Summer Stories: This has nothing to do with you
In my memory, we approach the lake from the west, tromping hard on a thatch of pine needles that covers everything. CJ says we should go around to avoid the people, but Quinn has a look in his eye, and says going straight down the beach would be quickest.
We are following a game trail we caught up by Quinn’s house. He says it runs down to the lake, merges with the lake trail and starts up again on the far side. Quinn says it will take us all the way up to his brother’s farm.
Further back, Harper had asked why we couldn’t just take the damn road because his hair was getting messed up on the low twigs and Quinn had explained it was because of what we were carrying and because it wasn’t that kind of farm. Roads didn’t lead to it.
It was then that CJ told Harper not to be a [expletive] idiot and hit him hard on the shoulder at the joint, the way that makes your knees buckle and your whole head light up with an electric, pulsing agony. We were at the age where obscenities feel like a form of freedom and, when away from our parents, they seasoned our language like salt. Harper ran home, swearing in a high, hitching, furious wail, and then it was just us.
I remember hating CJ with a fear that made me feel powerless. The only safety I felt was the control Quinn seemed to have over him.
We approach a clearing now, and the air becomes denser, draped in a sharp, mildewy wetness. I can see a hedge of cattails and tule guarding the marsh beyond.
Just behind the treeline, Quinn stops us and reaches out to CJ, who hands over the limp black duffle. My stomach starts to feel weird. Quinn unzips the bag and holds it open to us.
“Put the guns in,” he says.
• • •
In my memories of Quinn, he moves in slow motion and crowds part. The air electrifies ahead of him and people hush. We turn our heads toward him with our mouths open. We hope he will speak to us, and, if he ever does, we feel blessed.
He has a wild streak but a grace of movement and spirit. He doesn’t do well in school, but parents and even teachers seem to consider him a kind person from a good family. Every recess he claims all-time quarterback. He throws harder than any of us, and both teams are glad to have him.
Quinn, Harper and CJ are neighbors. I live halfway across the county, up a creek road that leads to a house under firs in the lee of a hill. The wetness of the creek has worked its way into the walls and most days I have to climb the hill to feel the sun.
I may have never spoken to any of these kids if not for the fact that Quinn and I are both adopted. Our mothers met in town and thought it would be good for us to share that with each other. My mom said, “Quinn’s mom thinks he needs someone like you, honey.”
I had come from the local Catholic Family Services and Quinn’s parents had gotten him from Irian Jaya, though, so when we talked, the thing we shared seemed like not sharing anything at all.
• • •
The lake is small, and in my memory CJ says we should just swim it, but Quinn reminds him of the bag, so we walk around. It’s so warm that several families have made a midspring day of it, lazing and splashing on the beach as we pass. The people here are from the neighborhood, kids we go to school with. I want to run past them but Quinn takes his time, talking to the moms with the duffle slung over his back, heavy now and pointy in weird spots.
We pick up the game trail again, diving off back into the woods, heading toward the state parkland. We walk mostly uphill for another hour, CJ’s mass beginning to hang heavy off his wide frame, until we approach another clearing. Quinn slows us down and tells us to be careful. We move off the trail and he tells us to watch for traps.
We pause yards from the clearing but I can see row after row of a strange plant I’ve never seen before. Each has long, spiky, droopy leaves and lumpy, fuzzy parts on top.
Quinn kneels down, so we do too. His face is wild and he seems a little nervous. He isn’t supposed to know this exists. We have made this trip now because his brother, who is older and drives a truck with really big wheels, is out of town. Still crouching, Quinn moves closer, holding his palm out, signalling us to stay back.
A male voice echoes from what sounds like far away, and then the plants right in front of us move and a large bald man with a goatee and a black vest emerges. Quinn pushes himself against a tree and CJ and I follow suit. The man doesn’t seem to see us. Almost absently, he pulls one of the plants out of the ground and rests his shotgun on his shoulder. His trigger arm is covered in tattoos.
Quinn raises his rifle and sights the man, who, after surveying the meadow, yells “Clear!” And turns back around. The last thing I see before he slips back into the rows is a patch on his back that reads “Sheriff.”
A twig snaps behind us. My head floods, hair raises, and the world seems to slow down. Quinn spins, the barrel of the rifle tracing a line that sweeps across my face. I drop and turn too, landing splay-legged, my rifle aground. I expect to see another large man, but it’s just CJ’s head, disappearing into the trees, running the wrong way.
• • •
We run too, as hard as I have ever run, back down the trail and past the lake. We carry the guns openly and people look but we’re past and I can’t tell how they react. We reach Quinn’s house and run in through the back door all the way to the front foyer, which is also the waiting area for Quinn’s father’s medical practice. I prop my rifle between the balusters in the stairway and slump next to it. Quinn just drops his. I’m gasping and watching him closely. He turns and I expect fear on his face, but what I see is more like elation. The door to the exam room opens and Quinn’s father walks out, reading a chart. “I’ll let you get dressed and I’ll be right back,” he says to whomever is in the room. Quinn runs to him and grabs his arm and starts telling him the whole story. The guns, the bag, the lake, the farm, the cops. The man doesn’t look up from the chart until the very end.
“Hi boys,” he says, resting his hand on his son’s head, “having fun?” The hand shakes a little, and I notice dark spots and raised veins. Quinn is silent for a long time, looking past his father. In a different tone, he says, “yeah.”
The man’s attention is back to the chart. “That’s good,” he says, then knocks on the exam room door and, after a moment, heads back in.
Quinn sits on the stairs. I can’t see him from where I am, but I feel his sadness. I wait for a long time, then stand and walk around to the foot of the stairs. Quinn’s hands are on the stair treads by his feet and his head hangs almost to his knees.
I don’t know what to say, so I just say, “I’m sorry Quinn.”
I see his body tense, coiling the way it does on the playground before he explodes off down the field. I think my words have helped and he’s going to jump up and we’ll be onto the next thing, but instead he moves straight for me, so quickly I almost don’t realize it’s happening.
The last thing I notice is that the hand of his throwing arm is a fist.
• • •
I awake in the exam room. My mother is there, somehow. She cradles me in her arms. My head swims and one of my eyes is blurry and doesn’t focus. I ask my mother what happened and she tells me to just be still. She takes a white cloth to my head and it comes away red. I ask her again.
After a moment, she says, “Honey, Quinn is a sad boy. This has nothing to do with you.”
She tells me to close my eyes and I do. She rocks me until I fall asleep. In my dreams I ask Quinn why he did what he did, but he doesn’t answer.