SCOOTER’S STORY by Jeff P. Jones
The second time Ryland hears the story, he makes sure that Holly, his twin sister, is along. At a similar meeting last year, he met the man, who said, “Even though my real name’s Everett, everyone calls me Scooter.” Unprovoked, Scooter had begun telling a story, and Ryland listened, at first with the polite attention expected of a thirteen-year-old at a church dinner in east Texas, but then with real interest when the story turned out to be about Scooter’s recent kidnapping and near-execution.
Ever since, Ryland often retold Scooter’s story to himself, imagining the stroll through the parking lot, the man smoking a cigarette who called out, then the gun and the long drive out to the woods. The story disturbed but invigorated Ryland. He came to love everything about it – the way it started with a surprise, the way the fear for Scooter increased throughout, and the way he finally escaped through luck and determination. After several retellings, though, it stopped delivering the same thrill. So he tried recalling Scooter’s precise descriptions, the exact details. That helped for a time, but, really, there were so few specifics that they grew tiresome with repetition. Eventually, Ryland experimented with a significant change, replacing Scooter with himself in the story.
This worked.
New details immediately came to mind – the stale whiff of cigarette smoke on the kidnapper’s breath, the cold stab of the gun barrel against his temple, the row of highway headlights sparkling through the woods. Embellishing Scooter’s story has become like a hobby, and it’s kept him busy the past year. He’s never been one of the popular kids or someone who seeks out friends all the time. Plus, since the day that he and Holly got into a fight over who had to move into the basement bedroom when it was finished, they haven’t talked much.
If there’s one thing that makes Ryland feel odd or a little guilty, it’s his fierce attachment to Scooter’s story. He’s never told it to anyone even though he thinks about it every day. He doesn’t know whether his fascination stems from something unique in himself or whether the story casts its spell on anyone who hears it. He wants to see whether Scooter’s story will have the same effect on Holly as it did on him.
All week he’s been anxious, anticipating tonight. This is their church association’s annual barbeque dinner, and everyone’s crowded into the basement dining room, a large space with shiny white walls, long tables, and folding metal chairs. The ceiling windows admit shafts of late afternoon light that slide across the room, glistening on the Jell-O salad, a bit of cellophane, a lady’s snap-on pearl earring. The migrating light excites something in Ryland, reminds him that summer has passed and ninth grade starts the next day; tomorrow, he and Holly will be high schoolers.
About half of those in the room are still eating, hunkered over plates brimming with brisket, potato salad, and pecan pie. Others stand in clusters, chatting. The pastor, with his round belly and meaty forearms, anchors a crowded table, and there are old men, suit jackets riding loose on their wiry frames, and old women with blouses buttoned under their chins. Across the room, a man opens one of the windows with a hook, and the outside air spills into the room like the scent of fresh Bible leaves, mixing with the tang of barbeque sauce. Ryland rushes Holly through dinner and tugs her over to where Scooter is standing beside a group of people. Even though she feigns irritation, he can tell that she sees little point in putting up a fight when he insists.
“This is my sister, Holly,” Ryland says to Scooter. “She hasn’t heard your story about being kidnapped.”
“Well, hello, young fellow,” Scooter says. His ears are almost as big as Ryland’s hands, and his face is wider, seems to harbor a stunned expression. He’s still known within the church association as one of his high school’s best football players – the source of his nickname. Funny how even football players age into old men, with hands as slick as wax paper and wrinkle-etched faces. Scooter’s gaze is dimmer, his eyeglass lenses cloaked with skin flakes. “There’s a reason I’m still here, I guess. I must still have a purpose.”
The twins lean forward. His voice flows unpredictably, and Ryland recalls its rhythm, like water against sharp-edged rocks, rising and breaking at odd moments, but the old man’s concentration seems blurred. Whenever one of them breaks in, Scooter flinches and has to refocus, as if surprised to have live listeners.
“I’m a veteran, you know,” Scooter says. “I tell people that now.” Ryland hardly sees how this is relevant but says nothing, waiting for the story to kick in. Each time he’s thought of telling Holly about Scooter’s story, he’s grown afraid she’d just laugh. It’s hard being a twin; people always assume that you’re closer to each other than you really are. They do share some things still, like mostly good grades, both playing in the band, and a dislike of church get-togethers, but Holly reads gossip magazines and wants to be a cheerleader, while Ryland collects coins and builds hideouts in the woods near their house. She’s the perfect test case for Scooter’s story, because they have such different personalities yet are of the same age and genetic makeup. Plus – he’ll be able to read her reactions like a book.
“Do you know,” Scooter says, “that when we dropped the bomb, Russia was about to declare war on the Japs?”
Ryland’s so eager to encourage Scooter that he almost says, Yes, but instead stops himself and shakes his head.
“If Stalin would’ve done so even a week earlier, we never would’ve needed to do it. They don’t tell kids that sort of thing.”
Holly glances at Ryland, who shrugs. The old man is probably just getting warmed up, testing his audience.
“Then there’s the story of the boy who didn’t want to eat his spinach,” Scooter says. “You know what he said when his parents tried to get him to eat it? He said, No, I don’t want to try it, because if I try it I might like it, and I tell you I hate the green stuff.” Scooter grins, waiting for their reactions.
“She was hoping to hear the story about your kidnapping,” Ryland says from where he’s hovering to the side.
The old man blinks his blurry eyes and respires, memories seeming to tumble like lottery balls inside his skull. “I made a vow to God in those woods. That’s what I do now.” Scooter lists to the side and draws a silver case from a pocket. He pries it open, revealing a stack of preprinted cards.
Ryland’s fingers go numb. Last year, only toward the end of the story, as Scooter told of seeing the highway “like a necklace of light through the trees” – that was the exact phrase he used – at just the perfect moment, he produced from somewhere a single one of these cards. He reached over, unsnapped the breast pocket on Ryland’s jean jacket and slid the card into it. “As part of my vow, I give these cards to anyone I can,” he had said. “Keep that with you, son.” On the card, Jesus stared out, unmistakable for his kind brown eyes and dark beard. Leathery face, full straight nose, sun-dappled hair. When faced with a decision, the card read, look into His eyes and ask, What would he do? At the time, Ryland was so moved that he made his own vow: always to carry a pocketknife.
He traces his knife’s body through the corduroy over his front pants pocket. When he can’t sleep, he takes it out and examines the pearl and turquoise handle, the brass fittings. His father gave it to him for his twelfth birthday. In his room, he’ll spit on a wet stone and sharpen it by running the blade in small round circles. Sometimes he carves his fingernails, marveling at how unpredictable the turns of life can be, how survival itself can depend on something minor, like whether you remembered to slip the knife into your pocket that morning. That’s one reason he loves Scooter’s story: it shows the danger of the world but, more important, how to prepare for that danger. Holly could learn about that, too, if she heard the story right.
But Scooter isn’t getting to it. His words are a rat’s nest of fragmented thoughts, empty sayings, unlinked memories. He must be tired of having to relive the experience. If he hands out even half the cards in his stack, he’ll never have time to tell the story itself. His gaze has begun to roam the room like a ping-pong ball: he’s probably seeking others who, bellies full, will listen to him tell a couple jokes and prattle about some vow then accept a card but not push him for the real story. It’s all wrong, Scooter’s resistance, the excess cards, the wandering gaze. Something must be done.
A year ago, fear leftover from the ordeal shone like a fever gleam in Scooter’s eyes. Stripes of red skin rashed his cheeks where the tape had been. It was as if Scooter was working out the story’s meaning even as he told it. Now the old man’s face sags and his gaze darts.
“I write letters to prisoners,” he says. “About forgiveness. They’re desperate, some of them. They really read when they’re locked up, you see.”
“But where were you when it happened?” Holly asks.
Scooter blinks, considers her and her question. “Over at the Wal-Mart in Henderson,” he says. His fingers skim the edges of the cards, as if he might peel a couple off and be done with things. They’re going to have to pull it out of him. “I came out of the store, and in the parking lot, I passed a man who was leaning against a pickup. He asked if I could help him and his wife. Our truck’s broke down, he said. We need a ride to Carthage. I said, Well, okay, I’ll carry you. As soon as they got in, he reached over and put a gun to my head. Do what I say or I’ll shoot you, he said.”
Holly’s lips pucker. At least she’s hearing the proper opening. Even if Scooter’s paper-bag of a face betrays a lack of feeling, he’s a living example of a man who had a gun pulled on him.
“Wow,” Holly says.
“We went around to three or four different ATMs. Then he told me to drive south toward Nacogdoches. Had me turn onto an oil road that led back into the woods, and that’s when I thought, Well, I’m going to die. And I made my peace with God. You see, I talk about that in my letters.”
Good God, has Scooter all but given up? Holly’s chewing her bottom lip, and the old man drones on, a vehicle on a desolate road headed nowhere, its motor buzzing with insignificance. She has no idea what she’s missing. Ryland imagines endless nights after this, lying in his bedroom, breathing the carpet glue that still poisons the air in there. He has trouble sleeping downstairs, always glancing at the mirrored closet door for shadows. The only worthwhile feature is the chest-high window that looks through iris blades into the backyard and across Eleventh Avenue to the Quik Stop.
He and Holly used to have a signal: two tongue clucks would be answered in kind if the other was awake. Nights in his new room he lies waiting for the next portal of headlights to scroll across his walls. Sometimes he slides open the window and presses his face against the screen, inhaling the fresh air spiced with metallic dust. He watches cars come and go at the store, and when it grows late and business slows, he crawls back into bed, listens to the house creak, and replays Scooter’s story in his head.
“Was that when he duct-taped you?” Ryland asks. “In the car on the oil road?”
Scooter’s jaw slackens, goes into palsy. “Yes, told me to pull off the road.” He pauses, seems to consider veering onto a detour.
Ryland must act fast. A tide of sweat breaks through at his collar. He leans in, hears the wheeze of the old man’s breath expanding in his old-man lungs, senses the deep ache of his own breathing. They’ve become linked through this story, Ryland and Scooter, but the old man has lost the way somewhere. Ryland can help him, even if it’s painful for both of them. He drops his shoulder and bumps Scooter in the side, behind his arm so Holly can’t see. It’s surprisingly meaty there. Scooter shrinks, and his watery eyes skitter toward Ryland, finally flash with something like real feeling.
“Then what happened,” Ryland says.
“He cut a strip of tape for my mouth,” Scooter says through clenched teeth. He glances at Holly, who looks at him eagerly. “I knew I had time left to say only one thing, so I asked him a question. I said, Would you like someone to pray over you? He thought for a minute and said, Someone needs to. Then he taped my mouth shut and my hands like this.”
Scooter flattens his palms together, prayer-like, and Holly’s lips crinkle. She clenches her fists against the thighs of her jeans. Ryland senses the tingle that reminds him of ginger ale fizzing at the base of his neck. His interruption was well-timed; Scooter just needed a prod.
“He walked me down into the woods quite a ways,” Scooter says, his eyes glistening. “Said he left the gun behind to prove to me that he was only dropping me off and somebody’d find me soon enough. I prayed. Said, Lord, if you’ll get me out of this somehow, I’ll dedicate the rest of my life to telling how you saved me.”
Ryland hears the yammering of squirrels overhead, sees the scum of mosquito larvae on a puddle, feels the pine needles and the red earth sponging underfoot, smells the adhesive tang under his nose, senses the cartilage of his Adam’s apple swelling. His heart skids at the thrill of near death. He watches a shiver trickle through Holly, imagines the story’s power, like a virus, flowing into her.
“That’s when he taped my ankles together and shoved me onto my knees,” Scooter says. “He talked a little, said, I don’t want to hurt you but I got no choice. They find you and they’re going to come looking for me. I got my family to think about. Then he told me to stay put and went back to the car for his pistol. As soon as he was out of hearing, I reached into my pocket and fished out my knife.”
Scooter swishes back the front of his suit coat and pulls out the pocketknife. This is new. Ryland has pictured this knife hundreds of times. Usually, in his imaginings, it’s the same pearl-handled knife that he carries, but this knife, the real one, is a tiny thing. Its translucent blue body, busted and chipped, has two blades folded into it. Scooter opens the longest blade, blackened with age and worn thin. Ryland has to stop himself from snatching it.
“Can I see it?” Holly asks, holding out a palm.
She’s always pushing her way. Even with the new bedroom, she was the one who chose to keep their old room, talked Ryland into thinking the basement would be more private, the full-length closet mirror a real asset. When she has her new friends over – a group of glossy-lipped girls who snigger behind their hands when they pass him in the halls at school – they immediately lock themselves into Holly’s room and shriek with laughter. He would’ve never reached for such a treasure but waited patiently for the owner to offer it.
Scooter looks from knife to Holly to knife again. He hands it to her. She grins and shakes her head, scrapes a thumb sideways across the blade like their father showed them to test sharpness. She turns the knife over, as if it might hold a secret inscription. “Just a regular old pocketknife, isn’t it,” she says and hands it back.
The sweat on Ryland’s collar freezes. Has Holly forgotten he’s there? She should know that he wants to hold it, too. They’re working together to get out Scooter’s story, so why is she ignoring him? A pang of something new strikes Ryland, and he wishes for a moment that he hadn’t introduced them, that maybe she wasn’t there at all, (briefly) that she wasn’t even born. What would that be like, to be the only child, keeping everything to himself? Not so different from this past year. They used to talk late into the night, whisper-arguing about whether girls were better athletes than boys, and if all the bad things were really caused by God because He’d let Satan loose in the first place, and what they should do if someone broke into the house. Holly kept a pair of sewing scissors on her nightstand as protection. Ryland kept the knife in his pants, which he hung over his footboard. None of it matters now, though. He can’t imagine them ever talking like that again.
Ryland considers clearing his throat, stepping around, and asking Scooter for the knife, how it would feel, its weight about that of a roll of dimes, the handle smooth like glass and sharp where it’s cracked. Then he glimpses Holly. She wears a fake grin, the one she uses at school when she’s talking to someone she doesn’t like. Ryland glances around, embarrassed. Anyone can tell she’s just humoring him. She’s already lodged the story away as something an old codger once told her at a church dinner. That’s how Holly is: selfish and stubborn, and whenever she can, she ruins things.
“I cut that tape on my ankles first,” Scooter says, ratcheting the blade upward. “Then I pulled down the tape around my mouth so I could breathe. I didn’t bother to take the time to cut my hands free before I tore off through the woods. I run a long ways before I bothered to cut my hands loose. A long ways. I thought he’d be after me for sure.”
“Did they end up catching the guy?” Holly asks.
Hah. Ryland snorts, and she gives him a chiding look. Now she’ll miss the whole part about Scooter hiding until dark and listening for the highway then making his way through the brush toward those headlights.
“You bet,” Scooter says. “He’s down in Huntsville serving two twenty-year sentences plus seven years. I been corresponding with him for about a year. He wants me to write a letter to the state recommending him for early release. But I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He snaps the blade shut against his thigh.
When Scooter pockets the knife, Ryland feels an invisible pressure seep up against his feet, like the floor or even the earth itself pushing against the soles of his shoes. What he’s sensing is his own heft, his own hundred and ten pounds. What does it mean when the most important story in your life belongs to someone else? In a moment of panic, he tries to think of something he owns that’s purely his. What comes to mind are those patches of light sweeping across his bedroom walls. But what’s light? It doesn’t carry any weight. It doesn’t belong to anybody. It’s just a fire burning somewhere, bound to extinguish sooner or later.
“What’re you going to do?” Holly asks.
“I don’t know, I been praying on it,” Scooter says. The daylight’s gone. Someone flicks a switch and tiny white rectangles stipple the lenses of Scooter’s glasses. “Say, have you heard the story of the boy and the man with one leg?”
“No,” they say in unison.
“There was this boy,” Scooter says. “His family hired a wagon driver to carry them for a day. Now this driver had only one leg, and when the boy saw that, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He asked to sit up with the driver. The man noticed his interest, of course, so he told the boy, I’ll give you one question, son, but only one, so think hard on it. All day the boy eyed the man’s stump and thought about his question. Finally, when they arrived at the station toward night, the boy was ready. He said, Gee mister, how’d you lose your leg? The man answered with four words: It was bit off.”
Scooter roars with laughter, and Ryland and Holly, both blinkered, chuckle politely.
“The boy liked to have died,” Scooter says. “He’d spent his question and now he had an even bigger puzzle.” Scooter licks his thumb then peels two cards off the pile and hands them each one. He mumbles something about forgiveness and turns away.
The twins find themselves propelled outside by their parents, who are ready to go. They walk down the church steps into the warm air and the last patch of light at the parking lot’s edge. Scooter’s story didn’t pan out like Ryland expected. Anger smolders inside him as he thinks about losing another afternoon to a church outing. He could’ve been organizing his coins or messing around with one of his secret forts. Then he remembers that high school starts tomorrow. Something in the mixture of those thoughts triggers an odd sensation, and before they reach the car, their footsteps become sluggish, the air turns liquid, and the light freezes in place on a moment that opens like a map in his mind: he sees the mottled tray of cindery orange sunlight on the asphalt; into it fall the frayed ends of Holly’s shoelaces, the shiny brown tips of his father’s oxfords, the tan shaft of his mother’s Achilles’ tendon. Somewhere a lawn mower murmurs, its blades separating spires of grass from themselves, the air carrying their cut scent. Across the street, something else: gray puffs of smoke rising from a barrel behind a house – someone burning leaves or grass clippings. His father and sister are side-by-side, his mother two steps behind them, then he comes last. His mother’s about to turn and look for him, he can sense it. Maybe Holly and his father will turn, too. They’re all outlined by the dying orange sky. Tomorrow he’ll wake up a ninth grader. Within moments they’ll all be in the car, and Holly will retell Scooter’s story, only summarizing, and forget even to mention holding the knife. Her face will be distorted into a featureless pale triangle by the darkness, and she’ll ask their father a question: do you think Jesus would’ve run? Years later, when he finally reminds Holly of Scooter’s story, she’ll have forgotten it altogether. Ryland, from the moment on the sidewalk, somehow knowing all this, looks out at the highway and imagines their green Plymouth pulling onto it. It’ll make its way into the twilight, its wedge of headlights blinking on and crawling down the road, its destination as unpredictable to an onlooker as any other passing car’s. Here, outside the church, the air will go still from the lawn mower shutting off, and the barrel smoke will continue rising against probability, because isn’t smoke made of particles and don’t particles have weight? Yet there it’ll be, a chain of white puffs being pulled into the night sky.
Jeff P. Jones’ work has appeared in Redivider, Sycamore Review, Zahir, and The Pushcart Prize anthology.