is how it was supposed to go in hockey games, anyway, and in war movies,
and in the lessons handed down from
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