They slept over in a motel in Houston. From the outside, the place looked decent enough, but what they got was a little room with two beds, a TV that barely worked, and a shower that refused to offer up any hot water at all. When Trucker finished dressing and came out of the little bathroom, he pulled the towel from his head just in time to see Priestly scramble to toss the Holy Bible back in the bedside drawer. Just seconds before, his fingers had been tracing the cover idly.
"Nothing wrong with checking out the good word," Trucker said lightly.
Priestly rolled his eyes and snorted, rising from his bed as Trucker hoisted his duffle onto the one he'd slept in and looked around the room. He didn't offer up any further response, just checked out his Mohawk in the mirror and flashed a grin at himself. "Let's get this show on the road," he said, grabbing his backpack and turning toward the door.
Trucker caught sight of his t-shirt as he unlocked the door. You Don't Know Me, it read across the back. Federal Witness Protection Program. Trucker was starting to wonder about the kid, about his secretiveness. His anger. But mostly, he wondered about the tenderness he kept catching glimpses of. Like the way he'd fed and stroked and murmured lovingly to the emaciated dog he'd found wandering at the last gas station or the crumpled bills he'd gently tucked into the hand of a grizzled old man hunched on the pavement outside the same building. He always rushed to open a door for a lady or an elderly person, and any time a little kid looked at him in wonder–they couldn't help but stare at a bright green Mohawk–Priestly just grinned back instead of getting angry. Yet he tossed the Bible into the drawer so fast you'd think the book had burned his fingers. An enigma wrapped in a mystery, as the saying went.
Trucker glanced at Priestly as he shouldered the backpack he'd bought the night before at the thrift store next to their motel. "Do you want to drive?"
Priestly shook his head. "Still waking up," he yawned. "Okay if I get the late shift?"
"No problemo," Trucker agreed.
"Do you mind if we make a stop?" Trucker asked about an hour after they'd stopped for gas in Big Lake, Texas.
"Nope," Priestly agreed. He didn't tell Trucker he didn't have to ask permission to do whatever the hell he pleased with his own van because he knew it wouldn't stop the easy-going surfer from asking. Trucker insisted upon asking. Priestly figured if he actually said no to something Trucker wanted, he'd just accept it. But from Priestly's point of view, he had no say in the matter. He was just a refugee, after all. In his mind, Trucker could do whatever the hell he wanted because if Priestly hadn't been along for the ride, Trucker would be free to do just that.
A couple exits later, Trucker pulled off the I-10 just as a few fat raindrops began squeezing out from the sky. He was sick of the gloominess, but maybe if it just rained like crazy the clouds would finally part or blow away or something. Priestly was halfway starting to believe the sun didn't exist anymore, and it made him feel as bleak as the world around him.
Priestly wondered, not for the first time, what was happening in Latimer. Did they even care that he was gone? Holly probably did. She'd shyly thanked him over the picket fence that separated their front lawns that last Sunday night that he was in town. He'd just looked at his feet and nodded, feeling awkward. He was glad he'd helped her, but even though she obviously knew what he'd seen, he felt like some kind of peeping Tom catching that whole freak show. He'd watched her turn at the sound of her mother's voice behind her. He'd managed to catch her eyes again before she slowly backed away toward her front porch.
He thought again about his father. Strict and largely intolerant of anything Priestly wanted to do or try, Ezekiel headed up their family like he was still in the marines or something. His father had served for twelve years, catching the last three years of Vietnam, which he refused to talk about even when Priestly asked for help with homework. He'd ended his time in service in Beirut, which Priestly had read about in books also since his father wouldn't talk about that, either. Priestly knew from what he'd read that the marines barracks had been destroyed by a suicide bomber driving a truck full of TNT. His father was clearly lucky to have escaped with his life. He didn't need to be told that Ezekiel had probably lost a great many people he'd served beside and cared about.
According to his mother, Ezekiel was not a terribly religious man until he entered the service. Immediately after he was discharged and returned home, Ezekiel enrolled in a seminary college. Before graduating, he met Priestly's mother and married her. Just after earning his Master's degree, his mother announced she was pregnant. His father was older when Priestly was born. It was his mother's excuse for every 'no'. Your father tries hard, but he doesn't remember what it was like to be your age, honey. He just wants what's best for you. He loves you, he just doesn't know how to show it.
No matter how strict his father was, no matter how unreasonable and unyielding he could be, Priestly still couldn't fathom how it was that his father could think that he misinterpreted what he'd seen. So that just left one thing. Tolerance. His father letting Bennett's behavior slide like that…he couldn't understand it. He could live a hundred years, but he'd never forget the twisting feeling in his chest as he realized his father was just going to let it happen, that he wasn't going to crush Bennett with his iron fist. He was going to take the side of a freaking pervert over his own son.
You could tell yourself you didn't give a flying fuck about what people think of you, and when it came to most of the world that might actually be true. But Priestly knew two things after nineteen years under his father's roof: you looked up to you parents if they were any kind of decent people at all, and contrary to anything you might say out loud, you never stopped wanting your parents to be proud of you. These were the things that haunted him now…losing his hero, and losing that desire for his approval. There was no what if or maybe…his father had no reason to disbelieve what he'd been told about Bennett. Priestly had lied over the years, sure. But never about anything like that. And it wasn't like he was a continual, habitual liar. And sure, maybe he and his father battled over many things, from what he wanted to wear, where he wanted to work, who he wanted to hang out with, movies to see, music to hear, hobbies, his language, his attitude, and his plans for the future. But even with all the friction and the tension and, sometimes, the downright hatred, Priestly would never, ever have expected his father to go all "Good ol' Boy" on him. To take Bennett's word over his…he'd never understand it.
Priestly sighed heavily without thinking about it, drawing Trucker's eyes. He just shrugged and looked out the window at the rain as it picked up. Trucker turned down a street where the houses were small but situated on large lots so that there was plenty of space between neighbors. The homes looked older but well kept for the most part. Ducking his head and squinting, Trucker eased to a stop in front of a little pale yellow house with a hammock in the front yard between two huge trees. The canopies of the trees were so thick that the ground wasn't wet underneath them. If it stayed dry, Priestly thought it would be cool to swing there a while and read the book he'd picked up at one of their gas stops. One of those places where there's nothing else around for miles so they sell a little bit of everything under the sun just to survive.
A tall, lanky guy with a long grey ponytail poked his face out the screen door. Apparently liking what he saw, he burst the rest of the way out. "Trucker! Long time, no see, man!"
Trucker broke into a wide grin and the two men embraced like brothers. Priestly felt a twinge of jealousy. He'd never had a chance to make that kind of friendship. The two guys he felt closest to were a couple of his father's forced friends, church kids, and there'd always been that 'be careful or he'll rat on you to your Dad' thing just under the surface. But these two, it was obvious they'd go to hell and back for one another and that they'd keep one another's secrets.
"Well, Leo, if you'd get off your butt and make it out to California, we'd see each other more often." Trucker laughed with him. Leo looked over his shoulder at Priestly and grinned.
"You didn't go and have a kid and not tell me, did you? Or find out about a secret love child?" Leo asked, curiosity drawn obviously over his face.
"What?" Trucker smiled, turning. "No. No, this is a friend of mine. Priestly," Trucker reached an arm out and Priestly obligingly moved in closer. "this is Leo French. I call him my surfing Papa because he's the one who mostly taught me. Leo, Priestly." He gestured between them.
"Hey," Priestly said, offering his hand. Leo took it, pumping heartily.
"Let's go inside and hustle up some drinks," Leo said.
Leo's home was small but surprisingly neat. There wasn't much in the way of furnishings, but what he had was decent stuff. Surfing artwork and memorabilia scattered here and there kept it from looking like a motel room. Judging by the ancient box-style TV with its old "V" antenna and the old harvest gold phone hanging on the wall that led into the kitchen, though, the guy wasn't much for technology. When Leo pulled three Coronas out of the fridge and plopped one of them in his hand, Priestly just stared at it for a minute. Trucker slapped his shoulder and popped it open before opening his own. Leo seemed to realize his mistake.
"Sorry, Priestly. You want something else?"
Priestly lifted the bottle and took a pull. "Nope," he grinned. Trucker looked amused but just took a drink of his own.
The two men started talking about people and places that meant nothing to him, and Priestly felt intensely out of place. From his spot on the sofa, he looked out longingly at the hammock, which still seemed largely unaffected by the now pouring rain. When the men paused to drink, Priestly pointed to the door with his bottle.
"Leo, would you mind if I took a swing in your hammock?"
Leo blinked at him after glancing outside. "That's what it's there for," he said, nodding.
Priestly nodded at them and wandered outside. He got the book from his backpack quickly and then darted under the relative dryness of the trees. He'd never actually been in a hammock, but he'd seen enough cartoon slapstick to know you had to be careful how you got in or you'd end up on the ground. Priestly carefully eased in and stretched out. Awesome. It would be even better if it were just going on summer, not too humid or hot, but warm enough that he didn't need to wear the army field jacket he'd picked up in Houston after freezing for most of the drive. Priestly took another swig of the beer and tucked it between his legs. Then he found the folded corner that marked his place and let the real world fall away.
"So," Leo asked, glancing out at the kid with the wild hair. "What's the story on the kid?"
Trucker, too, glanced out and watched as Priestly absently scratched his forehead, then reached down for the bottle propped between his legs. He looked back at Leo's grey eyes. "Pulled him out of the Gulf a couple days ago. Put on a backpack loaded with rocks and took a header off the cliffs near Perdido Key." Priestly admitted as much when Trucker caught him buying the backpack.
"No kiddin'?" Leo's eyes went wide.
Trucker shook his head. "Other than that, I'm not sure. He won't talk much about it. I asked him about his hair and he said it was a 'fuck you to everyone back home'. And he's got some pretty serious bruises," Trucker gestured up and down his own chest and belly. "So I'm guessing he had enough abuse and said when. But that's all just a theory for now, 'cause he's not talking."
"Gonna teach him to surf?"
Trucker looked up at his friend. Leo knew exactly what surfing had done for him and naturally figured it could do the same for anyone. He smirked. "If he's interested."
"So, what, now…you're just hauling him to Santa Cruz from Florida? Ain't anyone worried about him?"
Trucker shrugged. "Don't know. But he's an adult, so I guess it's none of anyone's business but his."
"You gonna have him work in the grill?"
"Up to him," Trucker replied. "He seems to have a little money. He keeps topping off the gas in the van before I can beat him to it, and he's picked up a couple other things along the way. He could be a trust fund baby for all I know right now. We'll figure it out when we get to Santa Cruz, I guess. He can bunk with me for a while, if he needs to."
They gradually moved away from the topic of Priestly, the mystery kid, and exchanged surf stories and other tales. Trucker talked about the grill, and Leo talked about the various odd jobs he worked when he could. Trucker asked, as always, when he was going to come back to California.
"Well, Dad's hanging on, and so I'm hanging on until he goes to the Spirit in the Sky." Leo gestured toward the ceiling with a sad smile.
"You need anything?"
Leo grinned for real this time. "No, I'm good. Quit worrying, Truck. You're as bad as Goram and Butch." Leo wasn't destitute by any means, but spending three years in Texas looking after his father's interests had started to put a mild strain on his own.
Leo rose. "Want another beer?"
Trucker looked up. "Better not. I don't know if the kid can handle his liquor, so I guess I'm driving."
"You don't have to take off right now, do you?"
Trucker craned his head to check the old schoolroom clock on Leo's kitchen wall and sighed. "Actually, I do. I stayed an extra night in Florida wondering what to do about the kid. There's no one to open the grill if I'm not back by Tuesday."
Leo shook his head. "Can't say I'm not bummed to see you go so soon, brother, but you had to do what you had to do."
Trucker clapped Leo on the back, followed him to the kitchen, and dropped his empty beer bottle in the blue recycle bin he knew Leo had added to the household. It was his father's place, and Leo'd been slowly donating, discarding, and generally sorting out 85 years worth of…life. Trucker thought of his own parents, both dead for many years now, and felt for his friend. He'd been down the same road twice before, and he'd meant it when he'd asked if he needed anything. "I'll try to make it back out this way again soon if you can't make it to Santa Cruz," he promised.
Leo nodded and followed him out the front door.
Trucker looked over at the hammock. Priestly was asleep, the book on his chest, one hand holding it down as the hammock swayed in the breeze. He shook his head. "Did we sleep all the time when we were kids?" He asked Leo, still uncertain about whether or not to be worried. Then again, they'd left the hotel at just after five in the morning. That could certainly account for his napping.
"Hell, yeah. Sleeping, sex, slop and surfing. The four necessities of life!"
Trucker gave Priestly a gentle push with his sneaker and the hammock swung widely. The green Mohawk tipped up and Priestly blinked at him, yawning. "Time to go," he said, offering a hand.
Priestly swung his feet to the ground and caught the book as it slid down his chest. "What time is it?"
"Almost four," Trucker answered. "We need to make it to Tucson before we can stop. That puts us around midnight."
Priestly winced. "Okay."
