Mosquitoland(35)

“Thank you, Walt,” I say, taking the lipstick in my hands.

Without another word, he reaches his arms around my waist in a gentle hug. I’m surprised how natural it feels, as if a team of scientists designed his arms to fit the precise specifications of a heartfelt embrace. In his hug, I feel the things he tries to say but can’t. I feel his pain and childlike innocence, his unencumbered joy and I-don’t-know-what . . . life, I suppose. All the good things from the very best of places.

“We need to get going,” I whisper, slipping the lipstick in my pocket. Caleb has gone quiet, conjuring all manner of nerve-racking scenarios in my head.

Walt straightens his Cubs cap, grabs his suitcase in one hand, his Rubik’s Cube in the other, and leads the way down the hill.

In an all-out sprint.

The shrubbery is dense but doesn’t slow him one bit; he’s weaving in and out of bushes and trees with surprising agility. By contrast, I follow behind like an errant sled, haphazard and zigzagged.

A minute later, I hear it—behind us—a third set of scurrying leaves. Walt must hear it, too, because he picks up the pace considerably.

“Where y’all running off to?” Caleb’s voice comes in rasps.

Ten paces ahead, Walt is absolutely hoofing it. “Mim?” he yells over his shoulder.

“I’m here, buddy! Keep going!”

Behind me, Caleb gasps like he wants to say something, but can’t. Clearly, the cigarettes have taken their toll; his lungs are absolutely screaming for air. Unfortunately, he’s not the only one wearing down. Either the aftereffects of last night’s woeful sleep have kicked in or my youthful stamina is wavering. At the bottom of the hill, we hurdle the metal guardrail. It’s early morning on a holiday weekend, so highway traffic is scarce. Right now, I would give all the cash in Kathy’s can for a passing car, truck, van, just . . . someone. My head droops, my backpack sags, my shoes lag, the slap-slap of their worn soles on asphalt growing slower with each passing step. Under the bridge, we sprint past the very spot where I met Walt. It was only yesterday, but God, it feels like a month ago. On the other side, Walt races around a miniature hill, through a line of shrubs and bushes, and into the gravel parking lot of the same derelict building I’d seen from the window of the Subaru. Off-white. The offest white there ever was. A single pump in the middle of the lot has a handwritten sign taped over the handle: 87 OR BUST.

It’s a gas station.

Like a track star, Walt digs in on the homestretch. Even with that hard suitcase slamming his knees, he reaches the front door at least twenty paces ahead of us. I watch him pull a set of keys from behind an ice machine, open the door, and step inside. Caleb is only feet behind me now. I will my burning legs through the entrance, hear Walt slam and lock the door behind me just as Caleb flings himself against the double-paned glass. And like that, the cool and collected Caleb is gone, replaced by some zombie-eyed maniac pounding his fists against the door, gasping for breath, raging-bull mad.

I turn in a circle, trying to catch my own breath. The gas station is dark and empty, still closed for the day. “Walt, what are we doing here?”

“Obeying,” says Walt, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “He said run. Run and let him know. When there’s trouble, I have to let him know.”

I take a second to catch my breath, letting Walt’s bizarre statement sink in. “Who?”

Walt bends at the waist, setting his suitcase and Rubik’s Cube on the tile floor. He turns toward the refrigerated section, pulls out a Mountain Dew, pops the cap, takes a long swig, then wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“The karate kid,” he says.





21


Rooftop Revelations

BLIMEY, THIS KID’S full of surprises.

“The what?” Only it’s more like, the-hell-you-say???

He looks at me with a blank expression, tilts his head like a dog.

“Walt?”

Nothing. At all. And then—everything at once. He tosses the empty twenty-ouncer into a trash can, throws his suitcase over the checkout counter, hops over after it, and disappears around a back corner.

Like I said . . . surprises.

I throw my bag over the counter and jump it myself. These last couple days have been tough on my poor leg. At this rate, that cut will probably heal into some horrible disfigurement. Just add it to my list of medical oddities.

Around the corner, I spot Walt’s green Chucks on the top rung of a ladder, now disappearing through a trapdoor in the ceiling.

“Wait up, Walt!”

Caleb has stopped banging on the front door, which is unsettling, to say the least. I picture him crawling like a snake through the ductwork—hissing, spitting, eagerly calculating an alternate point of entry.

After scurrying up the ladder, I emerge through the same trapdoor and climb out onto the roof. It’s still morning, but the sun is out in full force, beating down on the gravel and cement. Broad pipes, ventilation fans, and all manner of rusty eyesores sprout up like weeds every five feet or so. Planted right in the middle of the gas station roof is a massive tank; it’s circular, like an aboveground pool, only taller. Standing at least eight feet high, it takes up more than half the surface area of the roof.

“Where is he, Al?”

I follow Walt’s voice around the side of the tank and find him standing next to a 340-pound whale of a man in aviator sunglasses. The guy is lounging shirtless in a folding chair, sipping an umbrella drink. He’s frightfully pale, a condition magnified by dark oil stains smeared across his face. Layer after folding layer, his stomach hangs down over his swimming trunks.