Black Mad Wheel. Josh Malerman

       8

      For his three hours to think, Ross heads home. Mom is home. And as far as Ross can remember, Mom knows best.

      He’s got the data, his copy of the papers, folded and stuffed into his coat pocket. It’s an important feeling, walking the streets of Detroit with a secret in his coat. On a different day, he might find it thrilling, like espionage on television. But right now his enthusiasm is tempered by the crystal memory of the sound he listened to in the control room.

      Ross brings a hand to his belly as he crosses the grass on Indiana Street and takes the steel stairs that lead to the back door of the duplex he shares with Mom.

      Mom.

      And how’s he going to ask Mom about this one?

      If there’s one person Ross knows who is unimpressed by the United States Army, it’s Mom. Hell, back during World War II, when the other Danes were getting praise and encouragement from home, Mom would send Ross letters beseeching him to go AWOL. War is embarrassing, Mom would say. And none of this fighting will mean anything in ten years.

      Of course she was both right and wrong about that. Twelve years removed from the war, it did feel a lot less important. And yet … the world had changed. In many ways for the better. And if Ross were given the chance to contribute like that again …

      … shouldn’t he?

      He finds his keys in his pants pocket and unlocks the back door.

      “Ross?”

      Right away. Ross doesn’t even get the chance to take a deep breath. It’s like Ruth Robinson can hear it when her son’s got a big decision to make.

       Can hear it. Like a sickening sound, eh, Ross?

      “Hey, Ma. Home.”

      “Why?”

      Mom doesn’t miss a beat. She may be fifty-eight years old and walk around the house in her pajamas all day, but Ruth is as sharp as she’s ever been. Ross knows this better than anybody else.

      “Session was canceled.”

      He reaches into his jacket pocket and fingers the document that he’s already read.

      “Why?”

      Ross looks up and sees Mom is already standing in the kitchen doorway. Glasses on a band around her neck. No hiding from her now, she’s already seen his face. She already knows something is on his mind. Still … he’ll try.

      “Oh, you know … kids. We got any chicken?”

      Mom pauses an unnatural beat before answering him.

      “Sure. In the fridge.”

      Ross is trying to act cool, but at thirty-one years old, it’s harder to deceive Mom than it used to be.

      And isn’t he going to have to tell her? Isn’t he planning on saying yes?

      For a hundred thousand dollars each, aren’t all the Danes planning on saying yes?

      “Thanks, Ma,” Ross says, pulling a plate of chicken from the fridge and placing it on the kitchen table. Mom is wearing a blue bathrobe, her hair as curly as her son’s. She’s leaning against the doorframe. Studying him.

      Ross sits down at the table and looks at the chicken and suddenly feels ill. As if the sound from the control room was made of chicken, too.

      “Take your jacket off,” Mom says.

      His jacket. Ross hasn’t taken it off. Why not? He knows why not. Because there’s something to hide in one of the pockets. A piece of paper explaining why he should fly to an African desert and put his life on the line. For America.

      Again.

      “What is it, Ross?” She doesn’t mince words. She doesn’t wait on things long.

      Ross shakes his head.

      “Nothing, Ma. Just … nothing.”

      He jams some chicken in his mouth and for a second he thinks he’s going to vomit it right back up. The initial taste is stunning to his system. He looks to the plate again, half expecting to see gray meat there; something bloated, something bad.

      “Nothing,” Mom repeats. And the way she says it, Ross has no choice but to look at her.

      So he does. And the two hold each other’s gaze for a full thirty seconds before Ruth shakes her head.

      “The army,” she says.

      “Yes.”

      “What do they want?”

      Ross reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the folded paper. He holds it for her to take. Ruth looks at it like it’s a spider, like something she isn’t sure she wants to put her fingers on. But she crosses the small kitchen and takes it from her son. She slides out the second chair at the table, sits, unfolds the paper, and places her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

      Ross, feeling better for having eaten after all, eats the rest of the chicken as Mom reads. When she’s done, she doesn’t turn the paper over, doesn’t crumple it up, doesn’t toss it away.

      “Don’t do it,” she says. Flat. Three syllables.

      “I’m going to, Ma.”

      “Don’t.”

      “Why not?”

      Ross feels a rush. He’s decided to do it after all.

      Ruth places her elbows on the table and leans closer to him.

      “Mystery,” she says, “is bad enough on its own. But mystery with the army?” She shakes her head. “Means they’re hiding something.”

      “They don’t know where it is. Somebody’s hiding it from them.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Dismissive. But even now, with Mom saying no, Ross feels the swell of yes.

      It all comes down to a single word, doesn’t it, Ross? he thinks. A single word that propels you and your bandmates, your best friends. One word that got you guys in the army in the first place, got you into a band, gets you into trouble three or four times a week. One word that weighs more than one hundred thousand dollars apiece.

      “Adventure,” Mom says, shaking her head. “You can screw your adventure.”

      Ross nods. Of course, she’s right. And yet … that is the word. Always has been.

      Philip calls it the Path.

      “They need us,” Ross says.

      “Who’s they?”

      “America.”

      Mom scoffs and slams both hands down on the table. Hard enough to rattle the chicken bones on Ross’s plate.

      “America doesn’t need you, son. America needs a psychiatrist.”

      “We know sound. We can find it for them.”

      “And then? Then what? You just point to it and … presto … you’re back home?”