Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock(44)

Herr Silverman narrates his whole trip for me like that and I listen to the sound of his voice and think that his words are the only thing keeping me tethered to this world right now—that his words are literally keeping me alive—and if he hadn’t picked up I really might have blown my brains out.

I’m wondering again what might be under his shirtsleeves—if knowing will be worth sticking around.

Or will it be just another in a long list of disappointments?

You still have the gun. You can still check out if you need to, fall into the water, sink… sink… sink into oblivion, I tell myself, and that also helps, because it means I have options.

Options are important.

So is an exit plan.

“Okay,” Herr Silverman says, “I’m in New Jersey. About five minutes away from you now.”

The lights reflected on the river look so beautiful, I think. They almost make me want to go swimming.

“I can see the bridge now,” Herr Silverman says, and then I hear him ask the taxi driver to leave the meter running and wait for us.

The taxi driver says something and the tone of his voice makes me think he won’t wait.

“This is serious—an emergency,” Herr Silverman tells him. “I will tip you well. I promise.”

I realize that Herr Silverman is willing to spend his own money to save me68 and my throat constricts as I hear the taxi come to a stop above me on the bridge.

“I’m leaving the taxi, Leonard. I’m here. I just have to find a way down to you.”

I want to tell him there’s a little dirt path worn into the hill by drunken high school students, but my mouth has jumped off my face again.

“Here’s a path,” Herr Silverman says, and then I hear rocks and loose dirt rolling down the hill.

“Leonard?” he says, only this time he’s not in my phone.

I hang up.





THIRTY-TWO


“Is that a gun in your hand, Leonard?” Herr Silverman says, and his voice sounds a little shakier than usual—like maybe he’s more freaked than he’s letting on.

“Nazi P-38,” I say, and my voice sounds hard.

“Your grandfather’s war trophy?”

I nod.

He’s still a few feet away from me, but I feel sort of boxed in a little, so I take a step back.

“You wanna give that to me?” he says, and takes a step toward me with his palm outstretched. I can tell he’s really freaked now, because his hand is shaking, although he’s trying hard to steady it.

“Did they teach you how to deal with an armed student when you attended teacher school?” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Was there a class on this?”

“No, they certainly didn’t—and there definitely wasn’t,” he says. “Maybe there should have been. Is it loaded?”

“Yep. And the safety’s off,” I say, hearing the edge in my voice.

Herr Silverman lowers his hand and stiffens a bit.

I don’t really understand why I’m speaking to Herr Silverman this way.

I mean—he came to save me, right?

I called him on the phone because I wanted him to come.

But it’s like I can’t help myself.

It’s like I’m too f*cked up to be nice and appreciative.

“Just give me the gun and everything will be okay.”

“No it won’t. That’s such a f*cking lie! You don’t lie, Herr Silverman. You’re better than the rest. You’re the only adult I really trust and look up to. So tell me something else, okay? Try again.”

“Okay. Did you write the letters from the people in the future?” Herr Silverman asks.

His asking that kind of surprises me, and invokes all these intense feelings I don’t want to feel. “Yes. Yes, I did,” I say in this defiant, almost yelling voice.

“What did they tell you? What did they say?”

“They said a nuclear holocaust is coming. The future world is covered with water, like Al Gore predicted. People kill each other for the little land left. Millions die.”

“Interesting. But I’m sure they said other things too, because you’re not all gloom and doom, Leonard. I’ve seen the light in your eyes too many times. What else did they say?”

His saying that bit about there being light in my eyes makes my throat constrict even more and my eyes start to feel tight. “It doesn’t f*cking matter, because those people don’t exist.”

“Yes, they do, Leonard,” he says, taking another cautious step toward me. “They really do. If you believe hard enough—and if you hold on. Okay—maybe you won’t find those exact people, but friends will arrive at some point. You’ll find others like you.”

“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

“Because I used to write letters to myself from the future when I was your age and it helped me a great deal.”

“But did you meet the people you imagined in the future?”

“I did.”

I’m kind of caught off guard by this information, and suddenly I’m truly curious about Herr Silverman’s life.

Who are the people he wrote to?

“How did you find them?”

“Writing those letters helped me figure out who I was and what I wanted. Once I knew that, I could send out a clear message so that others could respond appropriately.”