Brian and Trevor pulled into the lodge past dinner time, but no one was eating. They were waiting on Angelina’s front porch and reassuring each other. What a card Trevor was: crashing the station wagon through a road barrier, landing in one of the hot springs, and walking away as if it were nothing.
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Angelina had received a fax from the police and her insurance agent had said, given the report, that Angelina could expect blue-book value for her car. Except an hour later, a complication developed. A driver for Pepperidge Farm had put in a claim sometime after the incident. He had arrived at the police station to tell how his truck’s front bumper had gotten bashed in.
The man had honked and yelled at Trevor, who was playing the music so loud the other driver heard it before seeing the station wagon peel around a curve and zigzag along the double yellow line. He claimed he had hit Trevor side-long, deliberately damaging the bumper to save Trevor’s life. But he couldn’t stop. His bread wouldn’t be salable if he had waited for the police and paperwork. He had slowed long enough to see Trevor extricate himself and walk up out of the water; he’d watched Trevor, soaked to the skin, make his way up a man-made hill. His word against Trevor’s, except he had noticed Trevor’s Tar Heels baseball cap floating away.
After everyone had hugged him and laughed and prayed, Thank Jah. Trevor returned to Angelina’s open arms: “What’s the damage if I imagined a white truck honking at me?”
“You mean, if you saw the white truck? It’s a few thousand dollars. But memory’s deceptive even when you’re not suffering a terrible shock.”
Trevor nodded. “Angelina, I’m not a liar. Right before I drove over the edge, the sun dis-combob-yu-lusioning me, there was a white truck.”
“In your imagination.”
“Nah,” Trevor said. “My selling cap’s gone. That truck driver’s right. He might have saved my life.”
“My premiums will go up.”
“Not so much, if I quit driving. Brian says he’ll drive. His car.”
“Brian can’t make deliveries. It’s not his style.”
“Brian can do it,” Trevor said. “He’ll record his college notes while he’s on the road. And he’s lived here for eight years. He won’t get lost.”
“Lost?” Angelina laughed. She tugged on Trevor’s braided, little dreads and kissed the top of his brow. “All right, darling. If Brian’s up to it. We certainly can’t risk losing you.”
Carla rang the bell for dinner and pulled Brian out of the line before he picked up his plate. “You volunteered to sell the weed? Idiot! Getting high makes you paranoid. Being near the stuff makes you paranoid.”
“You can’t do it, Carla. And the Jamaicans don’t know how to drive, do they? Angelina has enough trouble with their green cards and passports. So there’s no other way. Besides, until Trevor got here, I was resigned to Bed Bath & Beyond for life.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hurray for Trevor. Mr. Mention makes whatever we want fall in our laps. I love him, Brian. Truly, truly. The restaurant and everything he’s set up for us. But I think he told Andrew not to talk to me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To protect you. Trevor doesn’t want anyone getting friendly with your girlfriend.”
“He’s heard you say you love me, Carla. You say it all the time.”
“And I do—love you. I certainly love you enough not to want you selling pot. If you put those Ziploc baggies in your car, you might as well have a siren blaring: illegal substance here. In quantity.”
“Come on, Carla. Let me do the loving.”
Brian pulled her away from Angelina’s house, away from the food, and into their own cabin. But the next morning when Jacob handed him a big sack and Trevor showed his brother the map with a list of names and addresses, Brian’s blood roared in his ears. And his skin clammed up so that he wanted out. Why couldn’t he shed it like a snake?
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