“Hey hey hey now,” BillyBob says. “What’d I tell ya, boys? Calm yourselves down. These here gentlemen are our guests. We gotta be cordial and all. We don’t know their politics and such.” He turns to us and smiles. Not a cordial one. One that’s on the edge of slicing our throats.
“What? No, man,” Dad says. His voice has changed, quivers almost. “We’re with ya, man. We get it. Don’t we, son?” I nod.
“Oh, because, you know,” BillyBob continues, “you got that big ol’ house of yers out there. And this big ol’ golden Cad-il-lac and I’m thinkin’, ‘Hey, this guy’s got some money. Shit. He prolly got lots of money. Maybe they think they’re different than us, you know. Maybe they even think they’re better’n us.’”
“Yeah.” “Mmm-hmm.” “’At’s right.” The others agree. Pitchforks may have been raised; I can’t be sure. I’m not looking.
Dad tries to laugh, but it sounds like he’s mating with a squirrel instead. “Oh, no, my man. Better than you? Not at all. We don’t think that, do we, son?”
I shake my head.
Everyone’s silent. My heart quickens. I know we’re being watched. I know at any moment we may be smothered in hickory sauce and skewered over the fire. This is it: the scene that was cut from Deliverance. I close my eyes, try to picture the grounds so I can navigate my ass out of there in two seconds. Can’t think of a clean getaway, so I land on the drowning option.
It’s Hal who finally breaks the silence. “Well, lookee there, the dirty Indians are back.”
I spring my head up. Everyone’s turned in their lawn chairs. Except me. I can’t move. Afraid of what I’d do. Like leap in the lake and swim madly toward him, even though I can’t swim.
“Why’s that family lettin’ them stay at their place?” Five-Teeth Terry says.
“Get them off our land!” Porky Joe.
“Thought you got rid of them dirtbags, Hal!” Terry.
“Oh, Hal beat the crap outta one of ’em, alright,” BillyBob says, quieting them.
“Yup,” Hal says, eyeing me. “Some Indian was puttin’ the moves on Joe’s girl. You shoulda seen him after I kicked his ass. Boy couldn’t breathe after I was done with him. All covered in blood. Gave a whole new meaning to redskin.”
They laugh.
“You shoulda done more,” Porky Joe says, still glaring across the water. “They been here over a month now. ’At’s a month too long. When you gittin’ rid of them for good?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” BillyBob says. “We got somethin’ special planned to take care of ’em once and for all. Then they’ll know their place. Ain’t that right, Hal? Whoo boy, they ain’t see nothin’ yet.”
They laugh again.
What the hell does that mean? Is Web safe? Am I safe? What if these psycho hillbillies think I’m one of them? What if I’m becoming one of them just by sitting here? Is that what Web meant on the cliff when he said, “Don’t be one of them”? I try to burn all my thoughts in the flames, but they sizzle back to life and leap through the scar on my forehead. Multiplying.
And the way they talk about Web and his family. Like they’re nothing. No. Like they’re dirt. Dirt they can stomp on just because they can. I don’t know. It makes something bubble inside me. Boil.
So lost in my head, I don’t hear the final crackles of fire die down. I don’t even hear the hillbillies leave. Or Dad crawl into the trailer. I don’t move until the last flame becomes a glowing ember in the sand and I look up to realize I’m alone. And still alive somehow.
I sneak inside to grab the binoculars, then run back outside and peer through them.
Oh. Man. He is there. My heart: a skip-skip-skipping stone across the lake. Web sits cross-legged on his balcony—in his underwear!
I swallow. Feel a tingling in my tummy and between my legs and KA-ZAP. Ow. Breathe through it, breathe through it—he’s shirtless and sparkling and every one of his muscles ripples like the water. Like he is the water.
And I want to drown in him.
SH-CRACK. OW. Like I’m buckled up to the electric wires again. Anyway, if there were a panic button in my hands I wouldn’t push it. No way. I don’t ever want to change this View-Master slide.
He’s looking up at the stars. I wish I were up there now. Then he’d be looking at me. Ohmanohmanohman.
I got this I got this—OW!
I most definitely, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, one thousand percent
don’t got this.
36.
Saturday, June 30, 1973
THE NEXT MORNING, I have officially decided drowning is NOT how I want to go.
After Porky Joe gave Dad his aluminum boat, two fishing poles and a tackle box—and apparently a few beers and Godknowswhatelse—we’re spinning in circles in the middle of the lake while Dad sings the theme from Gilligan’s Island doing some weird striptease jig. No.
Welcome to father-son bonding, day two.
I’ve tried peeking over at Web’s house numerous times—to wave and let him know I’m here, or watch him flip me the bird, or I don’t know what—but we’re spinning so fast it’s a true miracle we haven’t tipped over.
“Three-houurrrr touuuuurrr . . .” He whips off his fishing hat and waves jazz hands. This just got weirder. “Hey, relax, son, Jesus Christ . . .” He tries lifting my arms to the sky, but they’re superglued to my chest, so his attempts are futile. “Just like your momma. She hated the water, too—hey, I ever tell you ’bout that time your momma and I spent the day at the Lake of the Ozarks eatin’ all them hot dogs, and we was in her daddy’s boat, and she got SO SICK—”
That’s how she got the nickname Anne Frankfurter. Not the time, Dad. I’m about to hurl.
“Oh MAN, that was some fun-nay shit . . . little gross, but funny. Man . . . oh man . . .” He’s in a good mood at least. But for the record: If we capsize, I will use Dad as a flotation device. Navigate the negative.
After he paddles us around and we disappear behind the trailers, he throws the oar at me and cracks open a bottle of beer. “See how I did it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Billy’s right, you got arms like a girl. You need to build up them muscles. I’m here to help you, son. Now, pay attention.”
“Okay.”
“Lesson one,” he declares to his classroom of no one. “Appearances are everything. You gotta look like a man so people think you’re a man and leave you alone.” Guzzle, guzzle belch. “Lesson two.” SPLASH. He throws the empty beer bottle in the lake. I sweep it up with the oar and throw it back in the boat. “When people think you’re a man, you start thinking like a man—where’s my damn cigarettes?—and when you start thinking like a man, the world’s at your fingertips. Got it?” He fumbles with the lighter, lights a crumpled Camel he found in the tackle box, spittooies out a few flecks of tobacco. “Got it?”
“Got it.” Whatever. No clue. Just please stop talking and please don’t let there be thirty lessons or I’m jumping. Also, paddling’s for the birds: It’s been five minutes, my arms are blazing, and I think I’m dying.
“Oh. Oh, I know.” He takes a long, wheezy drag and points his cigarette at me. “Your girl’s gone for the summer. We need to find you one while we’re here. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that before. You ain’t never had a good piece a cherry pie till you had one from around here.”
Yes, he said that. Yes, he believes that. As Starla would say, “Sometimes I have no idea how you are a spawn of that man, baby, no idea.” Yeah, me neither, baby.
“Yup, that’s exactly what we’ll do. I’ll ask Heather. Yessir, that’s the ticket right there. We’ll fix you for good, boy, if it’s the last thing I do. You’ll see. You will see.”
Oh.
Oh, I do see now.
Satisfied with his lessons, he lies back and guzzles the rest of his beer in bliss. I keep silent. Le
ss chance of him remembering the conversation in the first place, because the heat has made him extra-drunk, extra-fast, and within minutes he’s passed out.
At last.
The sun weighs the sky down.
I fan my chest with my shirt, close my eyes, and float. We bob up and down. Water slaps the aluminum sides; the faint breeze brushes my hair. Feels like we’re the only two people on the planet right now, floating in the middle of nothingness.
“This is nice,” I would say.
“Yes, it is,” Dad would say.
“Being here with you,” I’d say.
“The Dynamic Duo,” he’d say.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“So much to explore.”
“So much adventure.”
“Together,” we’d say.
“You’re a good kid. Just the way you are.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you, too, bud.”
Dad snoregurgles me out of my dreamstate.
I look at him, wipe my face. “I’m sorry you chose me,” I say. “And not Mom.”
I float alone.
Take my shirt off, let the sun burn through me, burn me away.
Close my eyes and float.
37.
“DAMN, BOY, YOU LOOK like a lobster. Put your shirt back on.” Dad’s swatting me with his fishing hat.
Oh, he’s right. I sit up and inch into my T-shirt, now sewn-together pieces of sandpaper scratching my raw skin.
“What time is it?” I ask, still trying to find my brain in my body. The sun somehow flew across the sky, kissing the edge of the earth.
“How should I know? I ain’t no Roman philosopher.” Okay, no idea what that means, but whatever. Dad’s already thrown his shirt back on. I think he must have dunked it in the lake first because it’s stuck to his skin like a piece of plastic wrap. Not a bad idea actually. Who cares if there’s toxic waste in the water, at least it’ll cool the sting and the fact it feels like I’m CURRENTLY BEING BARBECUED BY THE THREE HILLBILLIES.
Oh man.
Before I can tear mine off, though, he’s thrown me the oar. “Hurry up and paddle back. Heather’s treatin’ us at DQ. Don’t wanna be late for supper.” Sure don’t. Guess the fishing trip’s been canceled. Fine by me. He cracks open another beer and we float back in silence, save for the sweet melody of coughs and guzzlebelches . . .
As we near the shore, I see it: A barely visible stream of smoke drifts skyward from behind Web’s house! Close my eyes, count to five, open them again. It’s still there. Which means it’s true: I did see him last night and I can—
“Hey, watch it, boy!” Dad grabs the oar from me, pushes against a rock we were seconds from smashing into.
“Sorry!”
“Pay attention, dammit.”
“Sorry.”
“Jesus.”
“Sorry.”
The tin-can trailers are only yards away now. Focus. You got this, Collins, you got this, you got this—
The second we reach land, I bound off the boat and nearly fall to my knees, kissing every rock onshore. But I don’t. It would ruin my plan.
“Get changed,” Dad says once we’re inside the trailer. “We’re leavin’ soon.”
I take a breath, exhale a Dulick-presentation sigh. “I don’t feel well. I’m going to stay here and sleep. Too much sun.” Please let this work.
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Then: “Your loss,” he says.
I almost grab him and hug him and start dancing his freaky Gilligan’s Island jig. Don’t. Would be a dead giveaway. But my heart’s like a zeal of zebras racing from a lioness. I crouch on the bed, holding my knees against my chest to hide it.
Another hour passes before he leaves. I wait for him to drive away before peeking out the trailer’s window. And then I wait eleven minutes more, just in case it’s a sneak attack and he returns. He doesn’t.
Okay, I don’t have long. Superhuman Speed: Activate.
I slink into my Pink Floyd T-shirt and black shorts, pull up my tube socks to cover the sunburn, fling my satchel over my shoulder—OW, HOLY FIREBALLS, BATMAN—grab my records, and peek outside.
Nothing. No one’s around. Go.
This is it.
This may be my only chance to see him.
38.
THE CICADAS BEGIN THEIR ceremonial rattle through the wind. Quietly at first, calling to each other, then they slowly crescendo until the wind itself is trembling through me.
Each step closer to him I feel more like Holden Caulfield. Like a goddamned phony. Like I’m crossing an invisible line of betrayal to a place I don’t belong—
Wait. What am I going to do? Apologize to him? For what? For being the Supreme Asshole of All Time? He wouldn’t hear it. And I wouldn’t blame him. This is crazy. Stupid. Sick. That’s the word. Sick. I should go back.
I look at his house. My brain says, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Collins?” My heart says, “GO, MAN, GO.”
I go.
The cicadas grow silent, and with them the wind. Dead. Like they know.
It’s still and black. There’s no moon out tonight. Perfect.
I round the corner. Mumbles and murmurs and a soft boom of laughter, like distant thunder: his grandfather. A soft orange glow illuminates the blackness behind their house. SweetZiggy, my hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets.
Boards still cover the windows, and now the front door, too. A light flickers inside, one you can’t see from across the lake. A few steps are splintered and missing. Soiled wrappers and broken bottles litter the front. Asshole polluters of the world.
I tiptoe like a loon, stopping each time I reach one of the wooden stilts holding up the house. Count to three, move forward. I wore all black so I’d blend in. Instead, I look like some wacky robber from the movies. Okay, this is decidedly the worst idea ever spawned by man. What am I doing over here? This is serious lock-me-up-and-get-the-death-penalty stalker crap.
Still, I peek through the bushes.
Three people sit around a small firepit dug in the sand. His grandfather’s face glows like a piece of fossilized amber. His hair disappears in the night. I only know it’s there because the ends look like blackbirds fluttering on his shoulders. He wears denim shorts and a REO Speedwagon T-shirt, the one with the blue angel wings. Cool.
“The look on his face,” he says. He throws his hands up and makes this face where his eyes bulge out real big and says, “Aooooggga!”
Everyone laughs.
I can only see the backs of the other two. They wear black windbreakers like Web’s. But neither one of them is Web. Maybe he’s inside, but I can’t go in. This is stupid. I have to get out of here before anyone notices, before they call the cops. I’m going.
I smack right into his bare chest.
“Hey.”
“JESUS!” I slap my hands over my mouth.
A supernova explodes in my heart. Is it possible to be frozen while everything inside you feels like it’s melting to goo? Just curious.
“Ouch,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Your face. You look like a can of Coke.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Too much sun today—out there in the—stupid sun, heh-heh . . .” My wrists ignite. I squeeze them, trying to smother the sting. I know I can’t think this, but—Oh man. His eyes. How could I have forgotten those deep brown eyes. Like two Hershey’s Kisses I want to lick and slowly melt in my mouth. And his skin. I swear it glimmers. Probably tastes just as sweet as it looks, like golden honey, and—ZAP. NO. STOP. You are here for one reason and one reason only: to apologize. Form the words, get them out, and get out before it’s too late.
“Did you just eat sour-cherry candies again?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh.”
“So, you stalkin’ me, man?”
“What? No! Sorry! I mean, I just came over to tell you that I’m sorry. Here—” I shove the records in his chest. “I mean . . .” God, this is harder than I thought. “I wanted to give you these . . . as a sorry-gift? . . . I guess . . . I don’t know, I just thought you’d like them . . . maybe . . .”
He holds the albums, staring at me. He’s a few inches taller than me and my cheek would nestle perfectly into his chest— No.
“Also . . . yes, okay,” I say. “I did want to see if you were alright and all that, and it appears you are, which is a really great thing and, yeah, okay, fine, I might be stalking you. A little.” Help me.
He doesn’t say anything. Okay, time to go.
“Anyway, Web. I really am sorry. You deserve better. A better friend. You don’t even have to forgive me. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t . . .”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. Maybe it’s a sign of affection. I swallow back. He does nothing. Maybe not. Right, okay. You said it. Now go. “I’ll see you around—”
“Carole King’s Tapestry?” He flips through the records. “One of my favorites . . .”
“Oh. Yeah. I remember you said that, so—”
“And the infamous Roberta Flack, huh?”
“Yeah . . . I mean . . . you haven’t really lived until you’ve heard her. It’s—”
“Aladdin Sane?” He looks at me.
“You have it already?”
“No, man. It’s just . . . isn’t it your favorite?”
“Well, I mean . . . he’s the grooviest, obviously, and he really helps me when I’m—I mean I thought he could help you now . . . maybe . . .” Ziggy lifts his eyes and winks. “I want you to have it.”
Ziggy, Stardust and Me Page 18
