The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 7
It’s probably ten minutes later when I hear Two’s dog tags rattle as he trots around the corner of the house and comes right up to me. He stands there, looking up at me, mouth open in a friendly sort of smiling pant. Head up, I remind myself. Don’t talk, don’t look, don’t touch.
But he’s not following the rules. I feel his tongue on my fingers, and suddenly Max is gone. I have to force myself not to react. Then the dog lies down on the ground, facing the same way as me, like we’re admiring the view together. After a few minutes, when he doesn’t do anything else, it starts to feel nice with him there. And then Max is there again, and things are perfect.
Some time later, as I’m sort of dozing on and off, I hear Two’s tags again, and Etta sits in Max’s chair. She says, “Relaxing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Two gets up and goes to her, and she wraps her arms around his neck for a few seconds. He seems to be smiling. He sits beside her as she strokes his head. Guess he’s a pet, after all. But just for her.
“Your mother’s making a phone call, so I thought I’d wander out. She tells me you’ve begun your thirty-five-hour driving countdown.”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, but I don’t have very many hours yet.”
“I’ve told your mother that I’d be happy to help you add to your total. Seems to me you might benefit from a longer ride than just setting up a few signs for me. Would you like that?”
What’s this, I’m thinking, payback for the signs? If so, I’ll take it. “Um, sure. That would be great. Thanks!”
“And some of it is supposed to be night driving. Is that right?”
“Five hours.”
“Probably shouldn’t start with that, but it’s been some time since I drove 201 out where it follows Wyman Lake.” Mom rounds the corner and walks toward us, so she’s hearing all this. “How about if I stop by your house tomorrow around eleven? We could grab some lunch in Bingham. I know of a diner that’s got great hamburgers.”
Mom says, “That sounds like a lot of driving, Etta.”
Etta’s laugh is soft and low. “I didn’t say I’d let your boy drive the whole time, Charlene. We’ll be fine, as long as this is all right with you.”
Mom stands in front of me, arms crossed. “Ethan? Sound like something you want to do?”
“Sure does. Very much.” If I’d had a little time to think about this, or if I had another option, I might not have responded so quickly. After all, we’re talking about me spending, like, some number of hours with this woman I hardly know. But this is how things are. On the way back to our car I take a look at what Etta drives. It’s a Subaru, too—so many cars in Maine are, what with the standard all-wheel drive and tough construction—but hers is lots newer than ours, a Forester, dark green like the wooden chairs.
That night, after Max helps me get off—he’s in my mind, of course, though I really do get off—I start to think about what this excursion will be like. I’ve probably exchanged two sentences with Etta Greenleaf before. And we didn’t exactly talk a whole lot today. I have no idea who she is, what she’s like, or how weird it will feel driving around alone with her. Having burgers in a diner. My mouth starts to water as though the tang of ketchup and the salt from the fries is already in contact with my taste buds. I do have that twenty bucks my dad gave me for helping him with his mowing, if Etta isn’t expecting to pay for my lunch. That might be enough. I hate that I might have to choose between getting driving time and saving for my tattoo. There’s nothing for it, though.
But—what on earth will we talk about? I drift off to sleep with visions of tarmac spinning beneath me and out of sight.
Etta is fifteen minutes late, and it’s kind of cloudy, and I’m on tenterhooks, thinking she’s going to cancel on me, or forget altogether. But then she’s there, the Forester looking powerful but not monstrous behind my mom’s car. She and Mom exchange a few words that I barely hear; Mom hands me my sunglasses, her cell phone, and some money—she doesn’t know about the money Dad gave me—and we head out. Etta goes to the passenger side, but she’s still got the keys. When I’m settled, seat belt on, she takes me through a quiz: lights; high beams; wipers; rear wiper; defroster; hazard lights . . . it’s a long list, but she’s the boss right now. If I don’t make her happy, the deal will be off for sure. So I take a breath and collect my patience. This is her car, I remind myself, and she doesn’t have to do this. Finally she hands me the keys, and I make sure I do everything I know I should before I ease the car backward and then carefully out onto the road. I can see Mom is watching from the door, like she’s afraid I’ll do something wrong. I don’t. At least, Etta says nothing.
I point the car west, one eye on the speedometer and one on the rearview mirror a good part of the time. Etta doesn’t say anything for a while. It seems like she’s mostly looking at the scenery, but I feel sure she’s also watching what I’m doing, making sure I stay within the speed limit, all that stuff. Before too long, though, she starts commenting on some of the more colorful trees and pointing out patches of color on distant hills.
In a few spots we’re behind slow drivers or a heavy truck that I’d love to pass. But Etta probably wouldn’t want me to, so I don’t. It takes about forty-five minutes to get to Bingham, and by now it’s just past noon. I’m thinking this is a great time to stop for burgers, but she says, “Have you got another hour in you before lunch?”
What can I say? “Sure.”
She chuckles. “Liar. Turn just up here by that gas station. In fact, let’s stop and get some gas, and then we’ll get lunch. The tank intake is on the right side of the car.”
This is actually the first time I’ve had to negotiate a car really close to something solid, but I go slow and we’re fine. It’s selfserve, so I get out. Then I hear Etta say, “You’ll need to pop the cover. Lever’s on the floor there.”
Oh yeah. Stupid. I bend over, see the white icon, and pull it up. Etta’s hand is reaching toward me, a credit card in it. Thank God Mom has made me fill her car up more than once, so I know what to do from here. I get a receipt just in case Etta wants one and get back in the car, handing her the paper and the card.
We don’t go straight to the diner. Instead, she directs me through some neighborhoods, asking me what I see. Any children? Any dogs? Any parked cars behind which some ball and then some youngster will come tumbling in front of us? She makes me slow down and read house numbers along one block, and what I realize is that as I’m turning to look, I sort of turn the wheel in that direction, too. She lets me realize it on my own, and it’s a good lesson.
The diner is like you read about. Silver, blue trim, narrow, funky old booths with Formica tops along the windows, and a long bar with stools facing the coffee machines. Once we’re in a booth Etta tells me to order whatever I want, that this is her treat. Sweet! Maybe Mom will even let me keep the bills she’s given me. I get a double cheeseburger with bacon, fries, a Coke, and tell the waitress I’m going to want a hot fudge sundae. With sprinkles. And nuts.
Over the burgers, Etta asks me what I’m studying in school, and what I like—the usual. But she asks more questions than most people do when they’re just going through the motions. She’s especially interested in what Sylvia’s doing in Biology. I tell her about the frogs, and about Darwin’s interest in how life lives by killing. This intrigues her. Not like she hadn’t thought of it, more like she’s surprised I did, or at least that it stuck with me.
“Have you started on Darwin’s theories yet? Origin of the species, that sort of thing?” My mouth full of burger, I shake my head. “Will that be covered soon, do you think?”
“I suppose. We aren’t going in order through the book.”
She asks me how Kyle is doing, and from her tone I can tell she knows about the thing with his hand. Mom must have told her. I tell her, “He’ll be okay. He’s just weirded out ’cause of Dad not being there now. He’s taking leadership a little too seriously. It’s like he has to be one of those Promise Keeper types.”
Etta nods like she knows what that means. I’m not sure, myself, outside of a bunch of men using a kind of Christian groupthink to help each other stay on the straight and narrow.
“Ethan, speaking of promises, will you promise me that if you think Kyle’s obsession is getting dangerous, you’ll let me know?”
I blink at her like I’m stupid and then say, “Sure. Uh, sure.” Dangerous? Whatever.
When my sundae arrives, Etta swipes the cherry off the top and laughs at my surprise. “I don’t really like them, but I used to. And I wanted to see what you’d do.”
Back in the car, with me still driving, we go to the dam at the south end of the lake. There’s a place off to the side where you can sit on rocks, and look north along the length of the water. This is where Etta starts asking really personal stuff.
“I’ve seen you with Jorja Loomis quite a bit, Ethan,” she says, loud enough for me to hear over the low rush of water. “I don’t want to presume. Do you think of her as your girlfriend?”
I have to fight the urge to snort. “Um, no. Not really. We just hang together. We have a lot in common.”
“Do you mind if I ask what?”
I tell her a little about being outliers. It’s easy to talk to her, for some reason. There’s a level of trust I didn’t expect to feel, but as soon as I start to talk, there it is. It’s like she’s interested but not involved. Like whatever I say isn’t going to rock her world. I tell her how religious Jorja is.
“And what about you?”
“Not really. I mean, I used to go to church sometimes, I guess. Not a lot. I did go with her to Teen Meet once.”
“What was that like?”
I tell her what I’d told Mom, but Etta doesn’t say anything. Instead, she lets silence take up a little space and then asks, “I hope you won’t mind my asking, and don’t answer if you’re not comfortable about it, but do you have a girlfriend?”
She’s looking at me. Not at the water. I keep my head straight ahead. What should I tell her? What can I tell her? And why did she ask? Is this something else Mom talked to her about, like she must have mentioned Kyle’s weirdness? On one hand, telling Mom was so anticlimactic that I kind of want to tell someone else. Not sure what that would do for me, but it’s there. It’s me, wanting to get out. On the other hand, it’s not like I want to go around telling just anybody. I say, “Can you promise me something?” It’s her turn for a promise.
“Give me a hint.”
“You have to promise you won’t say anything. If I tell you, I mean.”
She thinks for a second and then says, “As long as what you tell me isn’t something dangerous for you or for someone else. Then I can promise.”
Is this a trick question? “Okay, then, first let me ask you something.” I turn to look at her; I need to see her reaction. “Do you know anyone who’s gay?”
She doesn’t flinch. “Yes. I’ve known a number of gays and lesbians in my time. Some of them are wonderful people, and some of them are terrible people. All of them are just people. They come in all varieties, just like nongays. Imagine that.”
I turn back toward the water to let this sink in. I think she’s saying being gay is just another way to be. And suddenly something in my chest is getting bigger. The feeling is kind of like that time in class, when it seemed like maybe I’m part of everything after all. I take a minute and a few deep breaths while I think. Why should I trust this woman? For all I know, she’s got some ulterior motive for letting me drive her car, though I don’t have a clue what it might be. Maybe she wants more help with her campaign? But that doesn’t involve asking me about girlfriends. Staring sightlessly at the water, I reach out for a tall grass head and rip it off its stalk. “Why do you care?”
“One’s teenage years can be very confusing. The brain is leaking hormones and bouncing between intense feelings and the numbest apathy. I know from experience that it can help if you have someone to talk to. Someone who cares without interfering. I had someone like that, so if I can help someone else, I will.” Then she chuckles. “And, if I’m honest, I should tell you that I appreciate you spending time with me. I don’t get to talk to many students in the very system I’m campaigning to help direct. So since you were kind enough to help put up my signs, I guess I’d like to get to know you a little, as long as that’s okay with you.”
I’ve practically already told her, anyway, so I say, “I don’t have a girlfriend. I’ll never have that kind of a girlfriend.”
From the corner of my eye I see her nod once or twice. “I’ll keep my promise. Does anyone else know?”
“My mom knows. I told her.”
“What did she say?”
I shrug. “Didn’t make a fuss. She’s not happy about it. She says I’m still me.”
“Anyone else?”
“Jorja.”
“Jorja?” This surprises her. “With her attitude toward the Bible?”
“She says as long as I don’t act on it, she’ll keep praying for my redemption, salvation, whatever. Praying for me to change.”
“Interesting. We all follow our own needs, don’t we?”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind. Nothing bad. Shall we drive some more? I think you’ve had enough practice on major roads for right now. Let’s go north along Carry Pond, on the western shore. It’s prettier, anyway.”
It is pretty, she’s right, driving along the water, and there’s practically no traffic. At one point something flashes on the side of the road, and I brake hard, barely missing a pheasant that started up from the underbrush.
“Good job, Ethan!” Etta says, her hand at her throat. “That was a terrific save.” We both follow the bird with our eyes as it flies over the water and curves north and out of sight.
Maybe a minute later, Etta says, “I’ve asked you a few personal questions, Ethan. Don’t dredge anything up if it’s not at the top of your mind, but you should feel free to ask me one or two if you like.”
Wow. Okay. “Where did you live before you came back to take care of your father?”
“New York City. I was a journalist and then an assistant editor for a newspaper there.”
I take my eyes off the road almost involuntarily to glance at her. “New York? Cool. I bet that was great.”
“It had its good points and its bad ones, like any place else. But I loved being there.”
“Why didn’t you go back after your dad died?”
I hear her exhale. “You know, I’ve asked myself that many times. The tug was particularly strong just after he died, when I felt free again. I loved my father, but he was a cantankerous old coot. But it’s not an easy thing, going back to New York when you’ve been away from it. The pace of my life was entirely different by then, I was several years older and didn’t have a job there any longer, and I let myself get intimidated by memories of how impossible it was to find affordable housing in that city. I had friends who would read the obituaries to find out where apartments were opening up. So I ordered copies of New York newspapers, and read them and thought about it, and thought some more, and each year the thinking seemed vaguer and vaguer. The freelance writing I do now wouldn’t pay for even half my living expenses in the city.” Her voice kind of trails off.
“You don’t even visit?”
“I’ve been back a few times to visit friends. They never seem to want to come up here, though.” There’s a humorless chuckle. “Can’t think why not.” I know she’s being sarcastic.
I let a little time go by, collecting the courage to ask my next question. “You never got married?”
“No.”
Nothing more. I suppose I could ask why not, but her “No” seems kind of final. I go in another direction. “Why are you running against Mr. Phinney?”
“I have to.” The response is very quick. Then, a moment later, “Science is based on facts, Ethan. Scientists might come up with some wacky ideas sometimes, but they come up with these ideas based on some kind of evidence. Sometimes observation is enough to get them started, but it doesn’t end there. They put the idea in the form of an assumption, or hypothesis. Then they apply known facts to it. They test it. They test it again. They test it until they can be sure the outcome is predictable and repeatable. When they’ve collected enough data this way, and they have enough tested hypotheses, they put it all together and call it a theory. If they can prove that it will always happen the same under the same conditions, they call that a law.
“We have to call evolution a theory, because we’d have to recreate the development of life on earth to call it a law, and also because we’ve figured out only so much about how to make evolution happen ourselves. But we can test it in small ways with predictable results and reasonably, scientifically, call it a theory. What Carl Phinney supports is bringing something into science class that is really nothing more than a collection of assumptions that don’t even qualify as hypotheses, because the only evidence these assumptions provide is like saying, ‘Life developed this way because someone designed it this way. Nothing else makes sense, so it has to be this.’ They offer no facts, no testable situations, nothing scientific.”
I’m busy thinking I wouldn’t mind putting her up against Stupid Hovind. She takes a big breath. “That’s probably more than you wanted to know. But Ethan, remember this. The testing in true science is not done to prove a hypothesis right. It’s done to see if it can be proven wrong. The people who want ID treated as science aren’t willing to consider that it might be wrong in anyway. And that’s because it’s based on faith. Not science.”
“So you’re running because you don’t like intelligent design?”
“I’m running because I value intelligence. And because I want to train students to think, not to follow something blindly, and not to swallow something that appears to make sense on the surface but can’t hold up to deeper examination. You know, us old folks are going to depend on you younguns to run the show before too long. I want you thinking.” She points to a turnoff. “Let’s see how neatly you can turn around in that spot and head back.”
