the almost wreck

she went there only twice a year- back home, back to the familiar streets and her high school, back to the people who knew her the best, the ones who had carved places for themselves there and who had settled in deeper than she could ever imagine being. she went there because she was truly fond of the place, of the trees and the hairpin curves that led up to her old school, the streets she used to fly down, the streets she used to own. she missed that most of all, the aimless driving- it was a way to be with someone when you had nowhere to be, it was the perfect venue for real conversation, the kind that could get awkward with other people around, the kind that necessitated long periods of silence, where connecting with someones eyes signified something. she had no car in new york and the pleasure of driving was forever bloodied by los angeles, where her car was the ball and chain that kept her attached to those sad streets. when she drove around back home she refelt the knowledge of growing up, of being sixteen and aware that life was happening, and was only going to happen more and more and more. it was wistful of her, and often she would play the songs that defined her then, just to be plunged into that hope even further, but it left her awake, inspired almost.
but mainly, of course, she went back to see them. to be a part of them again, to feel known, recognized. to laugh like she used to- unfettered, genuinely free.
when she came in town marianne stayed with her best friend. her parents had moved away as soon as she went to college, so she had no real home there besides carla's two bedroom, backyarded, flowerboxed house. it was all she needed. they ate pizza for breakfast, they smoked pot on her screened in front porch, they walked her dogs to the park and complained about the heat. they got drunk on whiskey and looked out of the corners of their eyes at boys from their past that wafted in and out of the bars like traffic. it was a modified version of what they did when they were 13- walking to excerds to buy cadbury creme eggs, making prank calls on the pay phone, watching the sex scene in "mermaids" so many times that the tape got scratched. they loved being together because they knew each other. there was a complete absence of effort, of pretense, of self-consciousness. it was one of the most refreshing parts about going home, marianne thought, the total lack of judgement.
one reason marianne loved riding in the car while carla drove, and since marianne always flew into town this was the way it worked, was that she could look for people she recognized. it wasn't a small town, far bigger than any other city in the state, but every single time they left the house they would see someone they knew- a kid two grades beneath them that used to write carla songs and slip him in her locker was the new bagboy at the piggly wiggly. a girl who got expelled for bringing pot brownies to school when she was a senior and they were in 8th grade, drove by in a mercedes station wagon with a baby in a carseat in the back. their 10th grade biology teacher, who gave them a vague sense of the creeps but who introduced them to "one flew over the cukoo's nest", jogging through crestline. it was like being on the ride at disneyworld, its a small world after all. she just floated through the city, wide eyed at the fact that nothing at all had changed, even though everything was different.
she loved running errands with carla for this reason. the bank, the grocery store, the drugstore, the cleaners. these things took up so little of her time in new york- she lived mostly off of take away food and 1.50 slices of pizza, she had no clothes that needed dry cleaning, and her bank was in the same building as her office. it was novel to her, and yet the bank and the stores were familiar, more familiar than anywhere in new york.
it was the middle of july when carla and marianne pulled up to the CVS parking lot.
'thats nathan atwood.' marianne grabbed carla's forearm and carla stopped the car to look.
'where?'
'dont stop. shit.'
carla pulled her SUV into a place two spots down from where nathan atwood and his brother sat, rummaging through a bag in the same beat up old honda they shared when marianne was 15 and dating nathan. there was duct tape over the back left window, and a small portable fan affixed to the dashboard.
'i want to say something...'
nathan started to pull the car out, hastily, when marianne jumped out and half ran, half skipped over to them, waving. nathan bent down to look past his brother, scott, sitting in the passenger seat. her heart was beating.
'hi!' she said, though the window was still down. their car was diagonal across two spaces. scott rolled down the window and said "heeeey" in that thick southern accent, all mock sincerity and old spice.
'hi! its marianne elliott! from church?'
nathan opened the door and peered at her from over the top of his grey, rusty car. after a second he said,
'of course i know who you are!'
she didnt know what to do with her hands, so she sort of flicked them up as if to say, yes! its me. he came around the side of the car and she saw how gauntly thin he was. and he had a brace on his right arm. he came to give her a hug, and when he did he did it tightly, without moving his hands or patting her back, like people sometimes did.
'how are you?' she said as he pulled away. his eyes were so light blue they were almost clear, colorless, which made his big pupils stand out even more.
'im good, im good. you know.' he looked back to his brother and marianne wondered what carla was doing. she was expert at seeming normal and inconspicuous in these siutations. marianne waved to scott and he sat there, with the window down, smiling toothily at her and nodding.
'how the hell are you?'
she remembered how he smelled, like cigarettes mixed with something more acidic. she remembered how much she wanted to hold him, to see him cry, to crack him and then glue him back together. she remembered this face, even skinnier than it was back then. there were lines around his eyes, and his teeth hadnt been brushed. she began to tell him a little about new york, about grad school, but his gaze was so intense, like he had to consciously tell himself to listen and to nod. she began to traiil off.
'wow, that sounds really great.'
'oh, thanks.'
she thought for a minute about asking him more about what he was doing, but she knew that would only be awkward, so she said,
'i think you remember carla? from school? anyway, shes inside so i better so find her.' he still looked at her with those eyes, that clenched jaw. 'i just wanted to say hi. its...been so long.'
'yeah, yeah. sure has.'
she smiled a closed-lip smile and touched him on the shoulder, nervously. he smiled.
'ok. well. bye.'
'yeah! good seeing you!' scott waved as he rolled up the window and picked back up the bag they were looking through before, obviously glad to be done with the pleasantries. nathan started to make his way back around his car as she dashed towards the store, ready to be away from their view.
'hey marianne!' nathan called as she was about to open the door. she turned around. 'looks like the lord's doing some pretty good stuff for you.'
she nodded, alarmed, and tried to smile.
marianne was shaking when she told carla what happened, although she couldnt have said exactly why. after marianne told carla about their exchange, carla, her hands full of lip gloss and concealer, said 'you dodged that bullet alright.'

they went to a bar called the oasis that night and sat on the back porch with a group of friends who always seemed to be on the back porch of the oasis. they drank for free and laughed until nearly dawn. carter, a friend since kindergarden, insisted on giving them a ride home although he was probably no more sober than the rest of them. marianne settled into the front seat, a familiar place, and thumbed through his cds as carla laid down in the backseat. she told him about nathan atwood, a name he remembered well.
'he was just so fucked, marianne. like, from what i know there was some pretty serious shit going on in that family.'
'i know...i mean, i honestly don't know the extent of it. i know he was addicted to some serious drug. like heroin or something. and i know that his dad was really sick. and i know that when he was little he used to line all of his shoes up in a neat little row.'
carter was quiet for a minute. there were no other cars on the road and carla was asleep, breathing heavy.
'howd you know that?'
'we used to go to church together. i remember when i was like 12, so he would have been...16? in sunday school the teacher said at the end of a lesson one day, 'dont forget to pray for the atwoods.' and then later, years later, after i had dated him, i ran into that sunday school teacher somewhere....a restaurant or something, and we talked for awhile, and i mentioned nathan. or maybe he brought it up. but anyway, we talked about how sad it was, though i still didnt know really what 'it' meant, and he just shook his head and he said 'the first time i went to their house he was probably 5 years old, and in the midst of all this shit his shoes were in a perfect line and all his toys were tidy.' isnt that sad?'
they drove on for awhile, up niazuma road, past an old apartment building that one of their friends lived in, past their headmaster's house, past the school. they talked about carter's new job, working for the newspaper, and about all their old friends. some of them moved away, lots of them stayed. some of them graduated college, some didnt. carter was her most nostalgic friend.
she sat back and he played her favorite song, 'the obvious child.' she sang along: 'sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself/ how its strange that some rooms are like cages'
'i love being home. i can sing as loudly as i want to you and youll still like me.'
'you say that. but sometimes i swear to god you hit the exact same note that paul simon does.'
she smiled and closed her eyes and sooner than she can start singing again the car came to a screeching stop and carla's body hit the back of her seat.
'holy shit!'
'what the fuck?!'
they looked up and twenty feet in front of them, completely perpindicular to the road, was a old man in a cadillac, staring, slightly slack jawed and terrified, from his window.
'i have no fucking idea' carter said, mystified. 'i thought he was going to keep going but he just stopped. stopped and stared.'
marianne turned around to carla.
'jesus christ. are you ok?'
'yeah im fine. i was dreaming about racoons. what a way to get woken up.'
'carter should we get out and ask him if hes ok?'
'yeah maybe.'
marianne opened her door but before she got out of the car the man, as if he just removed his foot from the brake, floated to the other side of the road.
'do you need help!??' she yelled. he looked back at her, at them, and then slowly kept driving.
she got back in the car and looked at carter.
'we really almost got in a wreck.'
'i know.' he laughed, like one does when they are in disbelief. 'i know.'
they waited for a minute, got resituated in the car.
'ok.' marianne said, looking ahead. 'well im really glad we didnt'
john put the car back in gear and turned the music back on, and he drove them, more awake than before, home.