and a standby line: Come on, man, eat some ice cream or somethin’. Go ride your bike down to the stadium. It might not have been enough to help everyone, but for Jefferson—who loved Nigel and who, despite the murkiness of his solitude, despite the pain of his memories always found himself wanting to live—it was just enough to see him through a bad moment.
“Come on, man. Eat some ice cream or somethin’. Go ride your bike down to the stadium,” Nigel said now.
So far it had worked every time, but now Nigel was sensing a deeper level of grayness in his cousin’s blank face, a degree of absence he hadn’t seen before. Something close to unreachable. He knew he had to keep his cousin engaged—conversant and awake, so to speak. All the brochures from the VA talked about how family members needed to pay attention to their loved ones once they returned home, not to ignore subtle changes in expression or skin tone or general energy level. And so, though he generally tried to avoid using his own large body to intimidate other people, Nigel decided to make an exception. He was out of options. So he heaved himself down onto the ground in front of his cousin, bent his knees under himself, grabbed Jefferson’s bony wrists, and brought his meaty face right up close. Pressing firmly into Jefferson’s hands and ignoring his attempts to pull away, Nigel told him to shut up and listen in the harshest tone he could muster.
“Now this is what you’re gonna do, Jefferson, ya hear? You’re taking the Kawasaki, and you’re going to drive it far away, out of Santa Fe somewhere, do you understand me?”
Jefferson did not answer, just sat there with his chin against his chest, his eyes closed. It was difficult to tell whether he’d heard.
“You can go wherever you want—to Las Cruces or El Paso or Phoenix—I don’t care where you go. But you gotta get out of town. You gotta find yourself, man. You gotta do what you gotta do. You hear me?”
Nigel was sweating, and his knees seemed to be buckling under the weight, so he took a deep breath and stared way off in the distance, out of the shed and toward where he knew the Jemez Mountains rested. He’d dreamed himself of riding the Kawasaki off and away somewhere, someday, perhaps a lady friend along to share the journey. It was a dream that could still happen. But for now Jefferson needed help, and at least one thing was clear: Jefferson needed to get out of town. And Nigel’s bike could make this happen.
But Jefferson was thinking about Ray, and how it had all unfolded. How he’d been wanting to contact Ray for weeks, see what he thought about going off on a road trip to find Gabriel García Márquez together. How he’d gone on Facebook that morning to send him a message. He knew it was probably a dumb idea, unrealistic at least, but maybe it would feel good to talk to Ray about it in theory.
But why was Nigel so close-up and in his face? What was he saying? Something, it seemed, about the Kawasaki. Something about getting out of Santa Fe.
All of it was almost too much for Jefferson to bear. He’d had this idea about finding the great writer, and he did believe it was a decent idea, and he’d thought about sharing it with his friend who he’d now discovered was no longer alive. What was he to make of it all? He looked straight into Nigel’s big face, into his long, narrow eyes, and he tried to make sense of everything that had brought him to that moment. It was almost too much.
And then he found the words to say the thing he needed to say.
“You think it’d be insane for me to go find Gabriel García Márquez down in Mexico City?”
Nigel sat back down on his stool and wiped his brow with a rag. What was Jefferson talking about?
“I mean, he’s had cancer for over a decade,” Jefferson went on in a rush, “and he’s super old anyway. If I could get myself down there, you think I could just knock on his door? You think he’d answer?”
“Who are
“Come on, man. Eat some ice cream or somethin’. Go ride your bike down to the stadium,” Nigel said now.
So far it had worked every time, but now Nigel was sensing a deeper level of grayness in his cousin’s blank face, a degree of absence he hadn’t seen before. Something close to unreachable. He knew he had to keep his cousin engaged—conversant and awake, so to speak. All the brochures from the VA talked about how family members needed to pay attention to their loved ones once they returned home, not to ignore subtle changes in expression or skin tone or general energy level. And so, though he generally tried to avoid using his own large body to intimidate other people, Nigel decided to make an exception. He was out of options. So he heaved himself down onto the ground in front of his cousin, bent his knees under himself, grabbed Jefferson’s bony wrists, and brought his meaty face right up close. Pressing firmly into Jefferson’s hands and ignoring his attempts to pull away, Nigel told him to shut up and listen in the harshest tone he could muster.
“Now this is what you’re gonna do, Jefferson, ya hear? You’re taking the Kawasaki, and you’re going to drive it far away, out of Santa Fe somewhere, do you understand me?”
Jefferson did not answer, just sat there with his chin against his chest, his eyes closed. It was difficult to tell whether he’d heard.
“You can go wherever you want—to Las Cruces or El Paso or Phoenix—I don’t care where you go. But you gotta get out of town. You gotta find yourself, man. You gotta do what you gotta do. You hear me?”
Nigel was sweating, and his knees seemed to be buckling under the weight, so he took a deep breath and stared way off in the distance, out of the shed and toward where he knew the Jemez Mountains rested. He’d dreamed himself of riding the Kawasaki off and away somewhere, someday, perhaps a lady friend along to share the journey. It was a dream that could still happen. But for now Jefferson needed help, and at least one thing was clear: Jefferson needed to get out of town. And Nigel’s bike could make this happen.
But Jefferson was thinking about Ray, and how it had all unfolded. How he’d been wanting to contact Ray for weeks, see what he thought about going off on a road trip to find Gabriel García Márquez together. How he’d gone on Facebook that morning to send him a message. He knew it was probably a dumb idea, unrealistic at least, but maybe it would feel good to talk to Ray about it in theory.
But why was Nigel so close-up and in his face? What was he saying? Something, it seemed, about the Kawasaki. Something about getting out of Santa Fe.
All of it was almost too much for Jefferson to bear. He’d had this idea about finding the great writer, and he did believe it was a decent idea, and he’d thought about sharing it with his friend who he’d now discovered was no longer alive. What was he to make of it all? He looked straight into Nigel’s big face, into his long, narrow eyes, and he tried to make sense of everything that had brought him to that moment. It was almost too much.
And then he found the words to say the thing he needed to say.
“You think it’d be insane for me to go find Gabriel García Márquez down in Mexico City?”
Nigel sat back down on his stool and wiped his brow with a rag. What was Jefferson talking about?
“I mean, he’s had cancer for over a decade,” Jefferson went on in a rush, “and he’s super old anyway. If I could get myself down there, you think I could just knock on his door? You think he’d answer?”
“Who are
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