Page 11 of The Staircase in the Woods

Vehicular Combat

Owen sat in the front, the other two in the back. The Escalade was roomy but worn-out. A soft decay had taken hold of it—scuffs on the leather seats, dings on the dashboard. It smelled strongly of old man cologne and air freshener, and Owen detected the ancient scent of cigarette smoke clinging to the car like a ghost refusing to leave this mortal coil. It made him want one; he hadn’t had a cigarette in ten years. For some people, outside the nicotine buzz, what they loved was the oral fixation. Owen had cherished having something to do with his hands—something that prevented him from fidgeting, biting his nails, clenching and unclenching his fists. (The trazodone helped, but imperfectly.)

It was noon on a Friday. Traffic getting out of Boston was ugly—a lot of stop-and-go, a chorus of honking.

“Normally, hour drive,” Roman said to them. “But ’cause of accident, ehm, two hours. Maybe little less.”

“Cool,” Hamish said.

The ride was quiet for a while, though the silence among them was loud.

Then Lore leaned toward Hamish and said, “So you said you have kids? How’s that going for you?”

Owen’s ears perked up. Lore, to his knowledge, gave literally zero shits about other people’s children. And hadn’t Hamish already told her about them?

“Ah, yeah, man, it’s good. It’s weird, it’s hard, but it’s like they say, it’s really rewarding. It changes your life, totally, totally.”

“So, how did you tell them that you were voting for Creel?” she asked, the question like a wrecking ball aimed right for Hamish.

Owen blanched, and turned around to rubberneck this conversational collision. Hamish looked like a raccoon caught in a trap. Lore on the other hand looked predatory—she’d twisted her torso around and was pinning Hamish to the seat with a hawkish, talons-out stare. It was a familiar look. Long as he knew Lore, she could get like this—zeroing in on a topic and launching herself at it like a human piranha swarm. Sheloveddebate class in high school and could debate you about anything—from whyStar Warswas more politically relevant thanStar Trekto how hatred of MSG in food was a white supremacist tool. She got off on getting her opponents to tap out. And even when they did, sometimes she kept going.

“We don’t have to—” Owen started to say, but Hamish was already answering her question.

“Man, you’re coming in hot, Lore. Nice to see you, too. Shit. Uh. Yeah, I fuckin’—I voted for Creel. First time, not second or third. How’d you—”

“C’mon, you posted it to Facebook and shit. You had the red hat selfies and went to one of his Nazi rallies and everything.”

“Maybe it was just a Phillies cap.”

“It wasn’t—no, it wassonot a Phillies cap, I know what a Phillies cap looks like, we all know what a Phillies cap looks like. Don’t bullshit me.”

Owen said, “That guy ruined Phillies hats. Every time I see one…”

But they didn’t even seem to hear him. Lore continued on:

“You were proud of it, and you know it.”

“Then,” Hamish corrected. “ThenI was proud of it. Not so much now.”

“Why not now?”

“Well, look at him. I mean—you know. I dunno.”

“C’mon, please.” Lore shook her head. “He always was what he was, and he told us from the beginning. When someone tells you who they are, believe them. Isn’t that the saying? You knew who he was and who you were voting for. You probably voted for him the other times, too, you just won’t say it out loud. You took the hat off, oooh, but I bet you still own it. If I squint, I can still see it on your head.” She rolled her eyes. “Half of America put the hat on and took the mask off and that was that, and that’s where we’re at now.”

At that, Hamish struggled uncomfortably in his seatbelt. “Fine, you’ve made up your mind, can we talk about something else?”

“You still a Republican?” she asked.

“Y—no? Libertarian, kinda. Technically independent—”

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“Lore,” Owen said, “c’mon.”

“No, no, you hate this, too,” she said to Owen, accusing him, pointing a finger. “Don’t deny it. You don’t get it, either.Thatisn’t Hamish. It’s like a—a clone of him, a Thing-version of our old friend.”

Hamish shot Owen a desperate look, as if to say,Save me, bro,but Owen gave a soft shrug and refused to throw a life preserver when he said, “Yeah, no, I—I really don’t get it.”

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