We Are the Light(15)
When we finished, Eli said, “I’m not going back to school and I can’t go home.”
“Okay,” I said.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘okay’?”
“Okay,” I said once more, trying to sound as understanding and innocuous as possible, which seemed to shift the mood.
I think he was expecting a lecture or a set of instructions or something, because he leaned his right ear a little closer to his right shoulder and raised his eyebrows, as if to convey uncertainty.
“People say you’ve gone crazy,” he said after a beat. “Like legitimately insane.”
I hadn’t heard that before, but I wasn’t surprised. I decided to keep listening, rather than reply. I did my best to remain curious, because you always said that’s the best thing to be in every situation.
“Are you?” Eli said when it was clear I wasn’t going to respond without further prompting. “Bonkers?”
“Do I seem mad to you?” I asked, and then held eye contact until he looked away, taking another page out of your Jungian analysis playbook.
Finally, he angrily said, “It’s everyone else who seems crazy,” which is when his eyes began to well up again, until a big fat tear slid down his cheek, which he immediately wiped away with the back of his wrist.
“Sometimes walking helps me,” I said. “Do you want to take a walk with me?”
He nodded and then we walked all day long. I bet we walked at least eighteen miles, hardly saying a word to each other. But having the boy next to me on the journey seemed to help a great deal. And as the day went on, I began to feel certain that he also found my being next to him just as helpful, if not more so. And so we kept walking, getting stronger together. Our trust in the Eli-Lucas link increased as we continued to use it.
Jill brought us home lasagna slices for dinner, which—after all that walking—we ate greedily together in my dining room.
“What did you two do today?” she asked at one point.
And Eli simply said, “We went for a very long walk.”
“Did you enjoy it?” Jill asked, and Eli and I both nodded in unison.
On a whim, I suggested the three of us walk up to Main Street after dinner and get ice cream, which Darcy always loved to do in the spring, when nights were pleasant as the one we were gifted that day. Eli and Jill were keen, so we walked to We All Scream For Ice Cream, which I’m sure you must know, because it’s a Majestic town favorite. Although, come to think of it, I’ve never seen you there before. I had only ever seen you—outside of your consulting room—at the Majestic Theater, because we both loved the movies so much. Remember how, on the night of the tragedy, right by the historic black-and-white pictures from the forties and fifties in the lobby, Darce and I even exchanged pleasantries with you and your wife, Leandra, which was unusual, because you always said we needed to keep our analytical container sacred, meaning no contact whatsoever outside of analysis. You must remember. It was the first and only time we ever spoke outside of analysis. You and I exchanged smiles and audible hellos. Darce said, “Merry Christmas,” to Leandra, who said, “Happy Holidays,” back to her. It was the first and only time our wives ever spoke. I can’t decide if that chance meeting feels quite ominous or quite auspicious to me now. You could frame it either way. But it definitely feels significant, right?
Regardless of whether you eat ice cream or not, whether you know the oral delights of We All Scream For Ice Cream—where Darcy and I actually once worked together for a summer—the first sign of trouble on the night Jill, Eli, and I went for cones happened when a few people saw us walking down Main Street and then immediately crossed to the other side of the road, which made every bone in my body vibrate the wrong way. Then Wendy Lewis—who now owns We All Scream For Ice Cream—wasn’t as friendly as she usually is to this former ice cream scooper and loyal customer. She gave me a big smile when I walked through the door, but her face darkened when she saw Eli. Jill tried to make it all right by asking Wendy if anything was wrong, but Majestic’s self-proclaimed Queen of Ice Cream would only say, “Everything is fine,” but without making eye contact.
Then, as we sat outside licking our cones in the warm blooming night air of spring, whenever people passed, I noticed that they weren’t looking at me the way they usually do—as if I were a hero. It was like I’d stepped out of the Lucas Goodgame hagiography, but somehow accidentally this time. Instead, they were looking at Eli as if he were a horrid, disease-spreading, murderous monster. Then these people would give me a questioning glance that seemed to say, What are you doing with him? A few customers approached the ice cream store as if they wanted to make a purchase, but when they saw us there, they turned around and walked away. It was as if Eli, Jill, and I had all forgotten to wear clothes and our private parts were grotesquely on display.
Eli pretended not to notice and at one point I thought maybe I was imagining things in my troubled head, but then a group of teenagers whose names I know but won’t repeat began staring at Eli in a bad way that was impossible to deny. After a minute or so, Jill got upset and yelled, “Take a picture, why don’t you? It lasts longer!” When one of the teenagers raised her phone to literally take a picture of us, Jill threw what remained of her ice cream cone at the picture taker, who ducked with impressive athleticism. Ice cream exploded onto the windshield of a parked sports car, which made all of the teenagers pull out their phones and begin to record both the mess and us, adding commentary that was condemning and cruel. Eli jumped up, threw his cone in the trash can, and stormed off. And so Jill and I followed.