6 · Ben
I get in the Firebird and drive.
I’m in the parking lot at the Fire Tower before I even know where I’m going.
The lot is empty—not that there are ever a lot of cars here this time of night. Later, after the movie’s over, and in the fall after football games, that’s when the lot fills up.
Right now, I’ve got the place to myself.
I reach into the backseat for my hiking boots and once I’ve got them on, I hit the trail. It’s a good hike up a steep hill to get to the tower, and by the time I reach it, I’m breathing heavily.
Shit, I need to start training again.
The tower looms tall against the trees and inky blue sky. I start to climb, gripping the handrails as the tower sways in the wind. This thing isn’t called “historic” for nothing.
It’s a long way up.
I reach the top and stand near the railing, looking out over the roads and trees and lakes, and I realize that I’ve never been up here alone.
It’s quiet and peaceful high above the treetops, but I don’t feel that way inside. I don’t remember what it’s like to live without the clutch of guilt and sorrow around my neck.
At Trixie’s funeral, I greeted the hundreds of people who came to the church to offer their kind words and clichés. I nodded my head, said, “Thank you for coming,” and “That’s so kind of you,” a million times.
Then it was over, and Lucy and I were the last ones in the church basement.
And I remember thinking, Lulu is the only good thing about today. She is the only good thing about my life.
We walked out to the parking lot so I could drive her home. She didn’t want to get in the front seat of the Firebird and I understood that. Sitting there, without Trixie to ride shotgun, meant that it was real. The funeral, the casket in front of us, the sound of the dirt hitting the top of it—all of that was real, expected.
This was not expected. We had not factored this into the plan.
This was how our lives would be now, the subtle differences along with the obvious ones.
“It’s okay,” I told her, and she slid in, crying.
She’d cried so much. I wished I knew a way to help her.
We sat in her driveway for a long time, not talking, the rain landing in sheets across my windshield, the wipers on double time until I flicked them off, pointless because we weren’t moving, and she started to cry again and I couldn’t bear it.
So I reached out my hand and gently turned her head so that she faced me, and I wiped away tears with the pad of my thumb. I leaned in and did what I’d wanted to do for weeks.
I kissed her.
I kissed Lulu and it was a perfect moment, perfect, until I fucked it up.
She pulled away from me, stunned, her eyes wide.
“Why did you do that?” she asked me, her voice brittle. She sounded so young at that moment. So hurt.
“Lulu,” I said, “you know why.” I couldn’t say it, but she had to know. It had been there between us all summer. I had started to tell her on the swim float. I put my hand on hers, but she pulled it away.
“We shouldn’t, Ben. Not today.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Bile rose in my throat, and I was overcome with dread and guilt and anger.
Filled with a terrible, inexplicable need to hurt her.
I slammed my hands against the steering wheel.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice cold. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t be here. Trixie shouldn’t be dead. But she is. I couldn’t save her. And we both know why.”
“What?” she whispered. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t save her. I didn’t get to her in time. If you hadn’t been there, I would have.”
She didn’t say a word. She looked at me with those wide eyes that filled with tears once again until the pools overflowed onto her cheeks.
And I kept going. “All of this is your fault.”
“Why are you saying this?” she cried.
“It’s true. And you know it.”
“Ben—” she began, but a sob shook her body and she dropped her head in her hands.
“I hate this,” I said. “I hate that you’re here and she isn’t. Get the fuck out of my car.”
And she did. She opened the door and stumbled across the driveway in the heavy rain, her feet bare, her plain black pumps gripped tightly against her chest.
The pain of losing Trixie was too much—I had to give some of it away. So I gave it to Lucy, who more than anyone didn’t deserve such a terrible thing. I should have told her that if I could, I would take away her pain. Because my own was so unbearable, what difference would it have made if I could have cut hers in half and taken it for myself?
Instead, I gave her more.
For one moment, she turned to look back at me before she opened the door, a moment that I could have gone to her through the rain and the mud and told her I didn’t mean it, told her that I was crazy with grief and sadness, begged for her forgiveness.
But I didn’t.
And I’ve lived with it every moment since then.
My cell phone buzzes three times, fast. I pull it out of my pocket and check my messages.
One from Guthrie. Dude u got trouble. Dana pist.
Two from Dana.
Where r u? I’m @ the theater.
Ben, you promised.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I take one last look across the treetops and try again to find some peace in the silence and solitude. There is nothing, and I can’t escape the reality that waits for me at the bottom of the tower. I turn and begin the climb back down.
When I get to the theater, everyone is inside except for Dana. She’s alone, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. Guthrie was right. She is pist.
Here’s how it goes down:
Dana: You’re late. You promised me you wouldn’t be late, Ben.
Me (swats at a swarm of gnats): Sorry. Got tied up at the resort.
Dana: Oh.
Me: You don’t believe me?
Dana: Of course I do!
Me: Doesn’t seem like it.
Dana: Ben, I’m trying to help. You seem so, I don’t know, lost lately (puts hand on my arm).
Me: Dana—
Dana (in a soft, low voice): I wish you would let me help you.
Me (pulls arm away): What makes you think I need help?
Dana (pinches lips together): You have no idea how many people care about you, Benjamin. How many people love you. How many people ache for you because you’re in so much pain—
Me (interrupts, angry, sick of the drama, sick of hearing her talk in italics all the time): Shut up.
Dana (mouth drops open): What? What did you say?
Me (takes a step back): I said shut up. You want to help me? You can help me by shutting the hell up.
Dana (takes a step toward me, panicked): You don’t mean that. You can’t possibly mean that.
Me (raises one eyebrow, takes another step backward): Oh, I mean it. And my name is not fucking Benjamin.
I’m a dick and she’s too nice. She shouldn’t put up with my shit.
I walk across the parking lot and get in the Firebird. It takes about five seconds for Dana to decide to follow me.
“Let’s drive around,” she says. “Maybe it will clear your head.”
I know where this is going.
“Fine.”
We drive to the abandoned baseball fields behind the paper mill. I park the car and turn toward the girl in the front seat. My girlfriend. She smiles. Her teeth are artificially perfect and white. In fact, she has no visible flaws. Her hair, her smile, her GPA, everything is perfect. A little too perfect, maybe.
Lucy’s ponytails are usually crooked or she’ll miss a few strands that curl around her neck or one side will be bumpy. And if you look closely, you can see that one of Lucy’s blue eyes is narrower at the outside corner than the other. Two of her bottom teeth are crooked, angled slightly, bowing to each other.
I’m sitting in my car with my girlfriend, thinking about Lucy Meadows.
I don’t want to think anymore.
So I don’t. I lean over to Dana.
That’s how it works with us. I do something to piss Dana off, we fight about it, we bail on our friends, we drive around, we fool around in my car.
And I feel nothing. Empty. The way I like it.
Dana wasn’t the first one. First there was Anna. Anna did that thing—put her hand on my arm, tilted her head, used that low voice—right after Trixie died. She cornered me during study hall on the first day of school. She said she was so sorry about Trixie and Trixie was a wonderful friend and we were all going to miss Trixie so very much.
She said my sister’s name so many times I wanted to twist her head right off her neck.
Anna wasn’t friends with Trix.
Then her voice got even lower and she said, “I’m worried about you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Anna lasted a couple of months. Then Jess after her. Now Dana. They all pulled that same shit.
It’s easy to get laid when people feel sorry for you.