Nanowrimo part 3

woohoo!

Callahan’s nap was really just a slumber. He awoke to see the sun flooding his room in crisp morning light. So much for a few winks of sleep. He had slept from the previous afternoon and had not changed position at all. His head was still wedged in between two pillows and his arms had fallen asleep hours ago. He shook them, trying to get the feeling back in them, and slumped over the edge of the bed. He had an afternoon free, and after finals that next week he had a month off. He was about as good at making friends as he was at making poetry, and he had lied to his parents about joining a fraternity, making the squash team, and having a girlfriend, so his parents would not expect him home for weeks. Besides, home was Iowa, and he was in no hurry to spend a whole day of travel just to get there. The drive to Boston Logan International Airport alone was three hours. He vetoed that idea. He also vetoed the idea of studying this weekend in preparation for his finals. He had other plans.

            He grabbed his car keys and a toothbrush. He was headed north to Maine.

            Quentin the publisher was not good at remembering which key would let him in to Samuel’s apartment. Samuel was probably there, but he would get so engrossed in his poetry that he would neglect the existence of just about everything else. Quentin the publisher also figured that disturbing him with a squeamish knock would also cost him another Prius.

            At long last Quentin the publisher found the one that worked. He sighed and walked into Samuel’s apartment.

            Sure enough, Samuel was there. I frown while driving, and Froid asks me what’s wrong as she watches our car weave around a brunch of traffic. I tell her I forgot a patient’s folder at the office. She doesn’t acknowledge me and looks deeper out the window.

            Samuel had his back facing Quentin the publisher. He figured it was Quentin the publisher, and even if it weren’t he wouldn’t mind either way. No one in their right mind would steal anything of Samuel’s, given the sparseness of his lifestyle, and Samuel didn’t really care about anything he owned except the poems that he transcribed from his mind.

            Quentin the publisher tiptoed his way across the room to a pile of papers that had not been there yesterday. Six poems today. Must have been very productive. He slowly picked up the papers with latex gloves and put them in the Ziploc. He turned over to Samuel who hadn’t moved at all since he had come in. Quentin the publisher sighed silently. Any acknowledgement was better than none. I gently remind him that any Prius is better than none.

            Suddenly, Samuel moved. He turned around to face Quentin the publisher, but did not look at him. My brother. His long fingers were black with charcoal. There were patches of gray all over his angular jaw where he had scratched it hours before. There was charcoal everywhere. His dark brown scruffy hair had chalky lowlights that floated down to the floor when he shook his head. His black t-shirt glistened with charcoal shavings, and as he stood he brushed some of it off his blackened feet trudged over a pile of paper, leaving a print.

            He nodded to Quentin the publisher and continued walking towards the fridge. More bok choy it is. Quentin the publisher was about as surprised as I was. Samuel must have been in a good mood to even so much as nod to Quentin the publisher.

            Samuel took a bite out of the bok choy. He clearly went from being completely engrossed to painfully bored in a matter of seconds. He peeled the bok choy in thick strips that he later peeled into thinner strips. He rolled the leaves into little green rods and popped them into his mouth. He examined the rough texture of the leaves, caressing the patterns before finally becoming interested in the world again.

            I only know all of this because Quentin the publisher was staring at him. Samuel made eye contact, but I knew he was not looking at the meager publisher. He was looking at me.

           

            I brake quickly at a stoplight. It shakes Froid, and she stops looking out the window to look forward and massage her neck.

            “I’m sorry!” I exclaim and reach out to touch it. Froid shakes a little at my touch but relaxes once she feels my warmth. I relax when I feel her cool skin.

            “Any ideas about what you want to eat?” I ask kindly.

            She shrugs, pushing the top of my hand almost to her ear and I quickly remove my hand to keep it from becoming trapped. As for her apathy, I figure so much. Spending so much time with Samuel would mean that her opinion of eating in general would naturally be more of a biological necessity than a pleasure.

            I’m certain I can sway her, though. I know she has a fondness for Thai food, and I instantly perk up to tell her I know of a wonderful Thai restaurant just a few blocks away from my apartment. We can stop there on the way so that she can head back to my apartment and take a well-deserved nap. Maybe I can take one too. I’m more exhausted than I would be after being on-call after a long day of surgeries.

            I miss Froid’s response, so I ask her again, apologizing for missing what she said. She replies that she’s not really all that hungry but could certainly go for a nap. I frown. I remind her that she has to eat, and she tells me that she ate at the airport. I frown deeper. I know she did no such thing. She sees my expression betraying my irritation with her and she relents. I’m not satisfied with her, but I have a schedule to keep.

            Before long I stop in front of a skyscraper three blocks from the apartment complex. She looks out my window in confusion. I lean over and cup her chin in my hand and look longingly at her.

“You are as beautiful as you let yourself be,” I mutter. Her green eyes, dull from sleeplessness, look up at me as I move closer. She closes her eyes in preparation.

            Good enough.

            “We’re here,” I tell her. She opens her eyes and looks back behind me, and sure enough there is a Thai restaurant on the ground floor.

            “Didn’t see that before…” she whispers, pointing at the red name above the entrance.

            I chuckle. “You don’t see a lot of things, do you?”

            The drive to Maine was scenic, if not contrived. If I weren’t so preoccupied with Froid I would definitely make something exciting for Callahan to watch. Maybe a flaming car crash or a sudden moose. But my priorities lie in this impromptu Thai restaurant, and my current fixation was trying to get Froid to actually order food rather than stare at the ice cubes floating in the purified water.

            Callahan was energized enough to do the three hour drive in one go. What’s the hurry? I ask him. Because I honestly don’t know. I can tempt or obligate him into completing my wills, but his actual thoughts are fairly unknown to me. I know he’s going to Maine because that’s where he thinks Froid is, spending a few days with her family before volitionally going as far away from them as possible.

            I revel at the possible envy he would have had he known who I was with at the moment. Froid spies the brightness in my euphoric eyes. I know she’s curious, but I pretend that I don’t see her and continue looking at Callahan.

            Callahan’s car did not have enough gas to travel the whole way, even though he had seldom used his car since coming to school. The tank lilted from half full to quarter to nearly empty over the span of New Hampshire, and he groaned as he tried to find a gas station in a town that was little more than a bar and a church. He circled expectantly, as if his extreme desire to find a station would just will one into existence.

            As Froid traces the pattern on the paper napkin I trace Callahan’s face. His eyes are bloodshot because he slept with contacts in, and he has done nothing but drive for the past two hours. He hasn’t checked his phone or listened to the radio. It’s as if he doesn’t want anyone to help him. I could have easily communicated to him through one of these, but he’s been so absorbed in the voyage that I haven’t been able to give him subtle assistance.

            The town was void of anything to help Callahan. His tank was empty, and if he spent any more time looking he would consume what little he had left and become stranded.

            I promise I’m only helping him because I want him to go to Maine and not find Froid there. In his rearview window he spotted a tiny gas station, not conspicuous enough to forgo observance but a gas station nonetheless.

            “How did I miss this one?” Callahan asked himself.

            I chuckle quietly on the pad thai page.

            “What is it?” Froid finally asks.

            “Callahan. He’s so funny.”

            After basically forcing Froid to order something that wasn’t a bowl of Jasmine rice, the two of us wait for our curries. Mine is seafood while Froid’s is vegetables. I ask her if she’s vegetarian but she says no. Between the low caloric value of the meal and the exorbitant difference in price between ours, I can see Froid only wants to disappear.

            She caresses the cigarettes in her purse. I want to get rid of them, but I have to do it without her noticing. I tell her I’m going to the bathroom and get up and leave her alone at the table. I know she wants nothing more than to make a run for it and light up in an alley somewhere, but my expectations keep her glued to the table.

            I wash my face in the sink and practice smiling. Many people have told me my smile is the best they’ve ever seen, and I smile at my dimples. I smile at my blue eyes. I smile at my shaved face. I smile at Samuel through Quentin the publisher. I smile at Froid.

            Froid looked at herself in the mirror of a makeup compact and cringed. If she didn’t already feel as if she traveled hastily across the country, her face definitely showed it. She applied some lip balm and groomed her eyebrows a bit. She powdered her face at put the compact back in her purse. I smile at her again through the mirror of the bathroom. I guess she is trying after all.

            After making some effort, she began pawing through her purse, looking for something that wasn’t there.

            Smoking is bad for you, isn’t it? She hears my voice. I’ve never said these words to her before.

            I walk back from the bathroom to see a slightly more presentable Froid. That is, if she weren’t manically ripping her purse apart.

            “Looking for something?” I ask her pointedly.

            “I swear they were just in here, like a few minutes ago.”

            “Smoking is bad for you, isn’t it?” I say again.

            She freezes and slowly meets my gaze. I smile at her innocently, patting her pack of cigarettes situated newly in my pants pocket.

                       

            Callahan was almost to Portland. The sporadic towns and farms began to conglomerate into small cities, which rolled into suburbs. He was surprised at how quickly the drive had gone, even though it was a mere three hours not counting his nearly disastrous attempt of finding gas.

            Callahan was almost as bad at planning ahead as either Froid or Samuel. He had no idea where Froid lived in Portland, and even though the city was not large by any standards there were still 65,000 living in it that were not Froid. What a waste of time. He pulled into a Starbucks and sat in the parking lot, waiting further instruction from anyone. I think it was very pathetic. I would eventually help him somehow. But presently I have to basically spoon-feed this panang curry to Froid, and I’m not sure how to go about doing it without being blunt or overly romantic.

            Callahan finally decided to walk in and order something and plan his shameful drive back. His desire to do anything plummeted, and he sank into a polyester armchair in the corner. The tile was a disappointment. The pattern was easily discernable and bored him almost instantly. He slowly got up to order.

            How convenient that he came to this Starbucks.

            There, facing him in debilitating scrutiny, was someone who looked almost exactly like Froid.

            Callahan had to do a double take. He stared at her green eyes, the same hue as Froid but bright with youth and trivial joy. Her hair was blond like Froid’s, but curled painstakingly. Her pale skin was sheathed in foundation and bronzer, and her eyelashes were long and black.

            Her nametag said Caracolle.

            “Um, can I help you?” she suddenly blurted out.

            Callahan sputtered. He was partially in disbelief at the uncanny resemblance, but he was also struck by her beauty the same way he had been the first time he had met Froid.

            “Uh, hi. I’d like… um….”

            Callahan couldn’t think of anything to say or to order.

            “What time do you get off?” He suddenly asked her.

            Her eyebrows bolted up. She was a mixture of surprised and repulsed.

            “Are you... hitting on me?” she whispered, her face inching towards Callahan, her eyes glowering into his.

            Callahan jerked back. “No! I… just… well… you look…” He stalled again. Caracolle rolled her eyes, and I do too as I mix some rice into Froid’s curry for her.

            Caracolle turned around and started unwrapping some cartons of soymilk. Callahan had already disappeared from her memory. She shook the cartons rhythmically, making the soymilk inside all frothy.

            Callahan then let his conscience do the talking and said something none of us expected.

            “You look just like her!”

            Caracolle dropped a carton and it nearly hit her foot. I drop my spoon with a clank into Froid’s now soupy curry. Froid is startled and looks into my eyes, wondering what’s wrong. I could not tell her. Not yet.

Caracolle picked up the carton off the floor and set it on the counter. She turned to Callahan, eyes dilated into a morose comprehension. She had heard this phrase so many times before.

            Callahan recoiled. “I’m sorry, I’m just saying things right now. You probably don’t even…”

            “No.” Caracolle leaned over the counter as Callahan retreated.

            “I know exactly who you’re talking about. And where is she? Where is my sister?”