Eh…please don't hate me! There is a method to my madness, not every chapter is that intense, and…I can think of a lot of movies I could be quoting right now, but I'll refrain. Thanks a bunch for continuing to chapter 2!
And if there's anyone out there who, by chance, has not read What Lies Buried, you might want to get on that, for in a couple chapters you will be very confused.
Disclaimer: The force is with me, but the rights to National Treasure are not.
Chapter 2Somehow the sun still rose the next morning; it's nearly eleven and I'm still staring at the daylight from the apartment window in awe. Below me, people bustle about disrespectfully, cheerful and dressed in bright hues. Shouldn't the world have screeched to a halt, at least for a moment?
A few hours earlier I heard Sadusky ambling around down the hall, indecipherable murmurs echoing through the walls. I should have unraveled myself from the cocoon of sheets to thank him for his indefinite offer of hospitality. I thought I even caught the sounds of banging pots and pans as well: he was cooking breakfast for us, too? How could I have ever considered him to be a bad guy all those years ago?
The velvety black box sits on the windowsill, and I cannot wrench my gaze away as my arms wrap around my torso. The other side of the bed was so cold this morning…
And what about Mom and Dad? Why did it have to be fire, to be consumed in an earthly hell? Inevitability and fate once again rear their ugly heads. As I reluctantly try to pull my brain back to reality, I notice a few shimmering beads of water collected on the box's fuzzy lid; my own cheeks feel moist.
There's a quiet knock on the door. "Ben?"
I don't want to talk to anybody, for I might lose it. Wallowing in my own grief allows much more room for self-control. And I don't want to worry Wes—that's something he doesn't need to see.
"Ben, please."
Distantly I sense gravity slowly pull me into a sitting position and I place my forehead on the wall beneath the sill. I just want some peace!
"Ben, don't do this."
Can't I be alone?
"Ben," he says—the pause was much shorter this time. "You need to talk about it. Please."
Talk about it? I need to talk about it? What the hell is there to say? What satisfaction will assigning abstractions to this suffering bring me? And what can be articulated that he doesn't already know? Yet still the lost cause trumpets its music so out of tune.
"That's it—I'm coming in."
I soon hear his bare feet pad across the hardwood floor, but I don't turn. After he halts, his breathing is the only sound in the room. And even though he's a couple yards back, it's almost as if he's breathing down my neck.
"At least look at me, Ben. You're worrying me."
That last bit drives an arrow in my back that twists and forces my head around. Even more disheveled than usual and with hair still splotched, Riley gazes down at me with obvious overflowing concern.
"I'm sorry," I mumble.
"God, don't say that!" In a heartbeat, he's sitting down across from me, holding my shoulders tightly. "It's not your fault."
"I just didn't mean to worry you, is all."
"If I wasn't worried," he says pointedly, "then something would be wrong with me." For a moment I wonder how he can be so together, but then he sniffles, and I notice the unique coloration in his face, stark pale with a bright pink nose—never the sign of cheer. But otherwise no sign surfaces, Riley playing his regular face.
"So," he says, not even needing to ask the question.
My vocal chords struggle as they heave to propel the words from my throat, and they taste like bile. Forcefully I have to swallow them back down and look away from Riley's expecting gaze.
"Did Bigfoot take it?"
"You're all lunatics!"
"I've been doing the math…"
"…but you're my lunatic…"
"I love you."
"You're wrong to assume I'd like the chair!"
"What about a year?"
"We forgot the paper towels."
"So you get your absolute sense of certainty from him—"
Dad—and Mom—"Ben…""Knife in the heart!""That was all Ben; you had nothing to do with it…"
"You can say your goodbyes—"
"Ben."
Where am I going? I'm going insane, by God, and it's been less than a day. If I placed my hand on my chest, I'm sure it would go straight through to my spine. At the time I couldn't understand why Riley drank so badly after Caroline was killed, but now—
"Ben," he sighs, and it's barely audible. "You're really starting to scare me."
"They're gone forever," I murmur.
I no longer want to think, just exist, to sit here and see without the registering of it all, for my eyes to be blank orbs just for the most infinitesimal second. But I realize that's impossible, and I cast my cruelly functioning gaze to Riley, whose mouth is a straight-lined frown.
"I know." He places a hand on my knee and we sit there for months, the months of years past. Suddenly a window has opened just enough to give a fleeting glimpse into the life he led in the midst of the conspiracy. If this fiery misery isn't hell, then the actual place has no right to exist.
Behind me, the sound of small knuckles on wood reaches my ears. "Hey Dad…" Wes pokes his head around the door. "What's there for breakfast?"
For a moment, there's nothing, but then Riley clears his throat dryly. "Ah…didn't Uncle Sadusky cook something earlier?" In the abrupt switch in subjects, even the bizarre name "Uncle Sadusky" wants to send me into a paroxysm of giggles.
"I thought so," Wes says with a curious frown. "But there wasn't anything there."
"Did you check?" I manage to say, my voice cracking multiple times.
"Ribbit." The boy tries very hard to conceal his grin at my overt confusion. Honestly, I could care less that I'm a bit befuddled, or why Wes felt the urgent need to imitate a frog.
"Does Uncle Sadusky watch a lot of hockey?" he continues, staring off into space briefly. OK, Riley, whatever caffeine concoction you've been feeding your son has got to go. I can't deal with this…
"Uh…no," says Riley.
"Why do you ask?" I add with a croak.
"Ribbit!"
What in the world. "Well…?" I try again as my voice stops freaking out like my chest.
"Not-ribbit!" We take to staring at each other, and in my haze I find it difficult to turn on the ever-effective Ben-stare, making the contest that much longer. "There was just a plate full of hockey pucks in the kitchen where Uncle Sadusky said breakfast was."
"Wes," Riley sighs. "Are you sure those aren't burnt pancakes?"
"Oh no, I'm sure." My mood is lifted the slightest bit in watching his youthful face light up in persistence. "They were hockey pucks."
"Y'know, I'm really, really sure Uncle Sadusky whipped out the Bisquick this morning."
"I know! It's all over the kitchen floor." The boy pauses. "I didn't know you could make hockey pucks out of Bisquick. That must have been a secret recipe on the Food Network. Uncle Sadusky watches that sometimes. I've seen him."
Does he now? That's…a quirk. "Wes," Riley sighs once again. "Just…go watch some TV for a little bit. I need to talk to Uncle Ben, OK?" Eyebrows raised, he shoots him one of those halfway-stern fatherly looks that still seem so alien to his face. Wes wavers for the slightest moment and then shuffles with a bounce out the door.
"What was all that about?" I mutter. My hand runs along my head where a dull muted throbbing is beginning to take hold.
"He had been listening to us—I spotted his feet under the door," he says. "Honestly, I think he was trying to cheer you up, Ben." Cheer me up? The prospects of burnt pancakes are cheerful? Riley must, for a second, be able to read my mind and continues, "Or at least distract you, which he definitely did. Besides, the pancakes are fine." After a bit, he adds, "He even put blueberries in them."
"I'm allergic to blueberries." An awkward silence ensues, and at the same time we cast our glances over to the door. Peeking around its edge are a small pair of blue eyes which vanish upon recognition with echoing, clomping steps.
"See?" Riley says. "He's concerned. And everything was so confusing last night that I'm still not sure he's got a grasp on what's happened." He tries to take a deep breath, but it's caught by his blocked nose. "I don't want to have to remind him, but he can't go on like that forever."
"The funerals are tomorrow," I note.
With a grumbling sigh, his head falls into his hands, and it shakes definitively back and forth. "No…are you suggesting that he should actually go? He's only eight—eight, Ben!"
"You can't shield him from this, as much as you want to, as much as any of us want to." Summoning what little strength I have left, I forcefully grab his shoulder and make him meet my gaze. "We've come through this before. We can do it again." Now his nose looks pinker than ever. "Anyways, he's probably already figured it out—more than likely, actually."
"You think?"
"Riley." This time I raise the eyebrow. "He's your son. He's bright."
"That doesn't necessarily mean that he's completely cognizant of the world around him." Apparently Riley has inherited my stubborn gene through some sort of osmosis: he sits before me with his mouth in a sort of subtle pout. "'Cognizant,'" he muses. "That's my big word for the day. 'Til I fall asleep tonight, it's going to be monosyllabics for me…" By the end of his sentence, I'm lucky to even catch a word.
"He realized something happened last night, remember? He cried. And he was there when Sadusky…" Suddenly it feels as if someone shoved a hot brick down my throat to dam up the words. They rise like the waters of Cibola up my esophagus and I'm going to drown for real this time. Abigail and Mom and Dad, in their soaked and soggy garb, have already left me. In my daze I can almost feel Abigail's shaky touch across my cheek once more.
I don't know how long we remain there like that, but Riley eventually places his hand upon my knee. "Abigail would've loved the ring, Ben," he murmurs. "When you were out on a lecture a month or so ago, the subject came up somehow. She said all you had to do was ask, really." He shrugs.
"I don't want the ring," I say abruptly.
"Wh-what? Why wouldn't you—"
"The same reason you didn't keep yours." Our eyes lock, and a small spark of reluctant understanding shines in his.
"Um…Dad?" Again Wes is standing in the door frame.
"What's up, Wes?" Riley says with forced perk.
"Didn't we have that thing at my new school today at noon?" At a second closer look, I see Wes has slapped on his favorite pair of shoes haphazardly, the long white laces trailing all over the green Converses.
Rubbing his forehead, Riley sighs, " Oh…geez. What time is it now?"
"The clock in the kitchen said it was eleven-thirty."
Riley visibly mashes his front teeth over his lip to bite back the string of curse words that were probably on their way. "OK, OK," he says, standing. "Wes, go wait by the door. I'll be there lickety-split, all right?" Hastily the boy nods and dashes down the hall, his laces' ends clicking quietly on the wooden floor.
"Damn," he whispers as he checks himself over in a nearby mirror. "This place is really on the edge of town…we'll be lucky to get there on time…do I look disheveled at all?"
Like magnets my eyes were drawn to his orange and black hair, ignoring the rest of his appearance. How could he pass that over in his self-surveying I have no idea. "Riley—"
"Do you have a hat?—oh, nevermind," he mutters, procuring a gray beanie ski cap from the room's dresser. "Please don't just stand there. You're coming too."
"Why—"
He pauses in his stride and flashes a grin that's both incredulous and generally sad toward me. "Do you really think that I'd leave you here alone?"
XXX
We're late—already. With no car left for us to take (Riley's…and Abigail's having been reduced to scrap metal and mine probably being towed) we are forced underground to the metro, one of Riley's biggest pet peeves. I almost hate to say it, but it obvious irritation is wonderfully distracting.
"Why don't we just walk down there and get ready to steal the Declaration again?" he mutters as we wait impatiently for the next train. "Y'know, just for kicks."
"I like kicks," I say lightly.
"Kix is gross," Wes comments. "There's no flavor."
Without a look down, Riley says, "We're not talking about the cereal." He squeezes the boy's hand as he stretches his neck to see beyond to the tunnel. Still no car lights illuminate the darkness. "But Kix is still not the best."
"Why'd you buy it, then, Dad?" He directs his expectant eyes toward his much taller father.
"It was either that or Frosted Flakes."
"I love Frosted Flakes!"
For the brief second following Wes' remark, I wish time could stand still just so I can memorize Riley's flabbergasted expression.
"Why do you hate Frosted Flakes?" the boy asks with a small yank on Riley's pants leg.
"Principle."
My focus being caught up in the silly debate, the screaming halt of the metro car before us takes me off guard, as do the throngs of people pouring out. I see Riley pull Wes closer, murmuring to himself about the lack of purpose for crowds. Despite the mass exodus, the place is still packed and we're forced to stand with hands cemented around the ever-popular pole. A couple times both of us stumble as we round a turn; Riley knocks into many who seem to have a strong desire to break his nose.
I keep my eyes on the signs displayed at each stop to make sure we get off at the right time. Not too far into the ride, we pass by the National Archives station and time begins to fly backwards…
Wouldn't it have been great if Abigail had been on leave that day we met? A little blip in the timeline and she could be sitting complacently at her desk, conferring with Dr. Herbert about an anomaly on the Constitution—alive. Sure, I wouldn't have known her, wouldn't have loved her, but I can't miss what I never had.
I sure as hell can agonize over what I should still have. Stinging seas waver across my bottom eyelids at the thought, and as I force them back down, I notice Wes staring up at me. A grim smile darts onto his face for a moment.
"It's OK, Uncle Ben," he says.
The scene outside the window is a blur: when did we start moving again? I never saw. "Thanks, Wes," I sigh, ruffling his head of messy dark hair. In the process I manage to shoot Riley a significant look. Come on, I try to tell him silently. Can't you see he knows, or that he at least realizes?
"Not now," he sighs.
"What?" Confused, Wes cranes his neck at an uncomfortable angle to look at Riley.
"Nothing," he mutters. "Nothing."
"If it was nothing, then why'd you say something?"
Those are the last words between us until the train finally comes to a halt. Eager to depart quickly, Riley picks Wes up instead of allowing the possibility of separation to have a chance. I walk closely behind them, and Wes, over Riley's shoulder, stares at me with an expression questioning everything—Riley, me, last night…
"I miss Aunt Abigail," he mouths to me, face crumpling into a dolorous frown.
I nod slowly and mouth back, "Me too."
XXX
It's eerily quiet—not silent, really, because of some subtle white noise, but soft enough to suppress any desires of even clearing one's throat. Though on second thought, I guess that's how schools are supposed to be during the summer, but I'd really love more of a distraction than the high whir of a custodian's vacuum cleaner down the hall.
"It's funny," Riley mutters, "how we kill ourselves ten and a half times over to get here when we did, and they're the ones who are running behind." As he says this, he leans forward in the plastic chair outside the classroom so his elbows are perched precariously on his knees. But he doesn't seem upset or frustrated at all, just musing to break the humdrum. Briefly I catch him glancing over at me again. "Y'know?"
"Know what?" I ask.
"You know," he sighs.
"I wish I could read your mind like you can read mine."
"Lucky guesses, really," he chuckles. A large amount of those could easily translate into mind reading, though. "Which, in a way, is like mind reading if you get enough."
"Stop doing that!"
"Doing what?" he says with an unsure grin.
"You know," I sigh. Maybe if I think about mind reading enough he'll get the message.
"Oh, right," he says with a dawn of comprehension, Wes cocking his head in clear confusion. "I get what you're talking about."
"See?"
And just as the realization hits him, the door clicks open, causing us all to jump and gratingly move the chair legs on the freshly-polished floor. The two who walk out pay us little regard.
"So Mrs. Mercer," the younger of them says. "School begins the Monday prior to Labor Day." Despite her short stature, the way she carries herself adds another good foot and a half to her height.
"That's in a couple weeks, isn't it?"
"Yes ma'am. I'll be looking forward to seeing Addie." As Mrs. Mercer walks on down the hall to the exit, the woman inhales deeply and runs a hand through her brown hair, running another finger along her pointed nose.
"Um…hello?" Riley probes carefully, and she turns on her heel—an impressive feat, given the style of shoes.
"Oh, yes," she says. "You're here for…Wesley Poole, correct?" Over the course of the inquiry, her eyes drift to the gray beanie snug on his head.
"That's me," Wes waves from his seat.
"Riley Poole," he says, standing to shake her hand. "And this is my best friend, Ben Gates." For once, the glimmer of recognition is barely perceptible. I nod, forcing a smile.
"Natasha Atherholt," she says with that same confused curiosity coloring her tone. After an awkward pause, she adds, "It's nearly ninety-five degrees outside today. Why are you wearing a hat?"
"Because I want to wear it," he replies, not missing a beat. His fingers twitch with what I assume is the urge to rub his scarred arm; it's exposed, but he never wants to draw attention to it. "Is that a problem?"
"Well," Natasha half-chuckles. "Hats aren't usually allowed in the building."
"Does that really matter if I'm not a student and if school's not even in session?" Amusingly enough, he employs a stare that would rival mine. I'm sure if I wasn't so numb that I'd at least crack a grin.
Realizing the battle is futile, she purses her lips and looks as if she's fighting not to roll her eyes. What a wonderful start we've got here. "OK, then. Let's go in and get Wesley registered."
"Wes," the boy corrects as he hops off his chair. I let him go in front of me before I rise, and Natasha gives me another funny look.
"I'm kind of his guardian, too," I explain, which doesn't seem to help at all. Her eyes narrow suspiciously.
"But it's not just us," Riley tries to explain as well. "There's this other guy—" This time, he's cut off by her very clear weirded-out expression.
"Whatever," she sighs, and we follow her into the room where she sits behind her desk. "So. Wes is how old?"
"I'm eight," he pipes up.
"His old school wasn't really…" Riley says. "It just wasn't challenging him at all, and there wasn't much we could do to help him there."
"Well," she says as she flips through a stack of paperwork. "He seems to have scored exceptionally well on these placement tests." Her eyes rise from the desk. "He could easily fit in with the fifth grade."
Their conversation floats in and out as my focus drifts from one overly-colorful poster to another, looking for something more exciting to keep me occupied. Occasionally I stay on one thing for more than a moment, and it's usually to casually think up some sort of criticism. If there's a child that despises math, is a green plus sign with a face going to change anything? Can anything change anything?
"Just what are you insinuating?" Riley says shortly, forcing me mentally back into the classroom; with a look a the clock, I notice the minute hand has traveled to the opposite side of the face.
"When you're that young, there's a huge difference between eight and ten. It's biology, Mr. Poole. Wes simply may not be mature enough for such a huge leap." I can tell Natasha is biting her commentary back, and I absently wonder what I missed in that half hour that put them, albeit calmly, at each other's throats. "You know how the saying goes," she continues in a lower tone; I guess the urge was too great. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"Excuse me?" Riley mutters back to her, and even from my distance of a couple feet I can feel the flash of temper off his skin. "Do you want to say that one more time?"
"Let's just keep to the matter at hand, shall we?" she says, now completely mellow.
"Look who's talking."
"Riley…" I murmur as I place my hand on his near shoulder. Wes is starting to stare.
"So do you want your son in fifth grade or not, Mr. Poole?" A subtle twitch flickers across her eyebrow.
After a quick OK from Wes, he grumbles an affirmative and rises from his seat, myself following awkwardly. His hand yanks on one side of his cap as he tries to scratch his ear, an air of nervousness surrounding him. Wes bounces over and grabs his hand.
"Hold on…" Natasha sighs curiously; we halt and turn back around. There's definitely a visible frown on Riley's face. "Just how bad is a bad hair day to make you put this on in this heat?" Without warning, her slender fingers reach for the hat and Riley's free arm comes up to block her—right at her eye level in the one's that's marred.
"What happened to your arm?" she mouths in her evident shock, but all she's met with is a cold stare. She does take the opportunity to snatch off the hat. Her eyes grow slightly wider at the sight of the checkerboard of hues, yet I sense no decrease in her hostility.
"You finished?" he says curtly, grabbing it back. He leaves without another word.
"Classes begin the Monday before Labor Day," she tells me in a clipped tone.
"We heard."
Somehow I manage to get turned around in the hallways before I find Riley and Wes in the lobby. The boy is standing patiently while Riley stares at his shoes, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. Already back on his head is the hat.
"Riley?" I venture.
He finally looks up, and he's all frustration and confusion. "Why can't they just leave it alone?"
XXX
See? A whole chapter and nobody died. Like I said, chapter one is arguably the most intense.
On another completely unrelated side note, the DC metro does have its own special stop for the Archives. I got to run around like a pathetically obsessed fangirl there last spring after a visit to UMD. It was pathetic—"Justin Bartha rode this escalator!" (shakes head)
Anyway. Please review! I'll love you forever!
