He Started It Page 7

  ‘Great,’ Eddie says. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘So what’s next on the list?’ Krista says, rubbing her hands together. ‘The town with the most gruesome serial killer? The museum of horrible ways to kill someone?’ She looks at Eddie. He turns to me.

  ‘Beth’s the one who remembers everything,’ he says.

  Portia motions to the waitress, pointing to her beer mug. ‘I swear, I don’t know how you do it,’ she says to me. ‘I try to block it all out.’

  I smile. I do remember everything, that’s true. Really, it isn’t that hard.

  It also helps to have the book I brought. Everyone thinks I’m reading a big family saga because that’s the cover I put over the journal. Felix won’t touch it because he only reads nonfiction. Family sagas aren’t his thing.

  10 Days Left

  Texas

  State Motto: Friendship

  In the morning, I go walking with Felix. It’s only the second time I’ve joined him since the trip began, and that’s disappointing. I had such high hopes for myself on this trip.

  The first thing we do is check the tires on the car. They’re fine.

  We walk for twenty minutes, chatting about a work problem back home. His problem, not mine. Felix likes to talk them out, perhaps to make sure he is handling things the right way. Perhaps because it makes him feel smart. Even after all these years, I don’t care which reason is right. When he’s satisfied with his chosen course of action, we return to our room.

  I notice it right away.

  My phone. Every night, I put it facedown on the nightstand. This is out of habit, and on purpose, because if I see the blinking light indicating I have a message waiting, I have to read it. Usually it’s work, and it can wait until morning. To avoid reading or sending e-mails in the middle of the night, my phone stays facedown.

  Now it’s faceup. Light blinking.

  Felix heads straight for the shower, not noticing anything, and I don’t stop him. I want to be sure.

  I try to remember if I looked at my phone before we went out for the walk. What I do remember is rolling off the bed and into my clothes, pulling on my shoes right before we left the room. If I had looked at my phone and saw the light blinking, I would’ve read the messages. I would’ve looked at Instagram to see if he had posted anything.

  I check the time the new ones came in. Maybe it was while we were walking, and I’m wrong about this. Maybe I did check my phone before we left.

  Nope.

  All of the new messages arrived in the middle of the night, after I went to sleep and before we left. Even the spam.

  I immediately check my bag and wallet. Nothing is missing. All money and credit cards are accounted for, and so is the book.

  Still, someone has been in this room.

  I don’t mention my phone or the room to anyone, not even Felix. Not yet. He’ll think it’s those guys in the truck, because right now they’re being blamed for everything. I don’t think they did it.

  But I bet I know who did.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Portia says. We’ve just started on our way. ‘It’s called RE-AL.’ She pronounces it with two syllables. ‘Healthy food, no grease.’

  Fantastic.

  The restaurant is in a remote corner of Kansas, right near the border with the Oklahoma Panhandle. On the way there, no one mentions the pickup truck or lack thereof.

  At RE-AL, we are greeted by the owners, who are young and hip and have New York accents. In the first few minutes, we learn that one is a former chef at a big NYC restaurant and the other worked in advertising. They fled New York for a cheaper way of life. I don’t like the food or the faux New York style, but there’s no grease and it’s not barbeque. It’s not even faux barbeque, so I don’t complain about how tasteless the food is.

  ‘I have to admit,’ Felix says. ‘This was a really good idea. We’ve been eating the worst food.’

  ‘Although it does taste good,’ Eddie says.

  Portia glares at him. ‘So does this.’

  ‘All the food on this trip has been delicious,’ Felix says.

  We all nod.

  Krista is a big fan of RE-AL. She even stays behind to chat with the owners after we’re done. Felix goes to the restroom. Portia walks outside to check the tire again, which leaves Eddie and me alone. It’s the first time since Krista sent me that text.

  ‘Truth,’ I say. ‘Did you see that truck following us?’

  ‘No. I told you I didn’t.’

  I take one last sip of organic, natural caffeine-infused tea. ‘Krista seems to think you did see it.’

  Eddie rolls his eyes. ‘Well, of course I told her that. I’m not about to tell her she’s wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’re afraid of your own wife.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, I’m just avoiding a fight. You saw what she’s like when she’s mad.’

  I did, a couple days ago when she was spewing venom in every direction. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘She’s just jealous. Thinks I flirt too much.’

  ‘You do.’

  He shrugs. ‘Can’t help it.’

  ‘You’re such an asshole.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  When I first heard the name Cadillac Ranch, I naturally assumed it was an actual ranch, the kind with cows and horses and pigs. Chickens running around. Dogs barking. Cowboys lassoing. That type of thing.

  Instead it’s ten Cadillacs half stuck in the ground and covered in graffiti. There is no ranch, no animals, no pasture. Just a sculpture, as Grandpa called it, and it had something to do with the open road and American cars and some millionaire who paid to create it.

  How stupid, I said then. My opinion changed, though not because burying cars in the dirt was a good idea. It isn’t, but there is something special about the place.

  Last time, Grandpa brought the paint. This time, Eddie has it.

  ‘Everyone pick a car and paint,’ he says.

  We aren’t the only ones here. Tourists are everywhere, mostly taking selfies with their own graffiti. I go straight to the third Cadillac from the left and look up at the underside between the two wheels. I don’t care whose picture I’m in, or if I’m in someone’s way. Green paint, that’s what I’m looking for. Even just a piece of it.

  ‘It’s been too long.’

  Portia. She is standing behind me and staring at the same spot.

  ‘Probably,’ I say.

  ‘Definitely.’

  She walks away.

  I don’t stop looking. I look for so long that I think I see a speck of the same green paint, buried under twenty years of graffiti.

  This place was less crowded back then. Some took pictures, though not with phones. It was hotter than it is today, and there were more children because school hadn’t started yet. Kids climbed all over the cars, inside and out. Portia loved it, I didn’t. At twelve, I thought of myself as basically a teenager. Too old for such things.

  I still remember the message on this car, though. Bright green paint, like a grasshopper.

  I’m interrupted again, this time by Eddie.

  ‘Stop,’ he says.

  ‘I know, it’s been too long,’ I say.

  ‘And it’s not why we’re here.’

  But it’s why I’m here.

  Eddie motions to Portia, calling her over to join us. She walks up to us, holding a spray can. Her index finger is now covered in black paint.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page,’ he says.

  Portia looks at me, then up at the car. ‘About graffiti?’

  ‘About this trip,’ he says. Add a few more years and a few more pounds, and he would look just like Dad. ‘We’re here to put Grandpa where he wants to be. That’s it.’

  ‘And collect our inheritance,’ Portia says.

  ‘Exactly.’ He nods. ‘But that’s it. We aren’t here for anything else.’

  I am.

 
; ‘Okay?’ Eddie says.

  Portia looks at me and shrugs.

  I shrug back. ‘Okay.’

  Lie.

  ‘Good.’ He claps his hands together, perhaps a signal of success. He and Portia return to their previous tasks while I find a can of green paint. Bright green paint. I have to stretch up on my tiptoes to write what used to be there.

  Here I am

  8/

  I wasn’t the one who wrote it the first time, but I know who did. The original message was just like that, with the date left unfinished. I paint it just like it was. My handwriting isn’t the same, but it’s close. It makes me feel better that her graffiti is back where it belongs.

  Back where she belongs.

  You knew about her. Even if you didn’t consciously know, you knew because it’s how these stories go. It’s a law. Maybe even written in stone by now.

  There’s always a missing girl.

  Our motel near the Cadillac Ranch is the worst yet. Given where we’ve been, that’s saying something. The Whirlybird has always been a dump, from the paper-thin walls to the walk-up window that serves as a check-in desk and a place to buy cigarettes. Maybe other things as well. They have to be doing something to stay in business.

  ‘Tomorrow I want to stay in a decent place,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t have to be fancy, just clean with real towels, maybe a coffeemaker.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Felix says.

  ‘And for once, Portia should have her own room. We can afford that for one night.’

  ‘Aren’t you a princess,’ Felix says.

  I smile. ‘Bow next time you say that.’

  ‘Will do,’ he says. ‘That was cool today. The Cadillacs.’

  ‘Yeah, it was.’

  Lie.

  ‘What did you paint?’ he says.

  ‘Just the usual. Initials, the date. The “I was here” thing.’

  ‘Me too.’

  It’s late. Felix is already in bed and shutting down his laptop. The day has been a long one and I should be tired. Instead, I stand up so fast it startles him.

  ‘You okay?’ he says. Just like I knew he would.

  ‘Fine. I just want to get a soda from the vending machine. Maybe walk around a minute. It’s stuffy in here.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks at me, then at the door. ‘You want me to come with?’

  ‘No, no. You get some rest. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Take your phone.’

  I do. I bring my phone and my wallet and as soon as I walk out of that musty room, I take a big gulp of cool air.

  There’s nothing around, nothing to see except a clear sky. Five cars are in the parking lot; one is ours and the others are scattered in front of a few rooms. All have out-of-state license plates. More road-trippers as unlucky as us to stay here.

  Right by the street entrance, there’s an old wooden chair. Functional, yet ugly. It looks like someone put it out for the trash but no one picked it up. I don’t have my disinfectant spray; however, the wood does look cleaner than the ground. I sit.

  Here I am

  8/

  I’ve always wondered if she was going to add more. Her name, maybe. I don’t know why. Even if she did, it was probably nothing. Some silly, rambling thing. Something a seventeen-year-old girl thought was important enough to memorialize in green paint on a Cadillac. That’s why I painted it again: because it deserves to be there. Her words should be where she wants them.

  Felix doesn’t know about her, the same way he doesn’t know about our parents or about what happened on the first road trip. I’m not going to tell him unless I have to.

  My phone buzzes. I don’t look at first, assuming it’s Felix, but it’s Portia. She says:

  Eddie thinks you’re losing it

  I answer:

  He’s assuming I ever had it?

  Nice. You’re up?

  Outside. Look for the wooden chair.

  Minutes later, I hear her footsteps.

  ‘Scoot,’ she says.

  I do. We share, each with one butt cheek on and one off.

  ‘What did he say?’ I ask.

  ‘It was after dinner. He pulled me aside and asked if I thought you were okay. I said you had never been okay.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Welcome. Then he went on and on about how you were staring at the car, looking for her graffiti. Maybe looking for her. He thinks you’re going to drive yourself crazy if that’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s weirder that he doesn’t give a shit about her. That he isn’t looking at all.’

  I glance over at her and it hits me, again, how young she is. I swear she could pass for twenty. ‘He needs the money,’ she says.

  ‘We all need the money.’

  ‘I mean, he really needs it.’ She pauses, scraping the ground with her thick leather boot. ‘I’ve heard him arguing with Krista about it. And a couple of nights ago, he was yelling about a judgment and lien.’

  It’s that big house of his. Eddie’s money problems are much worse than mine, and much worse than I originally thought. ‘No wonder he’s so protective of Grandpa’s ashes,’ I say.

  Portia laughs. ‘He sleeps with that box next to the bed.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I need the money, too. But not like that.’

  Just enough for her to pay off the student loans and stop stripping. Get out of that crappy apartment. Stop living with a roommate who sells something. Drugs. Maybe herself. The inheritance is more than enough.

  ‘I don’t think this is all about money,’ I say. ‘Grandpa could’ve just given it to us. He wanted us to go on this trip for a reason.’

  ‘Eddie doesn’t care.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She looks out at the dark street like a car might appear. It doesn’t. ‘Yes and no? Like the thing with today, the paint. The Cadillacs. I remember that day, and I remember the fight and the green paint and she was yelling about not finishing. But I don’t really know what happened, I was too young to understand.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s been twenty years. I can’t imagine knowing would change anything.’

  I disagree with everything she said. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say.

  She pats my arm, like she’s the older one. ‘Of course I am. Now let’s go back into this shitty motel and get some rest.’

  I almost stop her, almost tell her about someone coming into the room at the last motel. ‘You go,’ I say. ‘I’m not tired yet.’

  I watch her walk back to the motel. Portia was only six during the first road trip. She missed a lot and doesn’t remember half of what happened.

  I do. Not only what happened, but also what we were like. We are right back to being who we used to be.

  Portia, too young to know what she was seeing. Me, wanting to see everything, know about everyone. Especially her. Eddie, blinders on, looking straight ahead, not admitting she existed.

  And her. Nikki.

  The firstborn. Our older sister.

  Nikki with her wild, flaxen hair, her blazing eyes, her body constantly in motion. Here, there, everywhere, all at once.

  And I have her journal.

  I’M PRETTY SURE IT’S TUESDAY.

  What are you thinking about right now?

  That asshole at the Cadillac Ranch. He was old – as old as Dad – and he stood behind me staring the whole time I was trying to paint. Finally I had to say something, because what girl wouldn’t, so I told him to fuck right off. Just like that.

  All of a sudden, I’m the bad guy. I’m the bitch who cursed at a stranger and no one cared that he was the one staring at my ass. I told him to stop and he said if I was going to dress like a slut then men were going to stare at me. I called him an asshole and all of a sudden his wife – HIS WIFE – showed up and told me to stop yelling. By the time Grandpa even noticed something was happening, it was all out of control. The asshole and his wife were there with, like, a whole posse of friends
and they all were yelling about me being the troublemaker.

  Grandpa bought it. No surprise there, the adults always do. Oh, something bad happened? Must have been Nikki. Something got stolen? Nikki. Someone ran away? You bet your ass it’s Nikki, because who wants to stick around to hear that all the time. That’s why I run away so much.

  Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t run away from this trip yet. First, it’s because of Beth. If I’m not around to protect her, it’s not like Eddie will. He’d protect Portia because she’s so young, but not Beth.

  Second, it’s because of what Grandpa did to Grandma. I’ve known about it since she died, and I might be the only who knows what he did to her. Someone’s got to pay him back for it.

  9 Days Left

  About that pickup.

  I stayed outside last night for another fifteen minutes or so, more than enough time for Portia to get back to her room.

  I hadn’t seen a car drive by all night, not a single one, and then I saw the truck. Black with the double-cab and oversized wheels. The front windows were tinted and rolled up so I couldn’t see the driver or passenger.

  Still, I knew. The back window was rolled down a few inches. As they passed by, a wisp of cigarette smoke escaped. I caught a flash of that auburn-haired woman in the back.

  I sat right in that wooden chair and watched it, too shocked to move, until I could no longer see the taillights. Everyone was right about the truck: It was really following us. When it was gone I ran inside to tell Felix.

  He was asleep, but not for long.

  ‘It’s here,’ I kept saying. I said it until he responded.

  ‘What’s here?’

  ‘That pickup. It just drove by outside.’

  He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘It was on the road, driving by.’

  ‘You called the police?’ he said.

  ‘Because a truck drove by?’

  Felix looked at me, his white-blond hair sticking out in all directions. It always looked like that after he slept. ‘Yeah, I guess that doesn’t make any sense.’

  No, it did not.