The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [115]
Oh shit. Mom, I’m so sorry.
When he was nine or ten, one of the neighbors called his mother and accused Wayne of breaking her garage window while playing street hockey. Wayne was guilty, the perpetrator of an errant slapshot that rocketed high and to the right, but he denied it. His mother didn’t believe in his innocence, but she defended him at the cost of a mostly cordial relationship with the woman. She defended his lie, and that was the last time he ever lied to her. He wanted to call her now to explain, his silence being something of a lie itself, but whatever brief conversation he could risk would only confuse her. He’d call her when it was over. He’d say it then.
“Can I see that front section when you’re done?” Will asked.
“Yeah,” Wayne said. His mouth was dry again. “Is there a bathroom near here? I mean besides the Porta-Potty I used last night.”
“The store’s got a bathroom if you want to clean up,” Will said.
Wayne drained his cup of coffee and shoved the rest of a doughnut in his mouth and tucked the paper under his arm. How many people on the campground had read this newspaper? How many of those people would recognize him?
He walked around the bend, down the road, and into the store, which was nearly empty. He smiled at the woman behind the counter, who watched him with suspicion, or maybe even disdain for his shabby appearance, but then ignored him. In the bathroom, he rubbed cold water on his face and arms, then watched the gray mixture disappear down the drain. After just a few days, his beard was thick enough that it disguised his features pretty well. It would be difficult for a stranger to connect him with the photo that appeared in the paper. He assumed it had been on television, too. The problem was his shirt and hat, both advertising the Colossus. He removed the cap. His hair underneath was an unfamiliar matted nest. He looked even more disheveled, and even less like himself. Wayne stuffed the hat and the newspaper in the garbage.
Leaving the way he’d come, Wayne noticed that the woman behind the counter barely gave him a glance this time. As he walked toward the door, she ducked behind the counter and Wayne heard her rummaging in a box. He was tempted to lift a sweatshirt off the table, a XXXL with the campground logo, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain to Cynthia and Will how he’d paid for it, and when he walked outside, he was glad he hadn’t taken it. He wouldn’t let them turn him into a thief just by accusing him of being something worse.
Back at the picnic table, Cynthia and Will were cleaning up. “Where’s the paper?” Will asked.
“Oh shit,” Wayne said. “I left it in the can. I can go back and get it.”
“I don’t want a paper that’s been sitting in a public toilet, but thanks.” Will smiled. “It’s weird being unconnected. I haven’t even checked my e-mail in a week.” The tent was rolled up and packed away in a green canvas bag, which Wayne helped Will lift into the back of the car. “Cynthia said you had a nice phone. You get the Internet on that?”
“Yeah,” Wayne said without thinking.
“Any chance I could look at it later? I got a phone, but it’s not that fancy.”
“I’m really trying to save the battery.”
Will nodded. “Yeah, I understand.” He looked a little peeved. Wayne knew he must be pushing limits with his freeloading.
“How about I drive awhile?” Wayne said.
Wayne took the wheel, pinning the needle right at the posted seventy-five miles per hour and keeping the radio on FM rock stations and away from AM news. He squinted into the sun and patiently let traffic pass him. Three times he spotted patrol cars, but they showed no interest in the Subaru.
About a half hour after they’d crossed the Nebraska border, they switched drivers again. “Do you mind if Will sits up front with me?” Cynthia asked. “I like him to keep me alert while I’m driving. No offense, but you’re not much of a talker. I know you’re still tired.”
There wasn’t much legroom, so Wayne tried to fold himself across the bench seat and finally maneuvered himself