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Chapter 9 |
I won't say my life changed that day, nothing so melodramatic, but it did get better. A lot better. We won the big game, the recruiters were there, everyone was happy. With football over, the pressure was off. Spring semester classes are gut courses. I don't really need tutoring any longer, but I still meet Sandburg twice a week, on the weekends, too. We don't do much, just drive around and talk. Well, Sandburg talks and I listen, but that works well for us. It's comfortable, fun, even, something that had been sadly lacking in my life. Except that Sandburg doesn't quit about this episode thing 'Jim.' I groan, loud, theatrically. I recognize the tone. We are about 20 miles outside of Cascade so it isn't like I can threaten to drop him off and make him walk home. 'No, man, listen. I think I figured something out.' I try to look annoyed or disinterested, but either he's onto my tricks or he's conveniently ignoring me. 'Let's test something,' he begins. 'Trust me.' Groaning for real now, I tease him, 'You know, coming from you, those are the two scariest words in the English language.' We pull onto a small dirt road. With the lights off and only sound the soft ticking of the truck cooling off, it's amazing: the stars, the quiet, the wide open space. In the faint moonlight, we can see a dozen deer at the edge of the wood, slowly making their way into the field. I wish Sandburg would forget about his tests and we could just sit here and enjoy the peace. But there's no shaking him once he gets hold of an idea. 'So, Jim,' he begins, on the edge of his seat, like he does when he's excited. 'I think you can control your gift. Not just mute everything but also enhance everything.' I snort in derision. Like I'd want to do that. But, as always, Sandburg can convince me of anything if he talks long enough. So I imagine my big, elaborate stereo system. Put the equalizer in my mind. Imagine sound as bass, taste as treble, sight as balance, yada, yada. I can slide them up or down at will, and re-set them as necessary. Easier said than done, I remind him, but Sandburg's too intent on register my doubt. 'Try it, Jim, just once,' he pleads. 'Start slow, ease one up a little bit, then another. Just keep them carefully monitored. Don't go too high, too fast.' Thinking I'm probably making the biggest mistake of my life, I try. For a moment, it's just me and Sandburg sitting in the truck, looking out at a dark field, and I feel foolish. Then in an instant, it's like my mind's expanding. I want to tell Sandburg about it, but suddenly the stars begin to twinkle. With some sort of mental push I've never experienced before, it is a whole new world. First the trees come into focus, then the branches, then the leaves. First the scent of the truck, but then pine, animals, water. An owl, soft rustling of mice, deer grazing; I can practically hear the lightning bugs flash. Pushing every control up to the limit, I fly out into the night, drunk on the incredible sensations. For the first time, I'm free of constraints and limits. I am all-powerful, the superhero I've always wanted to be, not the freak I always think I am. There's no barrier to how far I can see, how much I can hear, what I can feel. I want Sandburg to know this, I want him to come with me out into this new world. But turning my head is a mistake. I begin to fall, like I slipped off a tightrope. Worse. Slipping is one thing, but this is like a 100-story drop. I can't get air into my lungs. Freezing. I am dying. And I don't want to. Six months ago, I was ready to end it all, but now I want desperately to live. Something's tethering me, like a string slows an plummeting kite. I concentrate on that warm place on my arm, hanging on until the world rights itself and I'm back inside the truck on a deserted road on a cool, starry night. 'Jesus,' Sandburg says softly, his sturdy hand still grasping my arm. 'I had no idea. I'm sorry, Jim, so sorry.' Wasn't his fault, but I'm not ready to talk. We sit and listen to the crickets, feel the cool night breeze, watch the deer step closer -- things we can both experience. I think for a long time about what just happened, the good and the bad, the black and the white of it. For once, Sandburg is silent. I laugh quietly. It's because he's asleep. His head leans awkwardly against the half-open window, his -- my -- sweater is pulled down over his hands, his sock-clad feet tucked up on the seat. Always cold, Sandburg. I tug on him till he leans towards me. Wait till he settles against me, heavy and solid, then I carefully slide up a notch so I can hear his steady heartbeat. I'm in a good place, mentally and physically, to do a lot of soul-searching and thinking. Despite my scare earlier, I might have my condition, whatever its official name might be, figured out. If I can control it, then it no longer controls me. No more hiding from the world. Childhood dreams of being a superhero come back, but instead of dismissing them, I start to think them through. Maybe I could be an everyday kind of hero, like a firefighter, a police officer, a medic. It isn't football I want, but something bigger, something better. I want to protect. Sandburg shifts in his sleep and I slip my jacket over his legs. Still not very brave about this sort of thing, but I thread his hair through my fingers. When he does nothing more than breathe deeply, I hold him closer. Can't get much closer than this. Christ, when I think of where I was a few months ago: hating myself, depressed, damn near suicidal, unable to connect with anyone. Look at me now. Holding this guy, not freaking out, figuring it out as I go. He's a funny kid. I wonder how Sandburg came to be the way he is. I have Sally, and a father, a younger brother who once idolized me, a mother I could remember being warm and loving. Even had a dog's unconditional devotion. He had none of those things, not even a home. Yet, he turns out to be the warmest, most generous, bravest person I know. Maybe he has a 'condition.' Maybe he wants to protect, too. OK, I'm not Sandburg-level brave yet, but I do lean down and kiss his hair, rub his back, whisper the words I've wanted to say for so long to him. Too bad he's sleeping. Maybe next time, I'll be brave enough to wait till he's awake. By the time Sandburg begins to stir and start talking again, which happens simultaneously, by the way, the sun's coming up. I've come to some realizations, made some good decisions. I'm happy and peaceful, something you never could have convinced me would ever happen. My therapist would be shocked. The rest of the year flies by. Sandburg's the first to know that I've enlisted in the Army. He argues briefly for the Navy, but concedes that a fear of open water might be a drawback. His approval counterbalances my old man's disappointment about law school and Carolyn's about marriage. I'm there on Class Day when he wins the Anthropology Department's award for excellence and highest honors in English and History. He's an usher at graduation and gives me the biggest Sandburg smile when I march past, feeling faintly ridiculous in a cap and gown. And then our time's up. We have one last breakfast at Wonder Burger, where we talk about my upcoming basic training, about disciplining my senses to enhance, not distract, about his upcoming cross-country trip with his uncle. But not about how we feel or when we'll see each other again. We drive to the bus station. Time's growing short, but the words I rehearsed refuse to come. Thank you, I want to say to him. You might have been just an freshman, but you're the best teacher I ever met. And you're the best friend I could have ever asked for. You've pulled me through some pretty weird stuff. As always, Sandburg makes it easy for me. 'This senses thing,' he says, 'you know it's more than just a research project. It's about friendship, too. I just didn't get it before. You could be, no, you are the real thing: the best friend I ever had. I love you, man.' I nod, too choked up to make any response. Sandburg hugs me hard and long, then hops out. Long hair flying, backpack dragging, he turns and waves before climbing aboard. That's my last glimpse of Sandburg. If I had been as brave, as honest as he was, I would have hugged him back, would have thanked him for changing my life. Would had said I loved him, too. I hope he knows. I think he does. Still wish I had said it, though. Sandburg's always been braver, right from the start.
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