"I didn't." He picked them up off the dashboard and shook them.
I nodded my head, then said: "What now?"
"Kentucky," he said. "We dump the load of shit in the back, then go to my folks' place so you can do your little act." But he didn't start the engine, he just sat there, staring out at the road and breathing hard.
"What is it?" I asked.
"…nothing…" he said, but I could hear the tears in his voice. A few seconds later he looked at me and I could see them in his eyes. "I keep thinking about Thomas. How… it shouldn't have happened, y'know? None of it should've… shit! I was supposed to be looking out for the rest of them, for all of them! I was supposed to be the one who thought ten steps ahead, just in case! They trusted me, and I… I…" He looked away, lowered his head, and wept.
After I moment I reached out, hesitated, then put my hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Christopher. What happened with Thomas and the fire wasn't any of your faults—except Grendel's. You did everything you possibly could, given those goddamn lousy circumstances. He's alive, and he's home, and he'll be happy. Maybe not right away, maybe not for a while, but eventually he'll be happy again, and he's got you to thank for that."
"How do you figure?"
"You're the one who decided to take action and then did. Do you think for one second that either Arnold or Rebecca would have been able to do that—just walk right up to that sick worthless evil pile of puke and jam that bone saw in his kneecap? Because I sure as hell don't."
"They're damn brave kids."
"I know that! I'm just saying that of the three of you who were in that room, no one else but you could've made that first strike. The rest of them didn't have that weapon in their hand; the rest of them didn't have the presence of mind to figure out that you had him outnumbered in a very enclosed space; they didn't have it in them to commit that kind of violence against another person, not alone, not by themselves, but you did—and you know why? Because the rest of them didn't have twelve years of god-awful nightmare memories to call on for strength—don't look at me like that. Yeah, I said 'strength'. That's what you showed then, Christopher. Okay, maybe it was vicious and brutal and ugly as hell but it was necessary—and it was still strength.
"You should be proud of yourself for what you did. I don't know that I could have done it—I don't know that anyone could have done it, anyone but you. You took four incredibly frightened kids by the hand and led them out of a dark place of torment so unspeakably horrible that most people can't even begin to imagine it; you took them away from any more suffering at Grendel's inhuman hands. Their anguish is back there, you understand me? Yes, they'll have painful memories, and they'll have nightmares, sure—how the hell could they not?—but because of you their anguish has been left back in a damp basement along with the chains on the walls and the shadows in the corners and the echoes of all that screaming from below. And I hope it rots. I hope it lays there and sputters and becomes so rancid even the rats won't want it. Because that's where it belongs; not out here with you. You're beyond all that now, you're above it. You always have been. You just didn't want to believe it was possible that you were still a decent human being. Well guess what? I watched you kill a man in cold blood and I'm sitting here, looking right at you, and saying that you very well may be the single most decent human being I've ever met. It may be the only genuine distinction of my life to be able to say that I once knew you. I look at you and think about what you've been through, what you've done, and I feel completely and utterly insufficient. You're one of the best people I have ever met, Christopher. I'm proud to be here at your side, buddy. You bet I am."
He was looking at his hands in his lap. They were quite still now. He took a deep breath, looked at me, then slowly reached out his hand, grabbed my nose, and yanked it back in place: the crack! that sounded in my skull filled the world and I screamed, doubled forward, and cupped my nose in my hands.
"What the hell did you do that for?"
"If you have to set a broken bone, it's best to do it when the other person isn't expecting you to. Hang on and I'll get a splint and some other things."
I was in so much pain I couldn't move, so arguing with him about it didn't seem the constructive thing to do.
He came back with another can of sanitary wipes, some medical tape, and a metal nose-splint with foam padding on the inside. "You're gonna have a couple of black eyes after this one. On the bright side, maybe it'll give your face some character."
"Oh, that's sweet, thank you."
"Lean back."
It took him about ten minutes to clean off my face, check my nose again, and apply the splint. "Use the rest of these to wipe off your hands and neck." He tossed the sanitary wipes into my lap. I checked my face in the mirror; the splint made my face look both threatening and silly. The two shiners were already starting to show. I had other cuts and scrapes on my face and neck that I didn't even realize were there until now. I had looked prettier in my time.
"Still look better than I do," said Christopher, as if he'd read my mind. "By the way—thank you. For what you said. Thank you."
"Uh-huh."
"Do I get to hear about your grandmother now?"
I shook my head. "Nope. I was promised a quote electrifying unquote game of 'Hide the Heifers.'"
"'Bury the Cow.'"
"Whatever. If by the time we're finished with all of this you have more cows, you get to hear all about dear old Grandma; if not, then you're just going to have deal with it."
He started the engine. "Fair enough."
I started to climb out.
"What are you doing?"
"Driving," I said. "I might be in pain but my memory's just fine. Move over. Go on, do it—the blue grass of Kentucky awaits us."
14. That Other Guy
Christopher lost the first three rounds of 'Bury the Cow' and decided like a graceful loser that it was time for him to drive again; by then, the pain of my nose was almost blinding me and the glow of victory was rapidly losing its charm, so I took a couple of codeine pills, leaned back in the passenger seat, and felt all shiny again for a while.
I dreamed briefly of dead men in trailers rising to their feet and tearing away duct-taped cardboard, and when they opened their mouths to scream for help, inside of them were the faces of children, their mouths opened in a scream—they were the ones screaming for help, not the dead men—while the faces of other children screamed from inside theirs.
I forced open my eyes and blinked against the sunlight as it strobe through the canopy of leaves above us.
"I was about to wake you," said Christopher. "This is some really pretty country we're passing through—if you can forgive the diesel smoke you see hanging over the treetops every so often. Truckers tend to take it slow through here because these inclines are hell on gears, plus these roads can dip twenty feet or more with no warning. Because of the elevation, the atmosphere doesn't rid itself of exhaust fumes as quickly as it does in the lower parts."