“The trick is to make this a social obligation,” said Brad. He and Louie were sitting in Sip This, the local anti Starbucks establishment. “A far away, social obligation. A funeral.”
“Why not a wedding?” said Louie. “People go long distances for weddings, and they’re happy occasions. I don’t want to have to fake grief. You’re the actor.”
“People fly to weddings. I don’t want to fly. I want to drive, see the country. Road trip.”
“People fly to funerals too…”
“Not if the deceased died in a plane crash and his parents are intensely angry at the airlines.”
“This is way too complicated,” Louie said as he stared at the notebook on the table that had held the details for the trip. Plan A (just asking). Plan B (a new summer program for precollege seniors). Plan C (sneaking off). “Weddings are simple. Weddings happen all the time.’
“K, who are we going to say is getting married? If it’s one of our friends, my mom will say she has no business being married so young. Weddings have registries. They have notices. They have relatives you can call to check on. With a funeral, we just have to fake some letters, an obituary. My parents might send a card, but they’re not going to call.” Brad continued with mock indignation, “That would be rude.”
“Who is going to die?”
“Leroy Donovan.”
“Who is that?”
“Just made it up. He’s a dear friend of ours from summer camp.”
“I like it. Plan D for deception.”
“D for Donovan. Can’t wait to meet him. And kill him off.”
“And who is going to be the person in Florida, sending these letters and making these phone calls letting us know the sad news?”
“Kate’ll do it,” said Brad.
“This seems a little insensitive, concocting a plane crash and fake grieving family for our own ends.”
“Louie, I need to leave my house. I need to be on my own for just two weeks. If I don’t get this before we head off to college, I’m going to be completely crazy and I’m going to be one of those closet shut-ins all four years. And then I’m going to graduate and work for Sedill and hate my life. Besides, only fake people are getting hurt. And they’re tough. They can take it.”
“As long as only fake people get hurt… I’m in.”
They shook hands over the notebook.
And so it was planned, Louie and Brad would load up in the Gong family suburban assault vehicle (a 1997 Toyota 4Runner) and travel by the most efficient route two days down to Ocala, where they would grieve with the Donovan family and pay their respects to Leroy. They would stay overnight at a hotel, so as not to inconvenience the Donovans, and then travel back. 5 days.
Brad and Louie had their own plan for extending the trip to the required week. They’d stay an extra day with the Donovans and then oversleep on the second day of their trip back, requiring an extra night stay somewhere. Presto. 7 days. The notebook now held a list of the important details like a phone number for the Donovan household, which was really Kate’s boyfriend’s cell phone. He was armed with Brad’s home phone and both of his parents’ cell phone numbers. At the sight of any of these three numbers, he would answer the phone in a bereaved voice. He had even changed his voicemail for plan D, which impressed both Brad and Louie. “He must be whipped as hell,” said Louie. The notebook also had the address of the Donovans, really Kate’s home address, which Brad’s parents had never seen on any letters because she used a P.O. box. The notebook also held the route that the AAA agent had said was most scenic and the route that was most efficient. Finally, it had the list of supplies, which Louie’s mom insisted they get at Sam’s Club because it was cheaper to buy in bulk. The two talked about the plan while lifting 18 count boxes of oatmeal pies (marked for resale!) and enough caffeinated soda to wire them until November into the cart.
“The travel journal is overkill, Brad. Your parents aren’t going to nose around too much. Just tell them we’re driving a lot, at speed limit. ‘We covered 300 miles, Ma!’ and ‘Motel beds aren’t the same as home, Ma!’” said Louie.
“The journal is what’s going to save my butt. I can’t lie for crap. I keep expecting my parents to see through me every time they ask about Leroy. Ms. Hoffman always told me to keep a character bible when I was in creative writing. This is the Leroy Donovan character bible.”
“Well, fine. Just don’t think I’m going to the same lengths with my folks.”
“You don’t have to, Louie! Your parents let you do whatever you want. Drive to Tennessee? Gamble? Drink? You could murder a nun before they’d raise an eyebrow. But you still need to read the trip journal.”
“Why?”
“So that when your parents ask you about the trip, we’ll have the same details. Otherwise, my mom might be talking to yours one day over bridge and say, ‘So, wasn’t it sweet when the boys gave eulogies about Leroy?’ and your mom will say, ‘Louie didn’t give any eulogy!’”
They came around the next aisle slowly, their cart’s mobility severely hampered by the soda precariously set over the top. Every time they wanted to add something to their stockpiles, Brad had to lift one edge of the soda while Louie tossed the item underneath. The cart resembled a medieval siege weapon as they barreled it down the lanes.
Personal packing was easier. Brad counted out boxers, Monday, Tuesday, etc. And a spare pair. He counted T shirts the same way and placed both in his duffel. He also needed his suit (“Must remember to wear it one day, perhaps we can take Kate someplace nice for all her help,” he thought) and toiletries. Another pair of boxers, just in case. Books in varying weights physical and literary also went in, where they’d fit.
“Maybe we should bring the gun, Louie,” he said, jokingly.
The gun in question was a plastic replica Beretta from back in the good old 80’s when Rambo was a good role model and toy stores sold toy guns that besides a red plug in the barrel looked like guns, not plastic Chihuly sculptures. Brad had spent countless hours playing secret agent when friends came over the play and one of those hours always had to be spent fighting over who got to use the Beretta. It looked even better once they pulled out the red plastic plug, forgetting newspaper stories that popped up every year or two about a cop in a park accidentally shooting some kid brandishing an injection molded weapon of the imagination. The Beretta was never allowed out of the house for that reason, even in the yard, but that wasn’t a big problem. Playing secret agent in the yard meant dodging land mines that were all too real since the neighbor’s dog frequently slipped loose from its radio fence and came into the Gong’s yard to claim its territory. Brad’s mom didn’t mind them running through the house, chattering about invisible enemies, so long as they didn’t swear, take the Lord’s name in vain, or break anything. She didn’t hear the discussions of flanking maneuvers, and fiendishly complicated booby traps set using household implements and three types of tape (masking, Scotch, and duct).
Nowadays, the gun sat on Brad’s desk, waiting for quick draw practice in front of the mirror as a diversion from studying, or better yet, to be glimpsed onstage as a prop during Guys and Dolls.
Brad thought about getting pulled over.
“So, boys, what’s this here?” he said, in a Texan drawl (although they would be nowhere near that state, South was South). “Why it’s a-“ he drew the gun and pointed it at his reflection.
“Yeah, let’s leave the gun here, Brad.”
“Well, we could use it to make people think we’re armed. So we don’t get robbed.”
“I think any real criminal will know that this isn’t real. They’ll just laugh at us.”
“Maybe they won’t rob us because we’re so funny.”
“Right…”
Brad put the gun back on his desk. They put on their sad-about-Leroy faces before leaving the room.
The call came in the afternoon on the day before launch date.
“Brad?”
“Louie? What’s wrong?”
“Brad, it’s my grandmother. She’s… you’re not going to believe this, maybe we cocked up our karma or something.”
“No, she’s not-“
“Yeah. She died today. We just got the call from Glen Oaks.”
“I’m so sorry, Louie,” said Brad, his brain racing to think how this changed plans and hating himself for thinking about himself at the news. But how could he have known his mind would leap there? It’s like that don’t-think-of-a-white-elephant thing. Anyway, feeling bad over it wasn’t helping him at the current moment. “Are you OK?” he continued. Yeah, asking how Louie was doing was the right thing to do.
“Yeah. Better than my mom. Is it bad to feel OK? I mean, I’m sad that I’ll never see her again. I feel guilty for not going to see her more. I should be… numb, right? I think I’m numb.”
“What do you mean ‘is it bad to feel OK?’”
“Remember when Henry Hodgkiss’s grandmother died and he was crying in class for a week? Shouldn’t I be feeling that? I’m a terrible grandson if I don’t, right?”
“Louie, it’s not really up to you how you feel. You just feel how you do, you know? And if your grandmother knew you loved her before she died, that’s all that matters.” Brad got up from his chair, winding the phone cord out from under the desk leg before lying on the bed, the phone sandwiched by his head and the pillow.
“Anyway, the funeral’s on Saturday. You’re going to have to go alone to Florida.”
“Maybe we should call this off.”
“What? After all this? You can’t just tell your parents the truth. They’ll never believe anything you say again.”
“It wouldn’t be much fun alone.”
“Stop this talk. You’re going, Brad. Remember, you said you need this. Need.”
“That was when this was all a game.”
“It still is. It’s just a one-player game. Unless you get Tasha to go with you.” Brad could hear Louie leering at the thought. Then Louie remembered his grandmother.
“Hey, Brad, I have to go. Lots of family to call. You are leaving tomorrow. I better not hear otherwise.”
“Thanks, buddy. Take care of yourself.”
Brad flung the phone at its other piece, and then settled the headpiece in the cradle with his foot. He stared at the ceiling and the posters on his wall, the publicity posters from school plays. The front sides all looked remarkably similar, since Mr. Gilson had found a freshman with art talent and commissioned him for all the productions. On the backs, they were signed by fellow cast and crewmembers. Brad mounted the posters between two sheets of clear plastic, and hung them on nails so that he could alternately see either side. Today, they were all backs. He got up and read through the inscriptions and tried to make out the messages.
“Great job!” or “I’ll never forget you!” were the two main strains of messages. Brad looked at how things changed from the shows when he was a freshman, when he was desperately searching for approval from the older kids in the cast, to his most recent show posters with the messages from younger kids, carrying out the same sycophantic cycle. Brad had always felt like he wasn’t a cool enough role model for the new batch coming in. He just didn’t seem to live as big of a life. He didn’t play in a band. He didn’t throw extravagant cast parties with beer trucks and tents. He hadn’t been arrested.
But driving 2000 miles alone down the open road… that would enlarge his world view a bit. Too bad he had no freshmen to tell about it.