No Parking at the End Times (6 page)

AS
WE WALK BACK TO THE VAN, THE CONSTANT CLOUDS THAT
pack the sky start to break up. Little beams of sunlight hit the ground. A few blocks later, the sky is clear. Dad doesn’t speak as we follow street after street, a map he’s surely memorized by now. His face is tired but focused, every bit of concentration going toward whatever is in his head.

I walk beside him, thinking about what Brother John said—this is happening for a reason.

Everything I’ve endured before has been small. Wearing hand-me-down clothing or not getting my license when everyone else was pulling into the school parking lot with their parents’ truck. Growing up, Dad
always told us that God took care of the birds and we were so much more to Him than a flock of birds. So whenever Mom came home with a new shirt or a pair of shoes, I counted it as proof that God was good, that he was watching over us every step of the way. But now I know those were small things, troubles that were easy to withstand.

I don’t know what it says about me that I can’t feel the same way about being here. That every minute we spend in this city pushes me further away from everything I want to believe. This could be a test and I’m failing spectacularly. But if it is? If God really is doing all of this for a reason, then I don’t know what to think.

Because how does that make sense?

We turn a corner—the football stadium just in the distance—and a full blast of sunshine makes both of us shield our eyes. Dad says, “Well, look here. The sun shines in this place after all.”

“I told Brother John I didn’t want to be here anymore,” I say. The words come out tentative, sheepish. “I’m scared. And I was happy when we didn’t go. I was happy that all of us got in the van that night.”

Just saying the words makes me feel lighter, and for a
second I think Dad is going to nod and tell me he feels the same way.

“I get scared too, Gabs.”

If only he stopped right there.

“But God is up there watching everything we do, and when I get to thinking about that, all that fear drops away. All of it.”

“Brother John said God is doing this to us,” I say. “He says we’re in the van for a reason.”

Dad thinks for a second and then says, “Well, yeah. I mean, that has to be it, right? God is working—that does mean we’re here for a reason. Doesn’t it?”

Before I would’ve trusted him completely, would’ve pushed down all my questions and made whatever he said the infallible truth of my life. I search for even a flicker of that same trust now, but it’s gone. We’re thousands of miles from home—we’ll shiver through another night in our van—and that should make him ask the same questions I can’t escape. That should scare him enough that we aren’t standing here talking about God.

I don’t answer him and he must take the silence as agreement, because he puts an arm around my shoulder and says, “Hey, there’s sunshine and we’ve got a good blanket
in the van. What do you say we go down to that park and have ourselves a picnic? We’ll even get that mopey brother of yours to come along. What do you think?”

I think: What will we eat and whose blanket will have grass all over it when we go to sleep tonight? Why are we having a picnic when we practically live outside? I want to grab him by the shoulders and scream:
Are you even paying attention?

“Hey, c’mon, Gabs. Let’s do this. It will be fun. Like the picnics we had at Baker’s Mountain. Remember?”

He pushes my arm until I nod, pretending it’s even close to the same thing.

Dad smiles big, bright. And as we start walking back to the van, I look up to the sky—squinting into the sun—and think: if You’re really there, then help me.

We walk past kids with skinny pants and hats pulled low. Behind them are men with dogs and beards, laughing and passing around a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag. The entrance to the park is full of people, all of them lying in the sun. Dad comments on everything as we walk down the hill toward a dark tunnel.

Aaron put up a huge fight about leaving the
van—especially when he heard we were coming to the park. Now Dad talks like it was Aaron’s idea.

“Do you know anything about the park?” Dad asks Aaron, like he’s some sort of expert on the city.

I expect him to ignore Dad, but he actually responds.

“It looks like a bunch of drug dealers and homeless people,” Aaron says. “Really beautiful. I’m ecstatic.”

I wince. Dad looks at Mom and says, “We should get him a job as a tour guide!”

Aaron doesn’t smile. He walks ahead of us, looking around as if he expects somebody to jump out of the bushes with a knife.

For a second, the tunnel blocks out the sun. Dirt hangs from its top in unsteady cones and stagnant water collects along the sides. It feels like a place people get mugged. But when we reappear on the other side, the day is still nothing short of perfect. It’s like fall in North Carolina, when you first start wearing jeans and a sweater. People are everywhere, thankful for the cloud break. Kids play. Some college-aged guys throw a football. Off in the corner a lady’s dancing, her skirt flaring around her with each twirl.

Dad stops us in front of a patch of green grass and
Mom lays down a blanket. As soon as it’s straight, Dad stretches his body across it and closes his eyes, basking in the sun. Mom begins unwrapping sandwiches, courtesy of the Baptists from two days ago.

“This is living,” Dad says. “Good food. Good weather. My main squeeze, my favorite kids. It doesn’t get better than this.”

Mom smiles and puts a hand on his forearm before setting a sandwich on the blanket. Mom hands me one, too—bologna and American cheese—and I take a bite, dry as sand. Aaron hasn’t touched his food or said a word to any of us. Even when I ask him if he wants to finish my sandwich, he just shakes his head and looks away.

I end up focusing on the playground, the kids climbing on something that looks like the sail of a ship. The more I watch, the more I wish I were younger. Slides and swings and sand—a paradise, once upon a time. Behind it all, kids scream as they use old pizza boxes to fly down a cement slide built into the side of a hill. Everybody seems perfect and happy.

“I’m going to go on the swings,” I say.

“Take your brother,” Dad says. “I could use some alone time with my lady.”

Mom shakes her head, but smiles. I expect Aaron to roll his eyes, to sigh—something. Instead he’s staring into the park nervously, as if he’s ready to jump up and start running at a moment’s notice.

“I don’t want to go on the swings,” Aaron says. “I want to go back to the van.”

“He speaks!” Dad says. When Aaron doesn’t respond, he says, “Go with your sister.” When Aaron still doesn’t say anything, Dad’s voice loses the playfulness and all he says is, “Please?”

Aaron grabs his sandwich and stands up, walking directly for the swings without waiting for me. I’m trying to clean up my food when Mom touches me on the hand and says, “I’ll get it. Go have fun with your brother.”

I walk slowly, not sure if I want to be alone with Aaron right now. I know telling him anything that happened with Dad or Brother John will only solidify his anger, but the thought of keeping it inside—of living with it all by myself—is almost worse.

When I finally catch up with him, he’s leaning against the swings, which are packed full of kids.

“Do you really want to swing?” he asks, looking across the park.

“It’s better than sitting there doing nothing,” I say.

He stands rigidly, annoyed with everything. If a kid walked by with an ice-cream cone, I swear Aaron would knock it out of his hands. And even though I have nothing to laugh about, the mental picture of that makes me smile.

“Well, I don’t want to go on swings or get ice cream or go to the beach. I want to get the hell out of here. As soon as possible.”

Behind Aaron comes the unmistakable sound of a trumpet. It doesn’t take long for me to see the trumpet man outlined against the sky as he marches across the top of one of the park’s rolling hills. He lifts the trumpet to his lips again and plays a note that sounds like a cow being strangled to death.

“Where were you guys anyway? You were gone forever,” he says.

I hesitate, only a second.

“He took me to Brother John’s.”

That’s when Aaron actually looks at me. Right in the eyes. “What? Why?”

“He wanted to pray.” Aaron rolls his eyes and I continue, “So I had to sit in Brother John’s office and talk with the man himself.”

Aaron starts walking away from the swings, rubbing the back of his neck. “I bet that was a joy and a half.”

If I tell him, it will be the end. I can see it on his face, the way his entire body is tensed and ready to fight.

“I asked him why the world didn’t end.”

Aaron stops walking. “You didn’t.”

I shrug. “He asked if I had any questions. Is there any other question you’d want to ask him? I mean, c’mon.”

Aaron smiles, just barely. A sideways grin that I’ve seen too many times in my life. It’s him calling BS.

“Yeah, right.”

I raise my eyebrows, hoping the back and forth I know is coming will lift me above water. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Holy shit. What did he say?”

“That it was all a part of God’s plan.”

Aaron throws his hands up, the smile becoming strained. “Of course he did. Jesus. Of course that was the answer. Did anything else happen?”

It feels wrong keeping the rest from him. Racing Dad. How Aaron was right—we’re not leaving. Everything Brother John said. But if I can avoid adding another log onto the fire of his resentment, I will. I’ll
do anything it takes to bring him back.

Just as I’m about to tell him I don’t care about the swings, that we can go back to the blanket, a voice shouts, “Oh my God!”

At first I don’t realize the girl—shocking red hair and clothes that look as if she got dressed in the dark—is talking to Aaron. Except she comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his body.

“Hey,” he says, quietly and under his breath. Like he thinks I won’t be able to hear. “Can we talk later?”

Slowly, a group of teenagers—their clothing mismatched and layered despite the warmth of the sun—materializes behind the girl. In the distance, another blast from the trumpet man rings out across the park.

“Who’s this?” the girl asks. She’s moved beside Aaron, her hand sliding into his. I can’t stop staring at them.

Aaron mumbles my name and then adds, “She’s my sister.”

I expect a curled lip, or at least a raised eyebrow. And for a second, I think I might get both because the girl doesn’t do anything except stare at me, wide-eyed like I was just dropped from the sky by a UFO. But then she lunges forward and hugs me. After the long, one-sided embrace, she
turns around and hits Aaron hard on the chest.

“What the hell? You have a sister and not a single word?”

Her words gut me.

Aaron gives me this awful look, like I’m the one who shoved him into traffic. The girl is staring at me, too, but every time I try to say something I feel the words catch in my throat. All I can think about is how the world has expanded to include a possibility where Aaron occurs without me. And how do I even begin to verbalize that?

When he tells her we’re twins, she nearly falls over.

“Twins? Are you shitting me?” She hits Aaron again. “Holy crap! You guys do look exactly alike!”

“Yeah, hence the whole twins part,” one of the guys says from behind her. Aaron watches me as if he’s trying to read my mind. I shoot warning messages to him:
Let’s go. Now. Please
.

A few of the kids behind the girl laugh. At me? Or is it something else completely? Aaron shifts from one foot to the other.

“I’m Jess,” the girl says to me. “And your brother is obviously an asshole. He has a sister and never said a damn thing!”

Something like that would normally make me bristle, the voodoo womb-loyalty kicking into fiery effect. But right now, she could say about anything and it wouldn’t touch the anger—or maybe it’s disappointment?—that’s rising up inside me.

“Oh my God, you should totally come out with us tonight,” Jess says.

Immediately Aaron says, “No.”

“It’s just Sea Cliff. We’re not taking a midnight stroll in the Tenderloin. Jesus.”

Jess turns to me and says, “It’s a long walk, but that way we can get to know one another. Sound good?”

“She’s not coming out,” Aaron says. Jess responds with a single poke to his side, making him jump.

Jess turns to me. “Mr. Bossy Pants doesn’t get a vote. So, what? You in?”

“I’m not being bossy, it’s just—ah!”

Jess gets him in the ribs this time, grinning at me as she does it. I don’t smile back. Everything about this girl is wrong. From her tangled hair, to her clothes, which haven’t been washed in forever. Not to mention her friends, who look equally unclean and are laughing at everything she does. The only one who doesn’t look positively thrilled
is Aaron. Frustration is wrapped across his body like a rubber glove.

“I want to leave,” I tell Aaron. When he doesn’t answer, Jess pokes him in the ribs and I can’t help it. I turn on her. “Can you give us a minute? Please?” It comes out so nasty, I’m not sure who’s more shocked—her or me.

“Yeah, sure. Listen, I was just—” Before she can finish, Aaron takes my wrist and walks a few steps away from the group. He bites the bottom of his lip for a few seconds before saying, “You’re not going out with us tonight.”

And despite all the other questions I want to ask him, the first thing that comes from my mouth is “Why not?”

He grimaces and looks back at Jess, who stands a few feet away from us with her hands on her hips. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Well, here’s something: I don’t want to go with you.” As soon as I say it, he brightens up. But then I say, “I don’t want you going, either. You barely know these people, Aaron.”

And I want to say:
What about me? Mom and Dad?
I didn’t know why he was leaving, but knowing that it’s just to come screw around with a bunch of homeless kids in the park makes me want to smack him in the back of the head.