Riding Invisible (10 page)

After that day, Mom never drives Will anywhere.

11 p.m.—in the trailer

So now I'm huddled in my trailer bed, and a few days have gone by since meeting the Impressive Miss Grass. Yesterday her chauffeur drove her someplace, and when they returned I watched him unload a zillion shopping bags from the trunk.

Tonight the wind is howling like a wounded creature, and Tavo gurgles these snoring gusts that are louder than the wind. The whistling and whining gets inside my brain and I can't sleep in this trembling metal box, and the clock on the counter clicks, reminding me that I've gotta get some rest.

Something just grabbed my attention, and it's the cell phone sitting above me. Home. My link to it. Fully charged, ready to use…should I? Should I call them? Tavo thinks my parents have it worse than I do. But if I talk to them, what will happen? Will I lose my resolve and break down and beg them to come and get me?

Twenty Minutes Later:

The Phone Call was made inside Shy's stall with Mom answering on the first ring while Shy bumped against me with his nose. How her voice sounded—so weak—and the way she waited, hoping that I would say something, and the silence made me want to cry.

“Yancy? Is it you?”

She asked the same thing over and over. I really tried but I couldn't answer, because my mind was overflowing.

Then Dad picked up our other line, his voice so overcharged, hoarse, like someone whose emotions were out of control. “Yancy? Son? Is it you?” And it was strange, so strange, but I lost the ability to talk.

Mom (tearfully): Where are you?

Dad: We miss you, son. Please come home.

Mom (sobbing): We love you so much.

Dad: Talk to us. Tell us where you are. Did Will do something else to make you run away? This isn't just about the tail thing. Am I right? You need to tell us, Yance. What did he do? Did he hurt your horse?

Mom (blowing her nose): Sweetie, are you safe? Please tell us where you are!

Voice in the background: Hey! Who's on the phone?

Dad ( hand covering the mouthpiece): Go to bed…it's late…and keep your voice down. It's your brother!

Will:
WHAAAAT?
Mr. Perfect finally called? It's about time!

Dad: I told you to go to bed. This doesn't concern you.

Will (shouting): Yance! Mr. Perfect! Can you hear me? How's your stupid horse?

I flipped the cell phone cover—
SNAP!
—and I remembered those terrible words Will hollered after he cut Shy: “Your fuckin' horse is gonna die!” It's exactly why I can't go back. Maybe he'll do it. That's how much I doubt my parents' ability to control my brother. That's how much I believe in his insanity.

2 p.m.—on a hill above the Triple R

JUST HAD TO GET THIS IN:

1:15 a.m.—in the barn

Tonight after thinking about My Real Home and My Worried Parents, I ended up doing it again. This time, when the phone rang at That Other Place, Mom answered. She talked about how I am not home where I belong and how she and Dad miss me and they're very worried for my safety. They want me back! They love me!

Then she explained that my brother just got arrested for shoplifting—what a jerk—took a sixpack of beer from the local 7-Eleven and resisted arrest so they hauled him away for a temporary visit at Juvie Hall. Which is perfect because now I am NOT missing home. Will is the universe at home. But why did Mom sound so shocked about the arrest? I am not shocked. The dude has a beer stash hidden in our garage. He keeps a mini–ice chest out there. When I ask him where he gets all those Coors or Bud Lights or whatever, he just laughs. Mom and Dad have never done a thorough garage search, and anyway, Will keeps a supply of After Beer Mints to help protect The Guilty.

Mom just told me how their support group (the group I call Parents of Completely Wacko Offspring) will meet tomorrow and that her friend is going to speak about a new treatment for conduct disorder. She and my dad are hopeful about this new treatment. And then she sighed.

After this beer arrest, Mom is certain that Will's gonna lose even more points toward the learner's permit. So I'm wondering, will he be lower than zero? Should they make a second chart with minus points? Negative numbers? If they do, then Will can keep going back and back, further and further, and he will be grounded with no form of transportation until maybe he's eighty years old. It's pretty pathetic to picture Will's first opportunity for successful operation of a motorized vehicle to be his electric wheelchair in the Center for Senior Citizens or something.

Then, with her voice all shaking and tearful sounding, my mother explained how Will's issues are not what has her upset. The most horrible thing in her life, the most horrible thing ever, is NOT Will. It's ME. Because I am MISSING. Her talented, wonderful boy, her genius son, her child of light, the kid who writes and paints so beautifully, is gone. Not home with his parents who love him. And then she started to sob, and at last my words came
OUT
.

“Mom! Don't cry. Listen to me. This is way beyond stealing beer, okay? Will said he's going to kill my horse.”

And for a minute Mom didn't say anything. All I could hear was the sound of her sniffling against the receiver.

“He said
WHAT?
” she asked.

“He threatened to kill Shy.”

“Oh, but honey, surely you don't believe he was serious!”

So I said good-bye in a hurry, and after I hung up, standing there with the cell phone in my palm, staring at it…angry…wondering how come they couldn't see the truth. It made me want to punch and kick the wall, and then my anger made me think about my aunt's Chihuahua, Burrito, his tiny body a crumpled heap all curled next to the wall, broken and helpless, his little paws twitching. With Will sobbing, calling it an accident.

Oh yeah, Mom. The truth is not a pretty thing.

Thirty minutes later:

I'm all stretched out on the narrow table-bed, writing this down because my thoughts are worth getting to while they're

FRESH

After I closed the journal and returned to the trailer, Tavo was awake and ready to listen.

“So my brother got picked up by the police.”

“Ay, what he do? He is in a fight?”

“No. This time he stole a six-pack and ran for it. And you know what? I think they should just keep him in custody because my mom sounds like she's gonna lose it.”

“Sure. She got full hands, no?”

“No. I mean, yeah. Yes. She's got her hands full.”

And then comes the:

B I G

T H I N G !

“Now let me tell you something, Yancy,” Tavo said, his voice deep and expressive. “Where I from in my village, we no have the choices the people have here, because if a child is born and this child is not okay he is gonna live with you for life. You understand this?
POR EJEMPLO, UNA SEÑORA EN MI PUEBLO
, her name is Violeta, and she have a retarded daughter. Now this daughter, she is
UN ADULTO
and this daughter is maybe forty years old. But Violeta change the diapers, feed her daughter, do everything for her. So when I send money to Mexico for my wife, some go to Violeta for buy food and things she need for this girl. Violeta have a job at her house, to sew flowers on beautiful cloths for the tables. But they no pay much for this work. So we help.”

I cleared my throat. “And when Violeta dies? What's gonna happen to her daughter?”

Tavo didn't answer, and the trailer got all cramped and stuffy, sort of like we were trapped inside a sealed casket, and pretty soon Tavo started snoring, so I pressed my face against the pillow for a while, and then I opened my journal.

For some reason I can't think about what's going to happen to Violeta's daughter, but I can think about what will happen to Will and my parents when he's older and if he'll be there following them to their graves, pushing them closer and closer. And I want to write about it, but I'm so sleepy, and my cheek wants to lean against the clean pillowcase and push against a river of things I don't want to know, and it's a flood of shit I can't deal with. Not tonight.

9:32 p.m.—in the barn, leaning against Shy's stall

It is freezing cold on the barn floor where I'm sitting, and my breath comes out like hot steam in the air, and my hands hurt so much I can barely write, but I have to, because I've done it again.

I called home.

So tonight Dad answered. “Hey, son,” he said with that special tone in his voice and, God, I wish he was here to hug me and tell me everything is going to be fine, but I held in my words and I held in my tears, too. Then Dad described how boring it is at home without me there, and I stayed silent, and then he tried to cheer me up, maybe hoping I would talk.

“I just invented a salsa recipe, and it's the hottest one so far. Listen to this. Fresh habanero chiles, lemon juice, salt, and garlic. Killer stuff!”

This info made the back of my throat itch. Then Dad explained how Will is back home. Already! The court gave him a break on account of how this was his first offense, etcetera, and they have an appointment in juvenile court the following week.

Then he said, “So listen. Mom told me that Will threatened to kill your horse. He had no right to say

something like that, son. Hopefully this is just a phase because he's never been this bad before. Maybe he'll shape up.”

SHAPE UP???? ARE YOU KIDDING????

Then Dad kind of sighed, and I remember the exact words he said next: “You must wish I'd get rid of him. Right, Yance?”

I was thinking,
HELL, YES! SEND THE GUY TO SIBERIA!

But Dad had other thoughts. “I can't quit, son. Maybe it's my stubborn streak. I have this hopeful side, and I can't seem to let it go. I'm doing my best, but I sure as heck don't want him hurting you or your horse, so I guess I'll just have to try harder. I want the poor kid to succeed. Is that so wrong? Maybe he'll become a productive adult and actually make it as a professional race car driver. I want him to have a chance.”

And I didn't say a word, but maybe some air came out hard from between my teeth, and it hit against the phone so Dad at least thought I was listening. But I'd stopped listening. I was thinking about Dad's dreams for Will, the fearless race car driver, and how I've got my own dreams. But I can't even enroll in school out here without a birth certificate and shot records and all that other shit they ask for. I'm a ranch hand in training. That's what I've got going for myself on the Triple R.

Maybe Dad read my mind from fifty miles away. “Wherever you are, Yance,” he said, “I hope you're okay. You've got so much going for you. Like your education. Your future. You're an incredibly talented kid.”

And then he talked about his culture for a while and how important it is for Latinos to Take Care of Their Own, and those words brought on thoughts of Violeta.

So much stuff is starting to make sense.

2 a.m.—the barn