CHIP
“You’ll get used to it, eventually,” Hawk says and points at his smile. “That clown face will go away.”
“The one in the wheelchair?”
“Yeah.”
“She speaks French and Spanish. Paige was salivating. Customers could come from all over and Bridget could translate.”
Chip feels dumb for describing her only by the wheelchair.
He could have said the one with the brown hair, the one with the big earrings and nice smile.
Before it’s all over, who knows, he could end up in a wheelchair too, and would he want someone to only see that and not his eyes, not his hands and hair and voice?
He feels extra down. Maybe it’s the pot.
“I took four years of Spanish and could barely understand a sentence.”
“?A dónde vamos a ir a comer?” Hawk grins.
“Holy cow,” Chip says.
Hawk smiles. “I had a nanny from Costa Rica.” He scratches his eyebrow. “My parents were big on being worldly.” He rolls his eyes.
“You still see them?”
“Sometimes.” He has that look of a trapped animal, and Chip knows better than to test him.
He takes a breath. “We just end up fighting most of the time.” He looks out toward the lodge, and Chip sees Nancy with a group of couples following her, clipboard in hand.
Probably the scavenger hunt. Every Wednesday and Saturday.
“They think I’m just coasting by working here.
My mom said it’s time to get serious; my dad keeps giving me guys’ names telling me to go play a game of golf with them or whatever.
The last time I saw them, I said I hate golf. ”
“I never played, but it seems kind of boring.”
Hawk looks at him. “You know, that can be a non-regret of yours. That you never played golf. Think of it as a badge of honor.”
Chip looks at his hands, and he imagines swinging a golf club, imagines being stuck with a group of men on a course all day, their breaths smelling like bourbon. Yes, he can die never having played golf. He starts giggling. “One less thing on the old list.”
Hawk laughs for a second. “Sorry, man. That was stupid of me.”
“Right now, I ain’t feeling much, so let the insults fly.” He imagines a countdown clock on his head, and there are just a handful of weeks or months left on it. He can’t help it, but he’s laughing again. “Shit, this stuff is pretty good.”
Hawk squeezes his shoulder. “I’m going to miss you, you stupid fucker.” Chip sees he has tears in his eyes. He wipes them away angrily.
Chip shrugs. “Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep.” He laughs again.
Hawk turns to the side. “What was that?”
“A poem. My grandmother taped it to our refrigerator when our first dog died when we were little.” He can’t help it, but he’s hysterical now. He can’t stop laughing.
“You’re demented.” Hawk is laughing too, and crying. “That’s sick.” He rubs his eyes. “What kind of dog?”
Chip keeps watching his fingers. “I don’t know, a mutt. We’ve only ever had mutts.”
Chip imagines the poem clipped out and stuck to the refrigerator.
He bites his thumbnail. “I think I kind of believe it.” Nancy in the distance is so animated, and her hair swings as she trots after the guests heading for the recreation building.
He thinks of Vicky and the brass deer. And her words in the car, and how he held her hand, and they both cried. And then they kissed.
“Believe that there’s an afterlife and all that?” Hawk’s eyes are wide.
“Not the way they teach it in church, heaven or whatever. But something. Some kind of continuing on. Maybe more like reincarnation?” Chip smooths his eyebrows. “Don’t you?”
“Maybe.” Hawk’s expression is far away now, and Chip can tell he’s had enough of this topic. He stretches. “Well, better get back to work.” Hawk pops a piece of gum in his mouth, then offers the pack to Chip. “Hope Paige doesn’t smell it on us.”
Chip stands, and they start to walk back together. “What’s she going to do, kill me?” he says, and starts laughing again, Hawk shaking his head.
That night, he tries to write Vicky a letter.
Phil is studying for an exam for a summer class he’s taking at Harding Business School.
He lies on his top bunk, groaning and sighing as he mouths concepts to himself, and Chip sits at the small desk and tries to think of the right words.
Is this what college would have been like?
He crosses stuff out, but finally, some sentences seem to find their way.
Dear Vicky,
I love you. That’s a given. Remember geometry? That was the only thing I could ever do, the first step in a proof. But I don’t think you should take me to these appointments anymore. I think it’s better if I just ask Phil, who will believe my diabetes is acting up, ha-ha. But seriously…
He looks down. He doesn’t know what else to say. But seriously, what? Seriously, they shouldn’t go any further? Seriously, she should focus on being eighteen and healthy with a bright future ahead of her?
But her eyes.
Ever since that day in the car, he can’t think of anything else. “What’s wrong?” Nancy said last night when they were kissing, and he felt so removed. He likes her a lot, how their bodies fit together, how she pulls him to her fully and isn’t too careful with him. Her voice. Everything.
But Vicky. Forever Vicky. That look on her face. The way she waits during his appointments. He can’t be with Nancy now. Vicky has blocked something in him.
Do you know how much I love you, Chip?
Yes. I do. I do. And I love you that much, too.
He picks up his pen and finishes the letter, but after he sits back and looks at it, he decides to toss it in the trash.