Chapter 13 #2
God, and when his mind finally settles on an image, it’s Will at seven , with both of his front teeth missing, in that brief but formative period where he’d whistled on nearly every word.
It wasn’t even for some interesting and fun reason, both of them going at once—it would have been different if he got in a fight, or hit in the face with a baseball bat.
But he’d just bitten into an apple, like he’d done a hundred times before, and both of them had simply come away with it, as though having made a pact to quit together, when the moment was right.
For the first time, it occurs to Will to wonder whether he, himself, today, can think of a circumstance in which he’d scream at a child of this age.
Not just his own child, to whom one would think he’d have a particular attachment—at any child of this age.
At, quite frankly, any of the children he has found himself imagining in this long, anguished moment, rooted to the spot as though turning into another of the orchard’s many trees, exchanging muscle and sinew for fiber and pulp.
He wouldn’t, is what he concludes, a little startled by it.
He would not yell at any of those children, not in any circumstances, not unless their lives depended on him doing so.
Even then, he’d probably try to find another way.
They were just children —they couldn’t be expected to process that kind of aggression, to not take it personally.
It wouldn’t be fair , to treat them they like they were adults just because it would be easier if they were, or because he, himself, didn’t have the emotional intelligence to do any better…
“Will, hey.” Casey’s voice is low, warm with a concern so alien to the world of Will’s childhood that it wrenches him back to the present with the immediacy of a rip cord, the parachute of Casey’s attention billowing out to catch him before he can land too firmly in the past. “Are you okay? Sorry to say it, but you seem like maybe you’re freaking out a little.
” Tightly, Will nods, not trusting himself to speak without hyperventilating, sobbing, or otherwise exhibiting humiliating symptoms of a panic attack.
But Casey just says, “I thought so. Take a few deep breaths with me, okay? I’m a deep breathing expert, believe it or not.
I’ve been told I don’t look the type, but I went through an extensive meditation phase, and I still keep up a pretty consistent practice… ”
Casey keeps talking for several minutes, calm and relaxed, about breathwork and clearing one’s mind, not seeming bothered at all by the fact that Will’s deep breaths are occasionally verging on gasps.
Though his heart is still hammering with adrenaline, Will realizes as he starts to come back to himself that Casey’s arm, which was reaching for his water bottle the last time Will clocked it, has wrapped itself around Will’s shoulders at some point in the proceedings.
It’s a sign of how deeply he’d fallen away from himself that it didn’t register immediately—even scrabbling like this, still half-panicked and trying desperately to let it go, now that he’s noticed Casey’s arm around him, he cannot shake a white-hot awareness of every place they’re touching.
“I…” Will says eventually, feeling slightly queasy. He swallows; his mouth is dry. “Sorry, I—she—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—lose my grip. Sorry .”
“It’s really okay,” Casey says, soft. Then, his voice taking on a slightly rumbling quality, he adds, “Does she always talk to you like that?”
“Oh,” Will says, waving a hand and trying to smile.
He gets the sense he doesn’t quite pull it off.
“Not…exactly. Most of the time there’s just kind of the implication that she might?
This is the first time she’s actually, uh.
Yelled at me.” Will swallows, and, guiltily, adds, “That I know of, anyway. I kinda stopped listening to the voicemails a few days ago, because they started getting really intense, so. Maybe she’s been screaming for days.
” He shakes his head, abruptly annoyed with himself, and straightens up.
“And anyway it doesn’t matter , it’s not about her, it was just—unfortunate timing, that’s all.
It’s just that being screamed at, like that, in this house…
” He shudders in spite of the warmth that seems to radiate from Casey, as though caught up in that golden hair is a little piece of the sun itself. “It…brings stuff up, that’s all.”
“Hmm,” Casey says. Regrettably, he steps away from Will, flips off the still-lit stove burners under the now lightly smoking breakfast Will entirely forgot he was cooking, and leans up against the nearest counter, bracing his weight on his palms. He seems to be thinking about something; Will, still trying to get a handle on the mechanics of normal breathing, leaves him to it.
Finally, Casey says, “God help me, there just isn’t any other way around it.”
Will stares at him, confused. “Around what?”
“You gotta tell me about what happened with you and Bill,” Casey says, and then sighs.
“And I gotta tell you what happened with me and Bill. We can’t just keep avoiding it like it’s not going to come up—that never works out, not for anyone.
” He makes a face when Will immediately grimaces.
“Oh, I know , don’t give me that look! You think I want to talk about it?
I’ve been avoiding it for a reason , the whole thing is so awkward, I’d rather chase Betsy Lundgren’s stupid pigs around again, but.
” He gestures at Will, and then at himself.
“It’s obviously bothering you, and I know it’s bothering me.
When I thought you were just going to leave and that was going to be it, that was one thing.
But after last night—well. I don’t know how you like to navigate this sort of situation, but me personally?
I’m not one for tiptoeing around issues until they blow up in my face.
Only smart move is to barrel right at it, headfirst. Get it over with so we can get on with things. ”
In spite of some lingering anxiety, Will can’t help the little smile that steals over his face at this assessment, since it’s such a clear summary of Casey’s whole personality.
Will, himself, has never once thought the smart move in basically any situation was to barrel right at it headfirst but: “Yeah, God. Okay, you’re probably right.
” He takes a breath, trying to steady himself, which becomes a huge, cracking yawn.
Then, hating how faintly it comes out, he says, “Sorry, can we… I heard you, right, good logic, we’re agreed, but…
um. It’s early? And I burned breakfast? So.
Maybe I could get some coffee first? And food…
of some kind. Just because, I mean, I want to talk about it, but I’m kind of…
” God help him, the edge of all that buried emotion is tugging at some rarely touched vocal cord, and Will winces when Casey’s expression softens at the sound.
“I’m fine , just, not super awake, is all. Okay? Is that okay?”
There’s a beat, and then, softly, Casey says, “Sure, that’s okay. Tell you what—we’ll both go. Cardini’s? I’ll drive if you go in.”
“God, yes,” Will says eagerly, wanting to cement this path before it’s lost to him.
It’s too eager, maybe, because it makes Casey laugh, but Will doesn’t care—fifteen minutes later, he’s sitting in the front seat of Casey’s pickup, his window halfway down to let the cool autumn air rush over him, music playing gently over the radio.
After a minute or two, Casey says, “Oh, that’s funny,” and turns the volume up, starts singing along.
It’s one Will doesn’t know, but it seems to be about a man called Casey Jones who is driving a train in some unfortunate drug-related circumstances and needs to make some hasty choices.
It’s catchy, and Casey himself—the real one, that is, not the one from the song—has a nice voice, a rich, uncomplicated baritone that he doesn’t seem to think about too much.
Will feels himself relax by increments as he sings along, although the words themselves don’t tell a particularly happy story.
When it ends, Casey huffs out half a laugh, shakes his head, and says, “I was named after that song, you know. My middle name is Jones and everything.”
In spite of himself, Will’s mouth drops open very slightly. “You’re kidding.”
Pulling up to a stoplight, Casey slants him half a smile. “What?” he says, making his eyes wide and innocent. “Do you not think that every child should aspire to driving a train while high on cocaine? That’s very limiting of you.”
Will snorts out half a laugh, and then, before he can stop himself, says, “Honestly, the things I aspired to as a child are nearly that grim, so. When I was eight, it was the great dream of my life to replace all the busted-out fences on this farm—driving a train, even blitzed out of my mind, would have been reaching for the stars.” It’s too honest, the sort of thing Will wouldn’t say to anyone but Selma, and he has to bite his cheek to keep from wincing when he finishes spitting it out.