Chapter 5 Shane
Shane
The last time I saw Ethan, the very last time, he was sitting on the washing machine downstairs beside the rec room in the Sawyer’s house.
The blue jeans he wore were ripped at the knees and unzipped, and the black-and-red Depeche Mode tee he’d found at a Goodwill was pulled up, revealing a patch of hair around his naval.
His chocolaty hair was a mess, and his gray, sad-puppy eyes were gazing at me with admiration, with desire, and with something else I’ve never wanted to fully acknowledge.
They’re not looking at me that way now.
They’re looking at me with the coldness and stiffness of steel, narrowed close to fury, watching me scramble to wipe the tears off my face, watching me adjust my coat, my gloves, my hair as if I need to look presentable for royalty or some shit.
It’s nerves. It’s the anxiety. It’s the fact that Ethan, this Ethan, the one in front of me right now, doesn’t match the one that I last saw. It’s my mind experiencing some kind of glitch as it seeks some familiarity.
The chocolaty hair isn’t chocolaty. It’s vanilla.
It’s a honey-blond vanilla, framing his angelic Grecian prince face.
And those gray eyes, aside from the anger I see within them, aren’t the same because they’re lined with black.
Around his neck is a chain, like a bike chain, with a silver and gold lock joining the two ends.
His hand reaches up to rub at light-brown stubble on his chin, and I notice there’s chipped black polish on his nails.
In fact, he’s dressed head to toe in black, and I get the sense it’s not because he’s still in mourning.
I get the sense this is how he is now. He’s exactly like how anyone from Port Leyden would imagine someone who’s been living in New York City would be—jaded. Cynical.
Dark.
And he’s still skinny, but it’s a different kind of skinny.
A bulkier kind of skinny that could just be the thick winter coat he’s got on, but still.
It surprises me. He isn’t much taller, though.
In fact, he’s still shorter than me by a couple of inches, short enough to where he has to look up at me a little.
And right now, that’s all he’s doing. Looking at me; his face a mask.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
A few minutes pass, and I expect him to ask me what the fuck I’m doing here. Make some kind of remark, some kind of exclamation, but he just stands there, staring, and it’s unnerving.
So, I speak first, and when I do, it’s pathetic, my voice hoarse and shaking. “What’s up, Ethan?”
One corner of his mouth twitches. He reaches into the pocket of his black coat and takes out a pair of black gloves.
“I, um,” I begin, nerves making my throat close and clog any words. “I don’t know, um, if you heard…or…”
He begins putting on one of the gloves and stops to stare at me again.
I take a breath. “I heard you—I heard about the…road trip, and I just, I wanted to—I just thought I’d—”
“Melody Henson called me,” he says flatly in a voice that’s definitely deeper and richer than I remember. He puts the gloves on. “Last night.”
“Oh.”
I’m surprised, but I’m not. She probably got really wasted after I left and started dialing people.
Ethan zips up his coat. It seems loud in here.
A loud ass zipper, and that’s something I notice.
How quiet it is in here. How this house used to be alive with noise, and it isn’t now.
Somewhere in the house, there is a tick-tock, tick-tock and I remember that old grandfather clock Ethan and Everett weren’t allowed to play around because it was so old.
I feel like all that’s missing is the Jeopardy! theme song.
“Ethan?” Rick reappears and Ethan turns to him. “Getting ready to go?”
“Will you tell Mom?” Ethan says.
Rick nods solemnly, and I start to wonder if Sheila is really taking a nap.
Rick looks over at me. “Look out for him, will you, Shane? Make sure he drives safe?” His voice cracks on those last couple of words.
He hugs Ethan, hugs me again, and Ethan gathers up his things—a bag I hadn't seen sitting at the bottom of the stairs and some keys, then he goes over to the mantle and gingerly takes the urn, cradling it in his arms.
We say our goodbyes to Rick again, and I’m in some kind of time warp, some kind of disbelief, a fun house spinning feeling thing, because I can’t believe it’s going to just happen like this.
I expected a fight. I expected to get chased off the property and get the cops called on me even, but this…
this seems too familiar. Too much like old times and it’s frightening me even more.
“I can follow you in my truck.” I say it to Ethan almost defensively, as if he’s been trying to start an argument.
He opens one of the Blazer’s doors. “It’s bad for the environment.”
“You…you want me to ride with you, then?”
His cold eyes shift over to me. “Get your shit and get in if you’re coming.
I’m not going to wait.” After shoving his bag into the back seat, I watch him carefully situate Ev’s urn in between some cushions and pillows and buckle it in like a person, making more adjustments until he’s sure it’s secure.
It makes my throat ache.
Then he gets into the driver’s side and starts the engine.
I’m too stunned to move, to take any sort of action, like go get my shit from my truck, until I see he wasn’t kidding as he backs out of the driveway, absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, as he turns and begins to drive off.
I snap out of it. “Wait!” I run over to my truck and grab my bag and quickly lock it with my keys. “Wait! Ethan!”
I have to sprint down the street after him, until he gets to the stop sign at the corner, and I yank open the passenger side door.
Ethan doesn’t say anything as I climb inside and sit there, breathing hard.
He just looks left, looks right, and drives on.
Port Leyden is behind us in a flash.
Then Boonville. Then Alder Creek. Then Remsen.
I’m having a hard time making my brain work, making my thoughts and senses catch up to what just happened and what’s happening now.
The urn, the photograph, then Ethan. I think it all might be too much.
Especially seeing the way Ethan looks now, his voice, his eyes, and in the daylight, the way Ethan’s now honey-blond hair has chocolaty brown roots coming through.
And I’m in a fucking car with him, going to scatter Everett’s ashes. None of this can possibly be real.
Ethan cracks his window an inch or so, letting in a blast of frigid air. He pulls a pack of Parliaments and a lighter from his coat pocket and lights one, exhaling through his nose.
This is new. He didn’t smoke before. Questions start to pile up in my mind, bottlenecking on their way to my mouth, questions about smoking, about life in New York City, about the eyeliner, his hair color, and why hasn’t he punched me in the face yet?
Instead, I mutely sit there for a time in the passenger seat as we pass a Dunkin Donuts and signs for Utica, listening to the whoosh of air through Ethan’s window as he smokes.
Then I hear myself mumble, “I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in rental cars.”
Ethan smokes the thing all the way to the filter. Then he stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray already half-full of Parliament butts. He shuts the window.
“When did you start smoking?” I ask.
Ethan stares straight ahead at the road.
“You gonna tell me how college is at least?” I try to make my voice sound light and easy, talk to him the way I used to. But it feels fake.
Ethan glances over at me, his expression unamused, then stares out of the windshield again.
I’ve got a few pictures of Ethan from the side in that envelope. There never seemed to be a bad side or a bad angle to him. I could photograph him all day, doing the most mundane shit ever. The camera loved him, honestly. I think I told him that.
And I think I really meant me.
I remember the disposable camera in my coat pocket just then. I take it out. I look out of the window. Disposable camera film really isn’t made for taking action shots, so I turn around in the seat and aim it at the urn buckled in behind me.
“What are you doing?” Ethan asks.
I take a picture and turn back around. I wind the film. “Can I take a picture of you?”
He briefly glances over at me. “Why?”
“I thought you might want some pictures of the trip. To remember or to show your parents.”
He doesn’t answer me. He presses a button on the radio and Radiohead blasts through the speakers, just loud enough to muffle anything else I might say.
I recognize the song. I had this album. I probably still do somewhere. I remember it was on the CD we were listening to one night I was in Ethan’s room. The night I started this whole thing, honestly.
I say with forced lightness in my voice, “You still like them, huh?”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute or so, calculating a curve in the snowy roadway. “I burned a CD with all of Ev’s favorite bands.” His eyes cut over to me for a second. “To play for him on the way.”
I feel like I’m withering in the seat. I put the disposable camera back in my pocket for now. This is going to be a long-ass drive if I don’t say what I need to say. Just get it over with. It just seems stupid to be together like this, and not bring up the obvious.
“So, um,” I begin, my voice cracking like I’m going through puberty again. “I know I kind of, well not kind of, I definitely just went dark on you five years ago.” I pause and chance a look at him, and he’s staring straight ahead at the road. “And I just thought maybe we could talk about it?”
I lurch forward a little as he applies the brakes. He turns the Blazer to the right onto a random street off from the state highway. He drives a few feet then pulls over, sets the parking brake, and turns to face me.
“The only reason,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “I’m letting you come along is because Everett would have wanted you to.”
I open my mouth to respond but he cuts me off.
“Because that’s what this trip is all about. Everett. Not you and me.” His eyes are like gray ice. “So, I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit. You don’t get to fucking sit here next to me and pretend you really give a fuck, when you didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“Ethan—”
“And after this, after I bring you back to Port Leyden, I don’t ever want to see you again.”
The last part is particularly vicious. And it hurts. It hurts like someone just spilled hot acid all over my insides. “Ethan, I—”
“I swear to God, if you bring up any of that shit with you and me, I’ll throw you out and you can walk back for all I care. You understand?”
I meekly nod.
He releases the parking brake and drives forward.
I stare out of the window, feeling shriveled up inside.
I expected him to be angry, but it still shocks me, nonetheless.
I mutter, perhaps foolishly, “I was at the funeral. I was late but I was there.” I feel emotion starting to fill my chest, but I keep my voice steady.
“I missed him.” I swallow and say so quietly that I’m sure he doesn’t hear me. “And I missed you too.”