Mosquitoland(54)

We’re in Bellevue, just across the Ohio River. On the way through town, we passed one stop light, one gas station, a Subway, and the most rundown downtown I’ve ever seen. All the shop windows were either boarded up or smashed in, each storefront more dank and depressing than the last.

“Okay,” says Beck. “I guess, I can just—okay—I’ll just . . . I’ll go on and . . .”

“You want us to go with you?” I ask.

He smiles, but for the first time, it’s unnatural. “No thanks. Actually, definitely not. You guys stay in the car. I’ll just—go ring the doorbell and take it from there.”

“Piece of cake,” I say.

Beck stares through the windshield. “Piece of cake.”

“Cake?” Walt lifts his head, emerging from his Rubik’s fog. I swear, as much as I love the kid, sometimes I forget he’s even around.

“There’s no cake, Walt.”

Beck laughs harder than the situation warrants. After quieting down, we sit in silence for a minute.

“Beck?”

“Yeah?”

“You have to, you know, get out of the truck, if you wanna ring the doorbell.”

Wiping sweat off his forehead, he opens the door. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” I whisper.

“Good luck!” shouts Walt.

In keeping with my detours-have-reasons theory, I’d decided after the game that helping Beck was imperative. This is his Objective. Like Arlene’s box, or like my getting to Mom.

Cleveland Avenue is Beck’s Cleveland.

On the front porch, he fumbles for the doorbell, finds it, rings it, waits. Number 358 is sandwiched between 356 and 360. I suppose these townhouses are economical, but this sort of cookie-cutter design just oozes architectural apathy.

“What’s Beck doing?” asks Walt.

“He’s checking in on an old friend.”

“How old is he?”

“No, not old, just—never mind. It’s a she, and she’s probably in her twenties.”

Having never seen a Claire, it’s hard to know what to expect. Typically, I hear a name and immediately know what I’m dealing with. Walt, Beck, Carl, Arlene . . . these are good people. As opposed to Ty and Kathy and Wilson. But Claire . . . Claire is a tough one. I watch from inside the truck as my first Claire opens the door, and I have to say, it doesn’t bode well for the Claires of the world. She greets Beck with a frown which I understand to mean, this isn’t an especially awful day, and this isn’t my especially frowny face, but I’ve frowned for so long, this is the face my face now makes. Her eye sockets are sunken and dark, and I’d bet all the cash in the can (what’s left anyway) that Claire is an avid smoker.

Beck disappears inside the townhouse.

I have to do something. Anything.

“Yo, Walt.”

“Yes?” he asks, cubing it up big time, just click-click-clicking away.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Yes?” He shakes his head no.

“I need you to stay here while I check the tires.”

“The tires?”

“Yeah, I thought I heard a noise back on the interstate. I just need to make sure they’re still . . . filled with air and whatnot. Can you do that? Can you stay right here?”

He throws his head in the air and mixes up the squares. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

I hop out of the truck and jog around the back of the end unit, number 350. Hopefully Walt stays focused on those colors. Knowing him, if he sees me, he’ll follow. And if he follows, I’d have a better chance at a covert operation by riding in on a moose’s neck. Lucky for me, the house’s lazy design is only outmatched by its diminutive size. In no time, I’m in the backyard of 358. My only real plan had included inching open a sliding glass door, or possibly just all out breaking and entering, but luck is on my side apparently. Even though it’s chilly, a window is open just next to the outdoor AC unit. Crawling around a thorny thicket, I position myself under the window and listen. Beck’s voice is unmistakable.

“—don’t buy it. I just don’t.”

“Why would I lie about this?” Frowny Claire’s voice sounds as sad as she looks.

“After the shit we’ve been through, that’s a really great question.”

“Beck, like I said on the phone, I’m seriously sorry.”

The click of a lighter, and then—smoke. Coming in a billow out the window, just over my head.

I knew she was smoker.

“Would you like some lemonade or something?”

“What? No.” The conversation comes to a brief silence. Then, Beck’s damaged voice again: “I really thought—I don’t know. I mean, I know it’s been a while, but I thought when I got here . . . if you could just see me . . .” More silence. Then, Beck in a whisper: “You really don’t remember me?”

Another billow of smoke.

“I was in a number of homes. It was a hard time for me. My therapist says it’s normal, you know, to block out the pain.” Another beat, another billow. Then, Claire’s voice again, this time, quieter. “Listen, I didn’t . . .”

More silence, then Beck says, “Are you okay?”