This Side of Salvation

CHAPTER 16

ABOUT SIX MONTHS BEFORE THE RUSH

"Aminivan for a rock concert! Whooo!” Bailey gave me a brief but solid kiss before climbing inside.

I followed her, between Nate’s and Aleesha’s seats, to the back row. “Sorry, the VW bus with the shag carpet’s in the shop. This was the best we could do.”

“David, you’re sitting back there now?” Mara called from the driver’s seat. “What am I, a chauffeur?”

“I’m sure Francis’ll be happy to sit up front with you.” Nate’s laugh cut short as he turned to get a good look at Bailey. She was dressed more conservatively than usual, in non-skinny jeans, a purple scoop-neck T-shirt, and pink-and-black–striped hoodie (maybe she thought Christian rock fans dressed like nuns and monks), but was her usual stunning self.

Nate raised his eyebrows and gave me what he thought was a subtle thumbs-up. Aleesha smacked his arm with her silver-glitter purse.

When we got to the Trocadero, the two of them went off with Mara to meet their other senior-year friends. Bailey and I waited with Brooke and Austin in a corner of the lobby while Francis picked up tickets from the will-call window.

A trio of high-heeled, big-haired girls streamed by, squealing “Cody!” (the lead singer’s name) in a giggled-garbled voices.

Bailey stepped back to avoid getting run over. “I’m way underblinged compared to them.”

I wanted to tell her she was still the hottest girl in the club, but I wasn’t sure we were at that point yet in our relationship, or if what we had was a relationship. Before Bailey, my girl experience consisted of sneaking out of Vacation Bible School with Carla Nóbrega for “kissing practice.”

Francis battled the flow of crowd traffic to get to us. “Voilà, tickets.” He passed them out to Brooke and Austin and Bailey.

Bailey reached into the little purse at her hip. “How much do I owe you?”

I froze. Francis paused, looked at me, then back at Bailey. “Don’t worry about it. David covered for you.”

“Aw, thanks, David.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. I gave Francis a grateful smile and mouthed, “I owe you one.”

But as we filed into the theater, my conscience got the better of me. I pulled Bailey aside. “Francis paid for your ticket because I didn’t have the money, but I really wanted you to come.”

“Why did he tell me you paid for it?”

“So I wouldn’t be embarrassed. He was being a bro.”

“Wow.” Her face turned pensive, and I would’ve given anything to know what she was thinking. As we filed in and joined our friends in the general admission floor area, I wondered whether she was seeing me or Francis—or both—in a new light.

The moment the first song began, I forgot my nerves over Bailey. I forgot everything.

With booming bass and grinding guitars, Tree of Life sang and played from the bottom of their souls. Out of the studio, Cody’s voice held an aching edge I’d never heard before. It felt like he was singing the story of my life, of doubt and grief and rage battling my trust in God, and sometimes winning. While the music in church seemed to offer such easy, sunny answers, Tree of Life’s music asked all the hard questions, and sometimes gave hard answers, too.

We danced and sang along, hands lifted in praise and passion, faces glowing in the overflow of stage lights. Bailey seemed as swept up by the Spirit as the rest of us (though I figured for her it was more of a lowercase spirit). In those moments, I felt like I’d never again need food or water. This music could sustain me forever.

About an hour into the show, the rest of the band took a break while Cody came to the mic alone with an acoustic guitar.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asked laconically, as if we were all chilling on his back porch. “As you guys probably know, I’m from way out in Colorado. Can you believe this is my first time in Philadelphia?” The crowd cheered at the name of our city. “I know, I suck. Thirty-one years old, never been to the City of Brotherly Love.” He tuned his guitar as he spoke. “I had a cheesesteak, of course. Actually, it was a Cheez-Whiz steak, ’cause my friend from South Philly said it was more authentic. I think it was a test, to see how gullible us Western boys can be.” Cody gave us a lazy half smile as we laughed.

“Anyway, this next song—if I can get this E string tuned—I wrote about ten years ago, for a friend of mine who left this world way too early.”

The crowd cheered, but I couldn’t join in due to the thickening in my throat. “Stars” always made me want to cry, thinking of John. On the album, it was obvious Cody was on the verge of tears himself when he recorded it, and I’d heard he rarely got through a performance without his emotions making him drop a line or two.

“Since I wrote ‘Stars,’” he said, “I’ve done a lot of thinking and praying and writing—and sometimes throwing stuff against walls.” He let a smile slip through as he fastened the capo to the guitar neck. “Wait, short rewind first: back in high school, I played wide receiver. Loved football. Lived for it. Then senior year I hurt my knee and couldn’t play anymore. I took up the guitar, since I had to get girls to notice me somehow, and it sure as heck wasn’t going to be with my looks or my dreamy personality.”

Every girl in the room let out a simultaneous sigh, then a scream.

“Anyway,” he said with a chuckle, “these days, when it rains, I still get an ache in my knee. It reminds me of what’s gone, but also of what was, the joy that football brought me.”

“Go, Eagles!” a guy in the back of the room shouted. Figures.

Cody raised a friendly hand to the interrupter. “I’m partial to the Broncos, but sure, whatever. Where was I? Oh, yeah, pain. I think it’s the same when we lose someone we love. It never stops hurting. But maybe it shouldn’t. That pain, after all, is a souvenir of our love.”

I wanted to believe him, that there was some use for the stone that had lodged deep in my chest years before.

“One thing that I’ve found that eases the pain,” Cody said, “is to remember that we are all connected, to those we know and those we don’t know. To all people, animals, and yeah, even the plants . . .” He gestured to the green-and-white tree of life on the banner behind him. “Everything in the world. And especially to those we think we’ve lost.”

He started playing “Stars,” and I took Bailey’s hand. If I didn’t leave this spot, I was going to lose it big time in front of my friends and complete strangers. But I didn’t want to be alone. “I’m thirsty. Get a drink with me?”

Bailey looked surprised, but she nodded. I led her through the crowd to an upper-level bar. It was a little quieter here, enough that we could talk without shouting.

“What do you think so far?” I asked her.

“I like it! A lot more than I thought I would.” She lifted her braid off her neck and fanned herself with her fingers. “Tree of Life looks like a real rock band.”

“They are a real rock band. Were you expecting white robes and halos?”

She laughed. “No, but definitely not tattoos and pierced eyebrows.”

The bartender delivered our drinks as Cody finished the short, sad song and segued into another tune I didn’t recognize. I felt lucky to have averted my own public breakdown.

Bailey took a long sip of her pineapple juice, then held the glass to her face, joining its moisture with hers. “Is this an antiwar song he’s playing now?”

I listened for a moment. “Oh, it’s ‘Blessed Are the Peacemakers.’ I’ve never heard it on acoustic. Usually, it has these massive, heavy guitars that make you want to start a riot.” I pumped my fist in the air to demonstrate.

“I’m surprised a band like this would be a pacifist. I thought people of faith were supposed to be conservative.”

“Not every Christian is part of the religious right.”

“I know you’re not, but I figured you were the exception.”

“I am in the minority,” I had to admit. “Mara too.”

“Because you guys didn’t grow up in an evangelical church?”

“Maybe.” I took the straw out of my root beer, so I wouldn’t gross her out by nervously chewing on it. “My mom says she wishes we’d discovered a place like Stony Hill ten years ago. Then I wouldn’t ask so many questions.” Still thirsty from dancing, I took a gulp of soda. “She doesn’t get that everyone asks questions. It’s just that most of my friends from church—not all, but most of them—accept the answers.”

“Why?”

“It feels good to know.”

“To know what?”

I shrugged. “To know.”

She sipped her juice and examined me. “Then why do you doubt? Don’t you want to feel good?”

“Because I can’t help it. Besides, this does feel good.” I pointed my straw at the stage, where Cody was strumming the last few chords. Then he took off his guitar and waved before walking offstage to prepare for the encore.

The crowd swelled with applause and cheers. They started chanting, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Bailey nudged me. “They do seem really happy. Would you be insulted if I said you seem different from them?”

Meaning “not happy”? I wondered. “Everyone’s different.”

“You’re different in a different way. You seem older. No, ‘older’ is not the right word. Not ‘wiser,’ either, but that’s part of it.”

I looked away, over the crowd of swaying hands. Had Bailey sensed I’d been through a unique hell, the kind no one else we knew had suffered? I thought I’d kept that part of my past hidden, but clearly my walls were missing a few bricks.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘studlier,’” I said with a straight face, which collapsed into a grin when she shoved me in the chest.

“Okay, stud, just one more question.” She formed an L with her thumb and index fingers. “Why are some people in the audience holding up the sign for ‘loser’?”

It was my turn to laugh at her. “That’s not for ‘loser.’” I set down my soda, mirrored her gesture with my own hand, then straightened our pinkies to form the sign-language letter. “The L stands for ‘love.’”

“Oh.” Bailey gazed up at me in a way that made my pulse bounce. “I can dig it.”

I smiled at her intentional hippie slang and slipped my arm around her waist. We pressed our Ls together, clasping our other fingers. Then I kissed her, deep enough to taste the pineapple sweet-tartness of her mouth.

And long enough to know: I was seriously falling in L.A week before Thanksgiving, Dad announced he was leaving again, for the third time. But this time, we were prepared.

At 4 a.m. the morning of his departure, I snuck into the garage while Mara kept watch in the kitchen, in case Dad left earlier than his usual hour, around five thirty.

I slid my phone beneath the front passenger seat, then climbed into the van to investigate its contents. The third-row seats were folded down, as usual, but next to the fishing tackle, sleeping bag, and tent lay another large, flat box: Dad’s woodworking tools, which he hadn’t touched since before John died.Wherever he was going, he was building something.

“Please don’t forget to scrub out the litter boxes before I get home for lunch at two,” Mom told us later that morning as she gathered her purse, coffee, and coat for work. “They’re filthy, and I’m tired of reminding you guys. If you each do one, it’ll take less than ten minutes.”

Sitting at opposite ends of the breakfast bar, Mara and I gave her matching yawns and vague assurances.

“Promise!” she said.

“Promise,” we mumbled, shifting our cereal around our bowls as lackluster as possible.

“Honestly,” she muttered on her way to the garage. “You’d think I was asking you to dig ditches in hundred-degree weather.”

The door slammed behind her. We waited as the garage door creaked open. The engine of Mom’s car started, revved, then faded.

Mara and I leaped off the stools. I opened my laptop on the kitchen table while she checked the front window in the living room.

“Confirmed,” she shouted, “Mom’s gone.”

I brought up the website my parents used to track my phone, typed in my number and the password Mom had given me last week. I’d “lost” my phone and had to log in to the site to “make sure” it was at Kane’s, where of course I’d deliberately left it.

“This is kind of hilarious,” Mara said, looking over my shoulder. “Dad installed that app on your phone so he could monitor your every move, and now we’re using it to track him.”

“I hope this trip is short. I want my phone back.”

“You turned off your ringer, right?” she asked.

“I turned off sounds, Wi-Fi, everything I could to save power. Problem is, to keep the GPS running, the phone has to be awake fulltime. So we probably only have eight hours of battery, max.”

She pointed at the screen. Is that little blue man supposed to be you?

“Normally, but now it’s Dad.”

The family minivan—or at least my phone, which should be in the minivan—was currently near Scranton. I hit refresh a few times before determining that the blue man wasn’t moving.

“What the heck’s in Scranton?” I asked Mara.

“Let’s find out.” She grabbed the mouse, zoomed in on the map, then switched to street view. “It’s a rest stop. Breakfast time, I guess.”

We finished our own breakfast, scrubbed the litter boxes, then took turns showering, one of us keeping an eye on the laptop.

When I came back downstairs, Mara was sitting at the table with her books open. She pointed at my laptop. “He’s on the move.”

Over the next six hours, while we tried to focus on calculus and English, the blue man representing my phone (and our father) moved slowly north, then northwest. The farther away it traveled, the slower it went, probably because Dad was driving on smaller and smaller roads, according to the map. With the GPS on, my phone’s battery wouldn’t last much longer.

Finally it stopped in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York, not far from the Canadian border. The map on my laptop showed the road ending at a blob representing a long, narrow, apparently nameless lake.

“There’s no town there,” Mara said as she examined our Rand McNally road atlas, a pencil between her teeth.

“Maybe there’s a town now. That’s a really old map.” So old, it was missing the front and back covers, plus the table of contents and index, plus Alabama and Wyoming.

I brought up a map website and entered the exact coordinates, only to get the same results. “Nothing. Except lots of fish, I guess.”

“That far north, it’d have to be ice fishing. Maybe he just pulled over to take a nap.”

Suddenly the blue man on the tracker screen disappeared, along with the map it was on, replaced by the words “DATA LOST.” “My phone either died or Dad found it and turned it off.”

The door to the garage opened. Mom was home for lunch. Mara slapped shut the atlas, then yanked her calculus homework over it. I switched to a word processing document and started typing madly, frowning at the screen as if in deep thought.

“Hey, David, hey—” Mom stopped halfway across the kitchen and eyed us, her cup of beloved Starbucks halfway to her lips. It was odd for us to be working even in the same room, much less on the same side of the table.

Mara saved us from questions. “Mom, will you please explain the nonrestrictive comma to David? I can’t get through to him.”

This was actually true. Those commas looked so wrong. “My sister, Mara,” instead of “My sister Mara”? It sounded like I should be stopping in the middle of the sentence and bowing to her. Which I would never do.

“You use a comma when there’s only one of a set.” Mom took off her coat, pulling a stray blond-gray hair from the collar before hanging it up. “Like ‘my daughter-comma-Mara.’ When you have more than one, like ‘my s—’” She stopped herself, the corner of her mouth turning down. “Like, ‘my cat Juno,’ there’d be no comma. If you leave out the comma, you’re implying that you have more than one, which could be problematic when referring to a spouse.”

“So I’d say, ‘my girlfriend-comma-Bailey.’”

“I hope so. One is enough to worry about.”

My face warmed. “I’m lucky to have that many.”

“Seriously,” Mara muttered.

Mom laughed and shook her head. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? Just wait until spring when you get on that ball field in front of all the girls.” She opened the refrigerator door halfway. “Is that creepy, to say my son is turning into a hottie?”

Mara whispered, “What’s creepy is you using the word ‘hottie.’”

I choked back a laugh and tugged down the short sleeves of my T-shirt, self-conscious of my biceps. “Thanks, Mom. I think.”

Like Dad, she was unusually chipper these days—obviously, if she could joke about me having multiple girlfriends instead of getting all preachy about purity.

I made a mental note about the comma, but when I was sure Mom wasn’t coming to check my screen, I flipped back to the phone-tracking site. Still no blue man.

I copied the GPS coordinates from the website and into my notebook page.

“Maybe a little.” I tugged down the short sleeves of my T-shirt, self-conscious of my biceps. “But thanks.”

Like Dad, Mom was unusually chipper these days. Come to think of it, ever since he’d started making these trips, they’d both been serene, if not giddy. What was going on?

I made a mental note about the comma, but when I was sure Mom wasn’t coming to look at my screen, I flipped back to the map. Still no blue dot, but at least I’d written down the GPS coordinates. My father was somewhere in that remote wilderness, eight hours away, maybe alone, maybe with fishing buddies, maybe (ugh) with Sophia. It felt wrong to even think it, but his being there made our being here a whole lot easier.

While Mom took Mara to choir practice on her way to show a client some houses, I broke into Dad’s home office. It was an easy job, slipping my brand-new laminated learner’s permit between the doorjamb and the latch.

The room was clean and orderly. Dad would kill me if he knew I’d been in here, so I vowed to move only one object at a time and replace each item exactly as I found it. I also vowed not to get distracted from my search for papers, maps, or pictures dealing with upstate New York.

No distractions meant no rereading that framed Philadelphia Inquirer front page from the Phillies’ World Series win. No admiring the hockey puck that flew off the ice at the Spectrum during the 1975 Stanley Cup Final, giving my then-fifteen-year-old father a mild concussion but also the best souvenir ever. No opening the copy-paper box from the office-supply store that went out of business before I was born, even if it had a “J” neatly printed on the corner.

Don’t look , I told myself as I knelt before it. J could stand for anything. Mom’s name is Jennifer—maybe it’s her stuff. Maybe there are nine other boxes, A through I. Maybe . . .

I opened the box.

My knees felt glued to the floor as I pulled out one memento after another. Like the office-supply store itself, the box’s contents dated from before my birth, even before Mara’s birth.

The top folder held green sheets of papers with wide dotted and solid lines, John’s first spelling attempts. In the top left corner, straight across from his full name and grade, was a carefully drawn doodle of a jet fighter. I admired his early career focus. When I was that age, I wanted to be the first garbage man on Mars.

I set the folder of school assignments aside. The next item was an unsealed envelope, the flap merely tucked inside. Lucky for me, since it was too old and yellow to convincingly steam open and reseal.

Inside were two strips of photos, from one of those booths found in the mall and on boardwalks. In the photos, John is maybe three or four years old and sits in Dad’s lap, laughing at his goofy faces. My father sticks out his tongue in one, puffs up his cheeks in another, crosses his eyes in a third. In a fourth, he combines the crossed eyes with fish lips.

Dad would’ve been about twenty-seven, which is how old John would be now. They had the same thick, dark, coarse hair, the kind that curls when it grows longer than half an inch. As the fingers of my left hand combed through my own fine, straight hair, a shade lighter than theirs, my right thumb brushed their square jaws.

The most important thing John had that I never will can’t be seen in a mirror. After Mara and I came along, even when John was still alive, our father bore a constant weight of weariness. Whether it was age or work or drink, Dad never let himself be this free and silly with me and my sister.

The man in these pictures was someone I’d never met.

Remembering my mission, I returned the items to the box and kept searching. Dad’s desk was enormous and ancient, from before the days of computers. Its heavy drawers squeaked when I opened them. The top two held office supplies: envelopes, boxes of extra staples, rolls of old stamps that wouldn’t even be enough to mail a letter these days. Random crap, in other words.

The bottom drawer was tall, the size for files, but it was locked. I pulled out the shallow drawer in the center of the desk, on the off chance that—

“Ha.” A small key lay in a black wooden tray, mixed with paper clips of all sizes. It fit inside the lock of the big drawer, which slid open without a sound. I pawed through the hanging file folders, featuring exciting labels like “VET BILLS” and “CAR REPAIRS” and “TAX FILINGS >5 YEARS AGO.”

The last folder, in the back of the drawer, held no paper I could see, but it sagged like it contained a heavy object. I shoved my hand back and down to see what it was. Something metal or rubber or both. I grasped it and brought it out into the light.

“Shit.”

The pistol was a dull black, a sharp contrast to my pale skin. It was hard and cold, but lighter than I would’ve expected. Then I noticed with relief that the bottom part of the grip was empty. It wasn’t loaded.

My hand already shaking, I set the gun on the desk, pointed away from me. Then I gingerly reached into the back folder again and drew out a small box of ammunition.

A single clip, but enough to end one person’s pain, an end that would be only the beginning for the rest of us.

Dizzy, I rested my forehead on the desk. Maybe Dad got this for protection against intruders or for target shooting. Maybe it was a gift from a friend.

No. No one who knew what’d happened to John would give us a gun. And everyone knew. Our friends, our teachers, the newspapers. It was too sad and bizarre not to make headlines.

I could think of only one use Dad would have for this weapon. I refused to make it easy for him.

My head clear now, I went downstairs to my laptop, checked the Internet to find out what kind of pistol it was and how to ensure it was fully unloaded and that the safety was on. Apparently this one also had a trigger lock, so I was good to go—literally.

The nearest branch of the Schuylkill River was ten miles away, so I dusted off my bike, gave the gears a quick lube, and headed out, leaving a vague “went for a ride” note for Mom and Mara. I tried not to think about the plastic bag in the storage compartment behind my seat, and tried even harder not to disobey traffic laws. The last thing I needed was to get pulled over by a cop.

How could you bring this into the house, Dad? How could you even think of leaving us that way? You’re better than—than him, right?

The trail between the road and the river was steep but short, and offered lots of rocks to add to the bag. When I got to the shore, I warmed up my throwing arm with stones, small branches, and discarded beer bottles, launching each as far as I could into the river.

Finally I took the bag containing the gun, the clip, and two decent-size stones, tied it into a compact package, and without hesitation or ceremony, threw it with all my strength. It sailed through the air, and plopped into the river a good fifty yards from the shore.

Hands in the pockets of my hoodie, I watched the ripples spread and fade. By now the gun had sunk to the bottom, where it would stay long enough to rust beyond repair, should it ever be fished out.

Okay, Dad, let’s hear you say, “Where’s my Glock?” in Bibleish.