Yesterday Road

By Kevin Brennan

In this "coming-of-old-age" tale, Jack Peckham finds himself on a journey into his distant past, helped along the way by Joe Easterday, a young man with Down syndrome, and Ida Pevely, a middle-aged waitress with her own mountain of regrets. Jack has a hundred grand in cash that he can't explain, since he can't remember yesterday much less forty years ago. Setting out from Northern California for "points east," he gets lost, carjacked, abandoned, and arrested, but he's always homing in on the one object of his inner drive — home. With humor and plenty of unexpected turns, Kevin Brennan's second novel is a lyrical and poignant story of memory and identity, of how it is the whole of experience — pain and regret along with love and pleasure — that gives life its fullness. We all tow our histories behind us as we make our way down Yesterday Road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Brennan
• Release date: Oct 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301166633

Kevin Brennan

Kevin Brennan, author of Parts Unknown (William Morrow) has rung in the new year in Red Square, performed as a busker in the London Underground, wandered the California desert, and auditioned unsuccessfully for a chance at stardom on reality television. He lives in Petaluma, California, and will be publishing his second novel, Yesterday Road, in the fall of 2013.

Book preview

The shoulder ditch was clotted with vines, and they were vines with glistening fruit. Some of the fruit, shining and full, was so ripe it looked like it would fall off the vine with the lightest touch. He stepped down and touched it but it didn’t fall. The black beads instead opened onto his fingertips and stained them purple. He took the fruit to his mouth and laid it on his tongue, bursting it against his teeth and releasing a flavor that made him want to hold it there, sweet, and the juice warmed from the sun. It reminded him of a memory he ought to be able to pluck from his mind just like one of the berries but couldn’t. A place like this, he thought, from long, long ago and with these same fruits. It was so good, as a matter of fact, that he reached into the vines for more and was stung by something sharp. The blood beading on his fingertip was not sweet when he tasted it. It tasted like a coin.

There’d been darkness, and the smell of smoke in the air that morning. It was hot and disturbing, so much so that it woke him and moved him to go out into the street with Linda in his mind. He walked away from the smoke, and kept walking and thinking of her, until he came to the vines here and the fruit, the simple white house on the hill above, with its shade tree and its gables. He was certain she’d said to meet him there, at the blackberries, but she wasn’t waiting for him.

I wonder if this is the place, he thought.

He turned at the sound of a car and saw it pulling up toward him on the other side of the road. It made the gravel on the shoulder crunch and some dust come into the air. A woman was driving.

I’m sorry, do you live around here? she asked him.

No.

The man who owns that house doesn’t like strangers picking his blackberries. He’s funny about that.

I’ll stop, he said.

Well, I mean, I just wanted to let you know. He might come out and yell at you. Sometimes he sends his dogs out when he catches people picking berries here, and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. They’re Dobermans.

I see.

Are you all right, sir?

She was a young woman and had her hair back in a tight ponytail. Her hair was the color of those slender stalks that would grow in the fields when he was young, the huge broad fields of them waving in the wind but he couldn’t remember their name. They were bright and light and tall and they made the fields seem alive.

I’m fine. Are you going much farther down the –– down the road here?

I’m going all the way to San Francisco. Do you need a ride?

I do. I was supposed to meet someone but she didn’t show up.

You were meeting someone all the way out here?

Yes. She didn’t come though.

Why don’t you get in, she said. I’m running a little late already.

He got in the car and buckled himself in. The woman pulled into the road and held both hands on the steering wheel. Violin music was on the radio, a string quartet, he saw in his mind, the way they all move together, playing.

So how did you get out here to meet someone? You didn’t walk from town, did you?

Oh no. I wouldn’t think so.

Then what, did somebody drop you off?

He thought about it. Yes. They must have, actually. And it’s my fault. I said I’d be fine. She said she’d be there and I wouldn’t have to wait long.

Who’s she?

Who?

Who’s the person who was supposed to pick you up?

Oh. A friend. Linda.

Some friend, she said.

Yes.

Do you have her phone number? We could call her on my cell.

She looked over at him with a helpful expression, the way nurses look at you when you ask for a pill. It says, Are you hurting? I’ll take care of you, and it usually made you feel better without the pill.

I can’t think what it is, he said.

Where does she live? Somewhere along the way to San Francisco? I could just drop you off there.

She lives in San Francisco, he said. Actually.

Wow. Really.

Yes.

What a coincidence.

I suppose so. I hope she’s home.

She might be on the way to meet you.

I doubt it. Not now.

Why? How long were you out there?

I couldn’t say.

A man your age –– I don’t mean to be blunt, but you could have had heat stroke. It’s awful today.

I suppose I could have.

They were going through the town now. And now there was a ramp to get on a faster road, with the flowing trucks and the noise. He pressed a button and made his window go up.

Smell that smoke? she asked. It’ll be nice to get away from it in the city for a while.

I don’t like it. Makes me nervous. He looked down at his hands and found them trembling. Do you know if anyone’s hurt?

Oh, it’s not too bad. Just a grass fire north of town, I heard. From the heat. Smells like a real disaster, but they’ll have it put out soon.

The air was hazy all around. Made his eyes water a bit. Let’s hope, he said.

Do you mind if I ask your name? I’m Melissa, by the way.

That’s an odd name.

Really? Nobody ever said so before.

Melissa By The Way.

She laughed for some reason. That’s good.

Thank you.

"So you are?"

Pardon?

What’s your name?

He thought for a moment. It would come. He could usually get it to come within a few seconds, and he imagined that people who asked would only think he was wondering whether to tell them the truth or not. I’m Jack, he said.

Well it’s nice to meet you, Jack.

"Nice to meet you, Melissa By The Way."

She laughed to herself and turned the music up. The car appeared to be floating over the road top, everything on the sides shooting by like crepe streamers, except for the hills further away. They were still at first but then seemed to rotate slowly, like they didn’t want him to see their other side.

Melissa was not married. No ring on her marriage finger. She had dangling earrings and a fluffy black thing holding her hair back. Her neck was long, and a necklace that matched the earrings went down the bare part of her chest, almost vanishing under her white blouse. She had a black skirt that stopped just above her knees.

I’m guessing that you’re retired, Jack. Am I right?

Oh yes.

What did you do?

Wrong?

No, no. I mean what did you retire from?

I worked.

She smiled. Okay. You don’t have to tell me.

Tell you what.

What you did for a living.

I was boss, he said, and that word brought him a warm thought. Warm enough to make him smile for a moment too. I think I was, anyway.

You’re adorable, Melissa said. My grandfather used to drive me nuts playing games like that. He’d take my questions literally –– this was when I was a girl, I mean –– so that I’d go crazy trying to make him see what I meant. You guys must learn it from some grandpa manual or something.

That’s right. We do.

I knew it.

We like driving little girls nuts.

I miss my grandpas. Both of mine. They died when I was pretty young. I always tell my own kids, they ought to be glad they have all four of their grandparents, because you never realize how important they are until they’re gone.

You have kids? You don’t seem old enough to have kids.

Oh, you’re a flirt too? I should have known.

Pardon?

Never mind. But yes. I have two kids. Two boys. Holy terrors, and they know how to manipulate Mom, believe me.

What about Dad?

Dad? Dad’s a long story, Jack. Dad liked certain things more than he liked Mom.

I’m sorry.

Well, why be? Everything happens for a reason, and I’m thinking he left me so I could go on and have a happy life.

What did he like better than Mom?

You really want to go there?

I want to go to San Francisco.

I mean, my sad tale of woe.

Yes.

He liked other women better than Mom. He liked gambling quite a bit. He liked his occasional bit of coke, though, Jesus, thank God he didn’t let it get out of control. He liked his golfing buddies better than Mom. His season tickets to the goddamn Warriors. His Saab. I think he liked his Saab better than Mom. And oh.

What.

Himself. He definitely liked himself much better than Mom.

I hear you. It was something people said from time to time. I hear you.

I hate to play you my tiny violin, she said. I’m sorry.

I like violin music, he said. Actually.

Ha.

You can turn it up, if you want.

She didn’t talk for a while. He looked out the window. Some water went by, shining in the light. Sticks came up out of the water, with brown frothy tops on them, fuzzy. They had a name he couldn’t remember off the top of his head. The road went up, then down. Some fog seeped over the mountainside and crossed the highway.

We’re coming to the bridge soon, Melissa said. What part of town does your friend live in?.

What do you mean? He was buying time.

What neighborhood. I can drop you there on my way to North Beach.

Actually, she lives in North Beach.

Amazing.

It is.

I work at a restaurant near Washington Square. Is that close enough?

Oh yes.

They went into a tunnel and then came out of it, and when they came out there was an enormous red bridge with towers so high the fog appeared to consume them. He gripped the armrest, but Melissa drove carefully. She had some money in her hand.

Toll, she said. Costs me a fortune. I could live in San Francisco for what the damn tolls are running me.

Why don’t you?

The boys, she said. They like their school, and my mom watches them for me.

She’s nice.

Yes, she is.

My mother was a waitress too, he said. I like waitresses.

We’re called servers nowadays, Jack.

I used to sit at the kitchen table and count her tips with her every night. She’d let me have a nickel or two for candy.

That’s lovely. I don’t let my boys anywhere near my tips. They’d cash it all in for video games and leave me high and dry.

I don’t doubt it.

It didn’t take long to drive from the bridge to a street with a cable car on it, and there Melissa turned right. She drove a little up the hill. Then she said, There’s St. Peter and Paul. You want to get out there or should I take you straight to her place?

Oh, there would be fine, he said. He saw the church. The day in the city was so gray that the two steeples looked like battleship guns aimed straight up. I’ll walk from there.

It’s not far is it?

Not at all.

She turned left and stopped in the street beside a wide green park with her flashing lights on. Can I ask you to do something for me, Jack?

Certainly.

She reached in her purse and took out a small card. It had the name of her restaurant on it. When you get where you’re going, would you give me a call and let me know you’re okay?

Definitely.

And I’d like to talk to this woman who was supposed to meet you too. This Linda person. I’d like to ask her a couple of questions.

All right.

Who is she anyway?

Who is who?

This woman. The one you’re going to see.

She’s my daughter.

Oh, okay. Why’d you tell me she was just a friend before?

I don’t know, exactly. Maybe the heat?

I’d still like to find out what happened today. You could have had some real trouble out there. Lucky I came along.

I hear you, he said.

He opened his door and got out. He closed the door, looking at her through the window, and the window came down. She leaned.

Jack. I think it’d be a good idea if you had someone with you for these little meet-ups of yours, you know?

Yes.

I don’t want to read about you in the papers, now.

Of course not.

She’s close?

He pointed at a building on the corner, waving his hand vaguely. Up and over. Close.

Okay then. Take care.

You too, Melissa.

And she was away. Her taillights blinked at the stop sign.

Chapter 2

For quite a while he stood in front of a building that looked familiar to him. It was on a quiet side street and had a tall archway over the door, a welcoming carpet inside and light fixtures that reminded him of creamy candle wax hanging down in the lobby. Something had made him pause in front of that building, the idea that Linda was inside –– yes, she was his daughter, now that he’d had a chance to think it through –– but now the more he looked at it and studied its Moorish details and its stately brick façade, he no longer believed that he believed she lived there. Still, he went up to the door and peered through the beveled glass. A comfortable chair sat to one side, with a small round table next to it and a lamp on the table.

People who come in can just sit right down, he thought.

The door was locked. He tried it. Pulled gently at first, then harder. It wasn’t going to give.

In the vestibule in which he stood, a rank of mailboxes was framed with glazed tiles. Jade green. Each shiny brass mailbox had a name on a piece of paper or embossed label slipped into a little slot –– names like E. Lawrence, F. Glantz, H. & G. Chien, L. Ferrario, M. Turk. Nobody had complete first names here. At the bottom of each mailbox, he noticed, was a small button wanting to be pushed.

He couldn’t remember Linda’s last name. If she lived here after all, there was no way to figure out which apartment she lived in if he couldn’t think of her last name. It was different from his own last name, he imagined, since she was likely married, but at the moment that escaped him too. It was not uncommon. Even if he hadn’t somehow misplaced his own wallet, with its various cards and photo I.D.’s, that wouldn’t help him figure out what Linda’s last name was, now would it.

Brilliant, he said out loud, then looked around to see if anyone had overheard him. No. All the people on the sidewalk were on their way someplace else, and in a hurry. They didn’t have time to think about an old man deciding which doorbell to ring. The one with an L must be Linda’s.

He pressed the eager-to-be-pressed button under L. Ferrario. In a few seconds a voice came from someplace in the vestibule.

Yeah?

Hello? he said.

Yeah, who is it?

It’s me, Jack said.

Funny. Who the hell’s me?

It’s Jack.

Well God damn it, man, why didn’t you just say so! Come on up.

A buzzer buzzed. Instinctively, Jack pulled on the door, and this time it opened.

On the other side of the beveled glass, the lobby was not as appealing as he’d thought when he thought he wouldn’t be able to get in. The carpet, it turned out, was threadbare in places, and the overstuffed chair had a sheen on the arms, from all the hundreds of people who sat in it before the long climb up the stairs. The place smelled of one of those boiling vegetables that stink.

He’d been careful to note that L. Ferrario lived in Apartment 3E. He made for the stairs and began his own long climb.

He tapped on 3E with the small brass tapper. Shortly the door opened and a man was there, a thin, pale man with cropped hair on the reddish side and a harvest of acne on his cheeks. Who the hell are you? he said.

I’m Jack.

Like hell you are. What the hell is this anyway?

You told me to come up.

Yeah, and you told me you was Jack. Where the hell is Jack?

I’m right here.

At that point, exhausted from his climb, he began to wobble on his legs and had to lean against the door frame to keep from slinking to the floor. Oh Jees, the man said. You’re all fucked up. Here, come on in. I’ll get you a glass of water or somethin’.

Thank you, Jack said. He imagined that this wasn’t the first time this had happened. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before he began climbing those stairs.

Inside, the man led him to a sofa by the window and eased him down into it. Sit tight, he said. You’re all sweaty now. You feel like you’re gonna faint, go ahead and put your head between your knees. What I heard, that helps for some reason.

The man, in a fairly nice pair of trousers and a tight red polo shirt, vanished into the kitchen. Water ran. It ran long enough to get nice and cold, then it began to fill up a glass. Soon the man was back with the glass, and Jack reached for it gingerly. His hand was shaking, but it didn’t feel like it was his hand at that moment. It was someone else’s hand, over which he had minimal control.

Good. Okay. Yeah, Jees, you’re thirsty.

I’m sorry.

No problem. Listen. You okay? You sick?

Not that I know of.

Just too old to be climbin’ all them steps, huh?

You got that right, Jack said. Another thing people said from time to time. He liked the sound of it.

You look like you ought to be truckin’ around in one-a them Rascals, you know what I’m sayin’?

No, I don’t.

Them little motorized cart things. Makes it easy for old folks to get around, ’course I don’t know how the hell you get one up three flights of stairs.

I hear you.

So maybe you ought to tell me why you’re down there ringing my fuckin’ doorbell, Jack.

I was looking for my daughter.

Well she don’t live here, that’s for sure.

I saw the L on your mailbox –– her name is Linda –– and I just thought ––

L? Oh, okay, that’s me. Lance. The man stood over Jack with his arms crossed, looking down. You tellin’ me you don’t know your daughter’s last name?

Let’s just say, Jack began, I don’t know what she’s calling herself these days.

Oh, I get it. On the run. She’s a bad girl, is she?

Yes, she is.

Today she was, in any case. She hadn’t met him by the blackberries.

I’ll tell you something, Jack. You know? Kids who don’t take care of their moms and dads when they’re old. They’re gonna have to answer for it one day, and that’s to the man upstairs.

Ah. On the fourth floor?

"What? No. Come on, I mean God, man! ‘Honor thy father and mother’ is what it says in the fuckin’ Ten Commandments, and if you’re not gonna follow that one, what’s to keep you from ignoring the rest, you know what I’m sayin’?"

You make a good point, Lance.

These moms and dads, they raised you from a baby. They fed you, they put clothes on your back, even if it was shitty clothes from the Goodwill, but they did the best they could, right?

Oh yes.

A buzzer buzzed, and Lance headed for the door, where a small brass panel had been screwed into the wall. He pressed a button and said, Who the hell is it?

"It’s Jack! Who the hell you think it is?"

‘Bout time. Come on up.

Facing Jack, Lance said, "It’s the real Jack this time."

I see.

Not that you ain’t real.

You never know.

Hey, that’s funny.

It didn’t take the real Jack long to hustle up those stairs and knock on the door. He did not use the little tapper. Lance let him in, and Jack saw a muscular young man in a metallic-looking suit with a black T-shirt under it instead of a button-down with a tie. With his extremely short black hair and his brow like a curb stone, he had the look of one of those fellows who throws misbehaving patrons out of certain bars and restaurants.

Who the fuck is this?

This here’s Jack.

You’re shittin’ me.

Nope. He’s just a geezer came up and had a fuckin’ stroke in my hallway. I’m nursin’ him back to health.

Yeah, fat chance, said the new Jack, hardly glancing over. Jack wished his name were Bob or Tim. This was going to get difficult.

"So you’re ready to