The Long Wait for Tomorrow Read online

  By the time they had finally made it out to the car, there was no doubt in Patrick’s mind.

  They were going to be late.

  That was before Kelly jumped behind the wheel of his black Jaguar XK convertible, eyes glinting.

  With wailing tires, Kelly backed out of the driveway and into the street. Hardly bothering to turn, he popped his back tires up onto the opposite curb, knocking over the neighbor’s dark green rubber garbage can.

  “Oops,” Kelly said, as though mentioning the time to a passing stranger. With nothing more to contribute, he shifted into first and peeled out, flatlining his way toward the first intersection, where the stop sign was met without even an honorable mention. Speakers blaring, hip-hop station doing what it could to corrupt their young minds, Kelly took a sweeping right turn. He overshot his lane by a wide margin, suddenly nose to nose with a city bus speeding toward them.

  Patrick’s hands shot out, fingers sinking into the dashboard.

  Strange what a luxury vehicle could accomplish, going eighty on thirty-five-mile-an-hour streets; with a casual nod, Kelly jerked the wheel, just enough to send them fishtailing back over to the right side of life, missing the bus by inches.

  Ignoring Patrick’s white-knuckled silence, Kelly revved the engine and offhandedly asked if they were headed in the right direction.

  Patrick shook his head, pointed his thumb back behind them. “That way, Kelly.”

  “Oops,” Kelly repeated, without an ounce of remorse or recognition.

  He slammed on the brakes, sent the car skidding sideways. Came to a perpendicular halt in the road, Kelly’s car taking its share out of both lanes, double yellow stripe bisecting his car nicely.

  “Hey, Patrick.” Kelly searched his surroundings with unhurried interest. “There a way to drop the top on this baby or what?”

  A couple of cars screeched to a halt on either side of the Jaguar.

  Patrick reached up above their heads, unhooked the handles.

  He mashed down on a button between the two seats as the top began to yawn. Gears whirring, doing their best to please the rest of the world, already backed up in both directions. Morning commuters honked, pounded their fists against steering wheels, already rehearsing the story for coworkers, spouses, and drinking buddies.

  All thanks to Kelly’s sudden urge to have the top down.

  “I make money for the money, ’cause money’s got my back?” Kelly repeated radio-station lyrics, scoffing. “Can’t believe I used to listen to this shit.” He began fiddling with the knobs as the black top finally folded back into the car. “What’s good around here, Patrick? What do you listen to?”

  Choosing expedience, Patrick once again used his finger as the path of least resistance. Pressed 90.7, tuned right smack into some funk-minded jazz fusion.

  The Charlie Hunter Trio, Patrick’s angels marveled, calm as always. “Cueball Bobbin.’”

  “Yeah!” Kelly grinned, fingers agreeing with high-hat cymbals. “If I had sunglasses, I’d put them on, this is nice.”

  He twisted the wheel hard left and gave her all she had, back the way they came.

  Hardly a second glance to the mess he’d made, blasting his way past trees, houses, all a blur.

  Patrick winced as they tore past a parked patrol car, automatically sinking into his seat.

  But in place of a siren, all that could be heard was a distant cry of a certain mustached officer: “YEAH, KELLY, STATE CHAAAAMPIOOON!”

  Kelly laughed, threw his hands into the air.

  Patrick felt that very air sandblasting his hair, violent whorls and eddies roaring in his ears all around him. Once again, no time to ask what was going on as another intersection loomed before them.

  “Left!” Patrick yelled. “Left, Kelly, LEFT! MAKE A LEFT!”

  Kelly’s hands hit the wheel. A graceful downshifting arc sent them halfway onto the shoulder, gravel flying as Patrick began to wave his arms. Gasping for breath, hardly able to scream: “RIGHT, RIGHT TURN!”

  “Woo!” Another stuntman’s curve, and Kelly was loving it. “Guess it’s like riding a bike, Patrick, all these years!”

  Patrick twisted in his seat, desperately scanning for any damage they might have left behind.

  One or two motorists stuck in gape mode, unsure of what they’d just seen.

  Other than that, it appeared as though they had made a clean getaway.

  Facing forward once more, Patrick saw the needle edging comfortably past seventy.

  “Slow down, Kelly!”

  “It’s OK, Patrick!” Kelly cried out. “We’re good!”

  “We’re going to get ourselves killed!”

  “Not with you as my copilot!”

  A slight dip in the road sent them sailing, tires slamming back down onto the asphalt with a jarring bounce. Patrick felt his teeth meet, two thunderbolt snaps keeping time with the music.

  “ Hey-oh!” Kelly called out, tailgating the car before him. He crossed over, hit the accelerator, and snaked his way out in front of the speeding Buick. With his mission now accomplished, Kelly kept his left foot planted on the floor. “All these close calls, Patrick, you think I would’ve shocked myself back awake by now!”

  “You ARE awake!” Patrick roared over the clattering jazz drum, wondering if this is how old-timers in the fifties must have felt upon hearing that unbridled music, alien sounds signaling a dangerous new world, just over the horizon. “You are AWAKE, Kelly!”

  “Then riddle me this!” Kelly gave a sly grin. He put a hand to his temple and mimed raising a pair of sunglasses up from his eyes. “Why haven’t we hit a single red light on our way to school?”

  The question reminded Patrick to give the road its due respect.

  The road repaid him with a red light, some hundred yards away.

  Some couple of seconds away.

  “There!” Patrick yelled. “Red light, Kelly! Stop the car!”

  “ Uh-uh!” Kelly leaned forward, squinting. “I’m betting it’s going to swerve first!”

  “It doesn’t swerve, it’s a red light!”

  “Green by the time I’m through with it!”

  “KELLY!” Patrick screamed, knees curling up to meet his chest as the scenery folded around him. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP THE CAR, THAT’S A RED …”

  But Kelly’s car had already made it through, blink of an eye.

  A wink from some benevolent spirit, and rest assured, the light had most certainly turned green.

  The rest of the ride unfolded in very much the exact same manner.

  ill Montague stood before his homeroom class, looking out the nearest window.

  Most of the classrooms at Wellspring Academy were on the ground floor, around four to a building. Each building was spaced out at varying distances, derisively referred to as compounds, and there generally wasn’t much the windows had to offer: trees, birds, the occasional squirrel. A few of the rooms faced away from the surrounding forest, giving a view to the rest of the grounds. More buildings, unpaved gravel walkways cutting through lengthy strips of grass, already turning a coarse yellow from the heat wave. Not a lot to see out there, and yet this was how Bill Montague always began each morning.

  On this particular morning, Patrick knew exactly what Bill was seeing.

  Hustling past the window with Kelly in tow, he caught a glimpse of Bill observing his own private moment of silence. Arms behind his back, standing straight at five-eleven. A slight pitcher’s mound rounding out his button-down short-sleeved shirt, blue and white stripes hanging over olive green cargo shorts. Gray hair pulled back into a thinning ponytail.

  A casual observer might have dismissed him as a benign aging hippie.

  Patrick knew better. “Let’s move, Kelly.”

  Ever since Kelly had rocketed them into the parking lot and cut the engine, a quiet confusion had taken hold of his actions. Ignoring the hurried greetings from last-minute stragglers, he glanced around rapidly, eyes like incisors. A front-row skeptic searching
for a flaw in the act of a master illusionist.

  But Patrick’s prompt seemed to bring him out of it; Kelly absently turned his shuffling into a light trot, and as a result, they coasted into homeroom at the very stroke of eight a.m.

  Bill turned away from the window, eyes deceivingly indifferent behind clear aviator glasses. He glanced at the rest of the students, all seated around a group of rectangular foldout tables brought together in a giant horseshoe. His eyes went up to the clock. “Cutting it close there, Patrick, Kelly.”

  Patrick nodded, quickly inching around the table to secure a pair of empty chairs.

  That’s when he heard Bill’s voice: “Kelly?”

  Patrick turned. Saw Kelly waiting by the doorway, staring at his homeroom teacher.

  “Is there a problem, Kelly?” Bill asked.

  “No,” Kelly said quietly. “No. It’s good to see you, Bill.”

  Bill’s lips gave nothing away, but his eyes granted a slight smile. “Nice duds, Kelly. Sit down.”

  Kelly glanced down at his suit and tie, then nodded. He made his way toward Patrick, mumbling a quiet excuse me for every student he passed. The two of them sat down, and Bill looked out the window once more, searching.

  “A thought for you this morning,” he told them, turning back to his flock. His hands met with two solid claps. “I know one or two of you have heard this one in my advanced chemistry class. Patrick …” Bill pointed in Patrick’s direction, wearing a wide evangelist’s grin. “My apologies, you’re just going to have to ride this one out. As for the rest of you … I was once lucky enough to be golfing in Ireland.”

  The students all nodded, knowing Bill’s penchant for good golf.

  “I came to know a man by the name of James Finnegan. Golfed with him several times during my stay. And the man was amazing, a natural. Nobody would tell me how it was he never went pro, and I couldn’t get a word out of him on the links. We’d go drinking afterward, and with the help of a couple of pints, he’d loosen up and turn talkative. The problem was, with the help of a couple of pints, he’d also turn incomprehensible. I mean, to me at least. His brogue was so thick, and he spoke so fast, that I literally had no idea what he was saying. The only reason I knew he was talking about golf was because everyone assured me that’s all James Finnegan ever talked about. Here was this master, the greatest golfer you never heard of, and all his wisdom, his advice, all of it was lost to my ears….”

  Bill pointed to his ears, just to bring the point home.

  “But there were five words,” Bill continued, “five words I always got. Five simple words that always shone through. Are ya with me, laddie? He’d interrupt himself every minute or so just to ask this question.” Bill suddenly burst out with a litany of Irish-sounding jabber. Slurred and over the top, brandishing a pantomime pint of Guinness in his fist, eyes askew before going lucid and saying: “Are ya with me, laddie?”

  A few of the freshmen, sophomores gave him a laugh.

  Even jaded seniors, juniors slipped him a smile.

  Bill broke character with James Finnegan and shook his head, repeating the phrase once more: “Are ya with me, laddie? Every other minute he’d ask, and for fear of offending him, looking stupid, I’d nod my head, oh, absolutely, and let him go on with whatever it was he was saying. Are ya with me, laddie …? The only five words from his mouth that I ever understood, and I never once took advantage of them.”

  Bill shrugged, stuffed his hands into two of the various pockets lining his shorts. “I could’ve learned a lot from ol’ James Finnegan. But you all know where I’m going with this. Sure, don’t be afraid to ask questions, don’t be afraid to be the guy with his hand raised, we all know this. Not everyone’s going to take the time to ask you if you’re with them, so, of course, always be ready to step up without assistance. Though the most important lesson for you-all”—Bill leaned back against the chalkboard—“as members of this, I guess, disorienting existence we’re stuck with … keep your eyes open at all times. Not just for those moments when you don’t know Adam from Eve, but for those times when someone else might not be clear. When someone else might be seeking answers. Now, I’m a big fan of mind your own business, so use your better judgment. But don’t forget that if you do always mind your own business, well, there will be several times at the end of your life when you will look back … and regret not asking: Are ya with me, laddie?”

  Bill smiled, pushed himself off the blackboard. He shot his hand in the air. “So let’s have it. One freebie this morning, any question you want. Can’t guarantee I’ll have the answer, but anybody with a burning question gets to see how good it feels to let it out. Come on.” Bill remained with his hand in the air. The younger students looked around nervously, while the older students looked around with their well-earned mixture of curiosity and disinterest.

  Patrick saw Kelly raise his hand.

  Bill begrudgingly lowered his arm, and sucked it up. “Well, I did say anybody, so … what’s on your mind, Kelly?”

  And with all sincerity, Kelly asked: “Can you tell me what my class schedule is?”

  The class division was once again clear in the ensuing laughter. Upperclassmen laughing at the perceived joke, underclassmen laughing because everyone else was. Kelly glanced around, curious, unflinching. Patrick thought he’d save his own flinching for whatever Bill had in store, as Bill was already padding out his retaliation with a cold stare. The laughter died real fast, trailed by a few tentative coughs.

  Bill kept his eyes on Kelly for a full minute before bouncing once on his toes.

  “No,” Bill told Kelly. “I cannot tell you what your class schedule is, as I do not have a copy handy with me. However, this is a perfect example of what I was just saying. Patrick …”

  Patrick’s head twitched. Unconsciously trying to stare at himself along with the rest of the classroom. He glanced around to cover for it, then took a breath. “Yeah, Bill?”

  “Why is Kelly asking me for his schedule?” Bill asked, and it was clear now that he was taking this infraction with the same honesty as Kelly appeared to be displaying. “You’re his best friend, you know his schedule cold. Obviously better than he does, at least. Why haven’t you told him his schedule?”

  Blindsided, Patrick reached for the first excuse he had: “He didn’t ask.”

  “You really didn’t see this coming?”

  Patrick tried to get a better angle on the conversation, all thoughts failing him.

  He gave up, and shook his head.

  “Well, write his schedule down and give it to him,” Bill instructed, plain and simple. “And next time, Patrick … anticipate. Are ya with me, laddie?”

  Patrick nodded reflexively, reaching into his bag for a pen.

  Bill gave him one last squint. Another example in the making, before letting it go. “We’ve got some announcements,” he declared, now peeking over his glasses at a xeroxed sheet of paper. “Let’s get this day started already.”

  Patrick missed every announcement.

  Finished up writing out Kelly’s schedule just as homeroom wrapped up.

  Slipped the sheet over to Kelly and told him to wait outside the door.

  Patrick watched him leave, then approached Bill.

  “What’s on your mind, Patrick?” Bill asked, eyes focused on packing his green satchel.

  Patrick kept his voice down. “I just wanted to talk to you about what Kelly asked.”

  “ Uh-huh. I’m listening.”

  “It was … I just wanted to let you know that he was serious about that.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Gave him a serious answer, didn’t I?” Bill paused to glance down at Patrick. He went back to packing his things, talking all the while. “Ever have one of those moments where someone asks you how old you are and for some damn reason or another, you have to actually think about it?”

  “Can I ask you a favor, Bill?” Patrick found himself unconsciously pressing his palms toge
ther just below his chin. “Just this once?”

  Bill slung his bag over his shoulder. “Of course, Patrick.”

  “Could you just …” Patrick struggled, words adrift. “Let it be known, to the other teachers, I mean … Let them know that Kelly’s acting not himself, that he’s acting weird? He woke up all strange this morning, and I just thought … If you could? So he doesn’t get himself into any trouble.”

  Bill thought about it.

  Patrick had expected such a reaction, though what came next was pure left field.

  “You’re a good friend, Patrick.”

  Before Patrick could summon the words, Bill went right ahead. “Yeah, Kelly does seem to be a bit touched today. I’ll put in a good word for him around the staff room. Wouldn’t worry about him getting into too much trouble. Heard Ohio State finally won him over, so short of killing a man, doesn’t look like this place is going to make much of a difference anymore.”

  Bill smiled, lips pressed together.

  That’s what regret sounds like, Patrick’s angels whispered.

  “You hear anything from OSU?” Bill asked.

  “No … nothing yet.”

  Bill gave Patrick a smack on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on Kelly, best you can.”

  End of conversation, Bill’s tan hiking boots were already taking him out the door.

  Patrick caught his saxophone case staring at him from the table. He went over, picked it up, and shouldered his book bag. He stepped out the door, ready to guide Kelly in whatever way he could, and stopped short.

  Kelly was gone.

  Wandered away like a lost lamb.

  Patrick glanced around in a slipstream of students. Bill’s palm imprinted on his shoulder and final words floating in his head like alphabet soup.

  Keep an eye on Kelly, best you can.

  t didn’t start until after second period.

  First period, Patrick had sat through an excruciating review session for his final in Medieval History. Not one of his strong suits, and time wasn’t on his side that day. A watched kettle never boils. Same thing went for toasters and clocks. The seconds ticked off at the rate of one per minute, and Patrick’s mind wandered further and further from his notes. Wondering if boiling a pot of water, while toasting bread and watching a clock, might actually make time go backward.