Night Navigation Page 16

  It had been a Wednesday. April 19, 1995. Mark called her at her apartment from the pay phone in Danford. "Come get me," he said. She knew something was terribly wrong. He was waiting on the porch when she drove in. As soon as he got in the car, it came out in a burst. "Aaron's moved back out to the bluff, been there a few days. I hitched out to see him last night. No question he's delusional. Getting messages from Dad. Weird stuff about trains, wearing that striped engineer's cap Grandpa gave him one Christmas. But he's still got the two tracks running. I mean he knows he's getting crazy. And not eating. Nothing but Mountain Dew. He wouldn't come back to town. Just kept saying I should stay there, wood was safe, like he was worried about me. But I'd promised to meet Sammi here. No way to phone her." He'd walked back to town in the dark.

  They'd picked up some hot soup and milk and parked at the pole barn, a cold drizzle moving toward snow. Mark had gone up the steep path alone, sure Aaron was more likely to listen to him, to come back down to go to her apartment or the Crisis Center. While she waited, she began to tremble all over, the kind of adrenaline release she used to have when Lee would bang open the door of the apartment in Chittenango in the middle of the night and come raging up the stairs. She heard something and got out of the car, looked up the hill. It was Mark calling: "Aaron. Aaron. Answer me."

  The loft-ladder is off in the brush. One good yank and it's free. She drags it into the downstairs, with Luke barking and attacking from the sides, as though the ladder is alive and it's his job to rein it in. "You are not helping," she tells him.

  Someone has written the word BEWARE on the crossbeam. After several banging-around attempts, the ladder lands solidly against the loft. She dries her sweating hands on her pants and moves carefully up, stopping on each rung to check to see if it still feels steady, with Luke below, whimpering, pacing around the base. Finally she peers into the loft. Nothing much left. Some burned-down candle stubs, cigarette butts crushed on the floor, a broken beer bottle. The windows smashed and gone, just holes looking up into the blue sky. All the furniture, the mattress, whatever else was up here, long ago flung out onto the ground below. Bare, except over in the corner an old crate, something green shining through the splits in the boards. What she had not wanted to find was a note, because what she had hoped, that whole month before they knew, was that Aaron had walked down to the road, put out his thumb, and hitched a ride out of there.

  The next step is the part of climbing that scares her, scrambling from the ladder to the loft floor. She rises and is surprised to see herself, parts of her disheveled, graying self, reflected in a large old mirror that hangs tilted high on the wall across the yawning space. Surely this is the same dresser-mirror that once belonged to Lee's missionary ancestors, the same mirror Lee insisted on loading into the U-Haul their many moves, their many start-overs. More patches of its silver backing flaking away with each transport. Aaron must have unearthed it from a back corner of the pole barn. She pushes her hands toward the mirror, sees them grow larger, her arms foreshorten, this mirror where Aaron saw himself, this mirror that's witnessed so much, that watched the darkness closing in.

  She moves to the corner, avoids the shards of broken glass, and lifts the lid of the crate. Right away she knows what it is. Aaron's heavy winter jacket, the one she gave him his last Christmas. She always gave them warm clothing: long underwear, mittens, hats—this jacket—hoping somehow to shelter them from their chaotic lives. She pulls it out and holds it in her arms. She will look through the pockets, but not now. If she had found this jacket when they were searching, well, then she would have known, she would have had to know he hadn't gotten a ride and headed west. He would never have left without his jacket.

  Two hundred firemen and volunteers. Two helicopters, several boats. The women's auxiliary set up a relief station down in the big shed that was part of the gravel-bank business: coffee and sandwiches. A couple of county sheriffs and someone from the forestry department were in charge, laying out the grids, keeping track. Mark was determined to search up through the hills, following the routes he and Aaron had used to plant marijuana. One of the sheriffs had tried to stop him—having family be part of the search wasn't a good idea—but Richard had said, Let him go, that he'd stay right with him. Two firemen started out with Richard and Mark, but soon dropped behind. Mark's pace was so fierce only Richard could keep up. They went all the way to the end of the ravine, maybe five miles, almost to Carla's, but they found not a sign. She waited in the car. She could not go through the motions of speaking.

  About an hour after the first day's search started, Marna came and sat beside her. Richard had called her at work. The only exchange she remembers: "I know how much you love this child." "Then why didn't I grab hold of him?" "Because he wouldn't let you." They waited. At the end of the third day, the search was called off. Posters went up, missing-person bulletins went into computers. Several times that next month, bits of news made them still hope: an old man and his wife from over on the next road called. They were sure they saw someone of Aaron's description hitching on Baker Brook Road on Thursday, April 20. Someone else said he thought he saw a man who looked just like Aaron in the Utica bus station. Then on May 18, one month later, she was coming back from a life-drawing group at Marna's. There was an Onango County sheriff's car idling in the driveway by her apartment. A man got out. She unlocked the door and had him come upstairs. She went through the apartment and turned on all the lights. The sheriff's deputy stood in the living room and waited. Finally, she sat down on the couch and said, All right. Two fishermen had found a body on the bank of the Onango Creek, the creek right at the foot of their land. Likely someone who had drowned. Did her son have any dental work or broken bones that might help in the identification? Yes, she said. He had broken his left arm when he was eleven. He'd had a double root canal in his right eyetooth, something that ran in the family. She did not tell him that in a way Aaron had left a note. Right after he disappeared, she and Mark had found five marijuana plants, all of Aaron's remaining crop, Mark said, spread evenly across Lee's gravestone, the soil still clinging to their roots.

  The jacket is warm from the dryer. Its pockets had held nothing but tobacco flakes and the remains of a bus ticket to Lawrence. She takes it into her studio and slides back the screeching closet door to find a needle and thread. She lifts down her mother's sewing basket—her mother, the great seamstress who could make anything on her little featherweight Singer. She moves the chair closer to the window so she can see what she's doing. Luke stretches out beside her, his head between his paws.

  Rows of thread arranged by color and here they are: a green spool that's almost a perfect match and a needle with a large enough eye. The cigarette holes will require patching. There's spare material on the inner parts that hold the lining. Snippets can be cut from there to cover the burns, then the raw edges whipped over so they won't ravel. The bottoms of the big pockets have holes. Just a case of restitching those. Then the frays along the cuffs. No buttons missing, which is good because these would have been impossible to match. First, this biggest cigarette burn by the zipper.

  She puts her feet up on the stool and rocks a little. Even when he came toward her, looking so not like himself, she saw in his eyes the child who sat in his yellow sleepers on the edge of his bed, reading his Richard Scarry book by the light from the hall, circling with a blue crayon all the words he knew. Years later he said to her, Sometimes I circled a few I didn't know. She still has dreams where she picks up the phone and he says, Mom, it's Aaron.

  14 : The Names of All the Planets

  BLACK CLOUDS OF BUS exhaust and the usual destitute, sagging on the benches, smoking, waiting. A New Paltz police car with a fat cop is trolling, surveying the motley. Mark resists the urge to fold in, poked-worm reflex. He's back in a world where being Caucasian's worth Bonus Points. Middle class: his clothes clean, new Pumas, his bass—decked in a shiny gig bag. Gotcha, Fuzz, you don't know I'm a junkie-psycho just escaped over the accordion wire. The
slinky guy with the chin whiskers, leaning against the wall, he knows. 'Bout two more minutes, he's going to give a subtle signal: You want; I got.

  His exit not dramatic really. He's glad of that. He followed the protocol. Gave the thirty-six hours' notice. Let them lay the whole nine on him. He sat in the reflection chair, read the writing on the wall. Just stayed with the main theme: TC, clearly right for many, but not the appropriate therapy for him at this juncture on his recovery-road. Over and over, minor variations. No way he was going to be up under the lights, do the theater-of-the-absurd thing. Watson story? He didn't get into any of that. The second the thirty-six-hour dong donged, he called the taxi, bye-bye, Brothers and Sisters. Fucking blast of luck, the UPS truck arrives two minutes before take-off: the bass and his Pumas. Split, but he left his mark. Mark M. Up there on the big blackboard. But not in a box, not in a box.

  He inventories his status: sixty-five dollars, ATM and phone cards. Five packs of Camels, eleven Zyprexa—what was left of his New Vistas medication. Enough trappings of civilized society to keep him from being among the homeless for a day or two. What day is it? He bends to check the date on the newspaper behind the yellowed plastic window: Wave of pedophile cases casts a dark shadow over all the clergy. Back in civilized society. March 30. Twenty-five days clean. So—four days until his money shows up in the rep-payee account. Figure access to that later. The trembles are back to moderate and transmissions from outer space reduced to occasional.

  The weary are lining up, digging for their tickets. Heads, New York; tails, Marwick. Down to fucking And Then What? time. The pay phone is right next to all the Trailways' roar. He parks his stuff between his legs and leans the bass so it settles against the call box. If he gets Rozmer, some glimmer of understanding for why he had to bail, well, then he'll take the bus for Marwick. If not, well, he'll head for the city, play his bass in the subway, put together enough to get a bike and do the messenger thing. Certainly not going to call his mother until he has to negotiate his money, hear her crash and burn. Ring, ring, ring. Rozmer's machine answers, and even though he may miss the fucking bus to wherever he finds himself going, he's got to catch one last Word for the Day, "'Man, you aren't going crazy. You're trying to get well. Don't run from these experiences, they could save your life.'" He lets go of the phone. "One way to Marwick," he tells the woman through the glass.

  The bus is filling up. He goes all the way to the back—right next to the john, how he likes to do these buscapades. What the fuck, put it out there. See what Rozmer has to say. He'll call him when the bus gets to Delhi, see if Rozmer'll pick him up in Marwick.

  ***

  Rozmer's truck vroom-vrooms into the Marwick station just as his bus comes to a complete stop—Gabe's face, Rozmer's eight-year-old son, pressed to the glass. Twice-a-month visitation time. Well, that's cool. He likes Gabe. Gabe reminds him of Aaron. Gabe is into the world, the galaxy, where everything is. He needs a cigarette. No smoking in Rozmer's truck or house. Rozmer gives him the I Love You, Man hug. Gabe gives him a high five. He skims his hand over Gabe's blond bristles. "Got a haircut, buddy."

  Gabe touches the top of his head and points to his father. "Rozmer," he says, rolling his eyes to the sky. Rozmer's head is likewise buzzed. The two of them have identical bumps in back of their ears.

  Rozmer motions for him to throw his backpack into the truck bed. "Got a new guitar. Well, well, still got your scamming charm."

  Gabe sits between them, a stack of National Geographics in his lap.

  Rozmer stops before turning out of the parking lot. "Want to catch a meeting?"

  "Sure," he says. Ramrod Game running and he's ready. 'Course Rozmer knows.

  Rozmer taps Gabe's knee. "You feel up for hanging out at the library for an hour while Mark and I go to a meeting?"

  Gabe considers. Raises the magazines up and sets them down. "Yeah, that'll be okay."

  Rozmer pulls up by the library drop box. He thumbs through his wallet. "Here's your card. We'll be back about five. I'll come in and find you."

  Gabe hands Mark his magazines and gets out Rozmer's side. "Maybe I'll be in the African drum section," he says. "And then are we going to eat?"

  "We are," Rozmer tells him, "and you can pick the spot. Any place but fast food."

  Rozmer backs all the way to the street, his thick neck straining to stay turned for such a maneuver. No fast food must be Rozmer-in-reform because usually his truck's loaded with Whopper wrappers.

  As though Rozmer's been tuned into Mark's head, he says, "Doctor tells me I have to take off seventy-five pounds before I can have this hernia operation." He turns the truck to swing in behind St. Theresa's.

  Good it's not a home-group meeting. But there's Charlie's station wagon—the DON'T CROWD ME sticker peeling off its bumper. He's going to have to see people who know he went for treatment. And here he is in two blinks and one nod back at the scene of the crime. My name is Mark and I'm an addict. He is not going to talk, he's only going to listen.

  Rozmer turns the truck off, but he doesn't get out. "So what's up?"

  "Place was a cult. Made me do what they call a Monad."

  "Put you in the ring for the old one-two with God, ehh."

  "I don't know about that, but whatever—I started getting crazy: the hums, voices. Too much pressure. Brainwashing."

  "Well, you know what Dederich said, the drunk who started the whole therapeutic community movement."

  "What?"

  "Maybe your brain needs washing."

  He places the bass carefully on the seat and throws his jacket over it. "You can lock up, right?"

  "That side won't lock," Rozmer says. "It'll be okay."

  He pulls his jacket and the bass off the seat and closes the door. Have to carry it into the meeting like he thinks he's Mr. Cool. They start in. He's a little ahead, can't really see Rozmer's face when he says, "You pressing me is not what I'm needing right now. It's your Word for the Day, like some just-for-me message, that brought me to your door."

  "Hey," Rozmer says, coming up beside him, throwing his arm around his neck. "That message was for me, too. Getting so I have to call myself up to know what's going on. Pressing you? I'm just wanting not to waste time wading through any cockand- bull. You clean?"

  "Twenty-five days." Just as they get to the side door, he sees a cement basin full of sand and butts. "Go ahead," he tells Rozmer, "I'm going to catch a quick smoke." The door shooshes shut. He swallows a Zyprexa and pulls the smoke down, holds it there before letting it go. He hears a blast of laughter down the hall: AA. The cocoon-comfort of staying off the street one more day.

  The AA room's fluorescent bright, charged by the smell of strong coffee. Things are just starting, the laughter dying. Must be a men's meeting. Only a dozen or so sitting around a couple of tables. Charlie nods. Rozmer's next to him. A lot of recovery as they say in the AA biz—people who've been sober for a long time. Jerry, Andrew. A couple of young guys looking pale and shaky. He pours himself a cup of coffee, sludge-thick, loads in the sugar and sits beside someone he doesn't know. An old-timer named Kent is reading the opening: "'Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope…'"

  He has heard these words so often that it's hard to hear meaning. Plus there's a group of redneck purists who think only an alcoholic should enter these hallowed halls. Places where saying, I am an addict, causes the temperature to drop. He settles deeper into the chair and tries not to think Camel.

  Kent looks around the table. "Charlie, why don't you start off the Twelve Steps."

  Charlie opens his Daily Reflections book that he's already got marked with a bright blue ribbon. No question, got to hand it to Charlie: five years clean and sober on top of trying to deal with being schizophrenic. When he asked Charlie once how he did it, Charlie said, When the sign says Stop, I do. "'One. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol…'" Charlie's voice is always tight like each word's bound to the next one with wire.

&nbs
p; Rozmer's next. "'Two. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.'"

  Coming around his way. Rozmer looks over. He's going to be number eight. Eight is one of the Steps that make him want to stick his fingers in his ears and start yelling. The man, seeing that he doesn't have a book, passes him the paper. "'Made a list of all persons we had harmed…'" He can't hear the remaining Steps. Just the humming and the deep longing to be standing somewhere alone, smoking.

  Then Kent's voice again, "Now's the time to share your experience, strength, and hope on a topic of concern. Anyone have an issue they're particularly struggling with?"

  Nobody offers anything. Then Rozmer nods. Kent motions Rozmer that he should go on. Shit, Rozmer, don't let this be some grenade you lob across the table at me.

  "Would the group be up for the topic of honesty? I'm thinking of it as getting back to being honest with myself. Who I am and who I am not, but you could take it anywhere you want."

  The two young guys sit up a little closer to the table. Rozmer doesn't seem to be directly beaming any energy his way. He feels the relief of dropping off the hook.

  Kent says, "Go ahead, Rozmer, why don't you start it off."

  "Okay. I'm Rozmer and I'm an addict. What's going on is that in the last year I've put on one hundred pounds. What is this about? It's gotten to the place where I have to phone my sponsor every time I pass a Burger King." Rozmer's not using his Rozmer-voice, everything about him set on Low. "Some of you believe what I've been putting out there: Rozmer, the Genius, the guy who can always roll. Well … a lot is coming at me right now: my eight-year-old son and his mother are coming back to live with me, I have just started a new job working with troubled adolescents, and I'm moving to a new place tomorrow so Gabe can go to the alternative school here in Marwick. Shaking in my veritable boots—that's me. There, there it is. I appreciate the chance to put this out in the light. Thank you."