How to Disappear(46)

This whole thing is a play I don’t want to be in.

“Whatever you say.” I try to sound cowed pretty loudly on the chance he’s sneaking glances all around because we’ve got an audience that has to think I’m going to do what I’m supposed to do. I try to sound like I’m afraid of him.

It’s not much of a stretch.

The sprint to the car, the fumbling with the phone, the attempt to sound something other than scared shitless is getting old.

Fortunately, my mother is so annoyed, she doesn’t notice.

“Where are you, Jack? And where’s your phone? And why did you turn off the tracker? You’re supposed to be camping, not hiding.”

I’ve called my mom on the burner. That’s how thrown off I am.

“I might have left it somewhere. Sorry. I bought this cheap one.” There’s a long silence while she waits for me to elaborate. It’s like playing chicken with someone who doesn’t even have eyelids and couldn’t blink if she wanted to.

“What did I say about being responsible?”

How do I answer that?

“Jack! Where’s your itinerary? Or are you just wandering through the countryside losing things?”

“Just the phone. And a sweatshirt I could care less about.” I throw in the sweatshirt to give her something trivial to call me out on, and to distract her—a tactic developed over years of trial and error. It doesn’t work.

“This isn’t safe! You were supposed to be sending me your detailed itinerary. And answering my calls!”

“Come on.” I play the military card again. “Guys my age are fighting in Afghanistan.”

“Don’t equate driving around aimlessly and letting your sweatshirt walk away with fighting for your country—”

“The fact you don’t know where I eat lunch doesn’t make it dangerous for me to have a sandwich! It’d probably be more dangerous if you knew because then I’d be the wuss who has to ask his mommy whether he can have a beer.”

“You can’t have a beer! You’re not traveling with Don’s old ID, are you?”

And the save: “I just visited Don. With my own ID.”

“You did?” Her tone softens as she imagines the loving-brother reconciliation that’s never going to happen.

“He says hello.” He didn’t. The sentence tastes like rotten fish on my tongue, but the words have the desired effect. The thought of Don saying hi makes her sigh as if she just saw a cute bunny.

“Here’s the thing, kiddo,” she says. “Why I’ve been calling you all day. There might be something hinky with one of my cases.” Her voice is very strained, like she’s choosing every word and laying it down gently in a careful sentence.

“Hinky how?” She doesn’t say hinky. She doesn’t say kiddo, and she doesn’t talk about her cases.

“I’d rather discuss this in person.”

I don’t say anything.

She says, “Exactly where are you? Are you still in Nevada?”

Given that I’m not telling her where I’m headed, or why, or anything like why, all that’s left is irrational shouting. “Isn’t the point for me to be wherever I want? Isn’t the point for me to be free for a while?”

“You’re in a state of unreality! Drifting around with plenty of money and no responsibilities to prove you can isn’t being free! It’s being a child with a car!”

“The deal was you were going to go along with this. That’s what you said.”

“Jack!” she says, as if repeating my name would bring me to my senses. “It’s probably nothing, but get back here. Park Don’s car and hop on a bus.”

This is when I start to feel sicker. “Did something happen?”

“Come back here. How long will it take?”

“Did something happen to you?”

“Don’t raise your voice to me!”

“I’m expressing concern, not coming back at you!”

My mother sighs. “It was probably nothing. It’s not as if industrial polluters run around jimmying lawyers’ cars.”

“Did somebody f*ck with your car?” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice.

“Language!” Then, deep breath, restrained tone. “Maybe someone made a mistake when I had it serviced. Maybe someone nicked the brake line accidently.” It’s as if she’s trying to convince herself. “I just think you’d be safer here.”

You can’t miss the irony, how she thinks I’d be safer playing momma’s boy at home, when the only way she’s safe and I’m off Yeager’s shit list is when I seal the deal with Nicolette.

Only I have to do it faster. This thing with the fire was the warning. Turning a car into a deathtrap is pure intimidation.

Oh Jesus, Don, how could you let it get this far? This is Mom, not some live lizard you roast on a spit over a campfire. You made me watch that, too.

I know what I have to do.

I play my part. “You think I’d be safer with the lady some industrial polluter wants to ice than on my own?” I’m the road-tripping kid who has inexplicably lost all respect and reason. That’s what she believes, anyway. I think, Believe what you want. I’m saving your life.