Right by My Side

by David Haynes

  More later,

  Love mother

  *

  Imagine getting a letter like that. From anyone, but from your mother? I fold it up and drop it between a random page of the Ci-Cz World Book encyclopedia. There is almost never a reason to look there.

  For days I walk by the bookshelf and I see that book. I see it even when I’m in the other room doing the dishes, when I’m lying back on my bed staring at the ceiling. I see that book and think about the letter inside. The letter I can’t read again. The one I oughtn’t have read at all.

  I think about people like Rose: the quitters and cheaters of the world. I wonder should they be hated or just pitied.

  The game wasn’t going in her favor. Things as bad as they could be. So she just walks away. Which is the same as giving up, right?

  Still, I wished her well, and I meant it.

  Remember: looking back is no fair, always against the rules—even in the Bible.

  I see that book. Ci-Cz. In my mind only I tear that letter into a million billion pieces. In the desert Rose turns into a pillar of salt.

  *

  So I have more on my mind than where Big Sam parks his truck at night. To tell the truth I loved not having him around, loved having the house to myself. We would drive around all night long, all summer. The boys and I never got caught. When Sam came in—if Sam came in—he would be half asleep or half drunk. He’s a big boy. He put himself to bed.

  On August fifteenth we’d stopped for gas at the Fina station on North Lindberg. The station up along that strip by the airport where there are only airline offices, motels, and off-brand rent-a-car places. Artie was pumping the gas and Todd and I were splitting a Pepsi. This is about 8:30, and as we’re getting in the car Todd says, “Marsh, ain’t that your old man’s truck over there?”

  He points me where I see a brown Dodge over by the office of the Air View Motel.

  “Same kind, sure,” I say.

  Artie says, “Looks like Big Sam’s got himself a little something on the side.”

  “Right, muthafucker,” I say. “With your mom.”

  “Watch that stuff,” he says, and we all chase each other around the Mustang and spray each other with shook-up Pepsi foam.

  As we go to pull out on Lindberg, Todd says, “Holy shit.”

  There’s Sam, big as life, coming out of the motel office with his arm around Betty Lou. Right there for the whole world to see.

  Artie’s frozen at the wheel for what seems like hours while we watch the two of them over there in the evening’s fading light. Then, with a start, Artie floors the gas pedal like he means for us to take off and fly over there. We are saved only because Todd thinks quickly enough to turn the wheel. We spin back into the gas station, barely avoiding three cars and an eighteen wheeler.

  “You’re not gonna get me killed, asshole,” Todd yells. Then he wants to know why I’m ducked down in the back seat.

  “They’ll see us,” I say.

  “We’re the last thing they’re looking to see,” Todd sniggers.

  “Shut up,” says Artie. The wheel is clutched tightly in his fists and his eyes are full of water.

  “Calm down,” says Todd. “Just drive home. Pretend it never happened.”

  Miraculously Artie does drive, and for a long time it is quiet—Artie driving like a robot chauffeur.

  Artie pulls the car in behind Miss Ida’s. I imagine he’ll stay there now.

  As long as nobody’s talking I figure I’ll go on home. So I say good night. I start walking down the hill.

  Someone jumps me from behind, knocks me to the ground. It is Artie, sobbing and whimpering, trying to make contact with his fists. But he is weak and spindly, and I’m the overgrown moose here. Before he can do any damage I roll him over and start to pulverize him.

  “Stop it.” This is Todd hollering. He grabs me around the waist to pull me off. He can barely hold me.

  I get up, brush off and start for home again, but here comes Artie for more. I shove him back. I’m gonna whoop your ass, nigger,” I say. I knock him down, at which point Todd steps between us.

  “Enough,” he orders.

  I’m ready to really lay into him, but Todd’s got him restrained. Artie’s sobbing and gasping for breath.

  “For chrissakes, Marshall, just go home,” Todd says.

  I give them my best Sam Finney tough guy look and walk off real slow.

  *

  Sam drifts in sometime the next morning. He is as smug as ever, and why wouldn’t he be?

  I let myself get good and stewed about the whole mess.

  “I saw you yesterday,” I say at dinner.

  He raises an open-handed palm as if to say “so what?”

  “We went to the gas station. Up by the airport.” I leave it at that.

  Sam scratches his head for a little while. “Don’t play games with me, boy,” he says.

  “You shouldn’t have …”

  “Best not on your life ever tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

  I wait a while and say, “Well, anyway. Poor Artie. You know how he is about his sister.”

  “His mama,” he says. And then he says, “That’s what I said, and get that look off your face. Everybody knows that Betty Lou’s that boy’s mama.”

  Who is everybody? How do they find this stuff out? Sam wasn’t taking any questions.

  “This is horrible.” I say. “I always thought Miss Ida …”

  “You don’t know much, do you,” Big Sam says. He looks at me with a real superior look. He’s even got a smile on his face.

  “You ain’t got a problem with this, do you?” he asks.

  “No. It’s just that … people shouldn’t … it doesn’t seem right.”

  “You judge people, boy. Too harsh. You got that from your mama. Rose, she never could look past nothing. That’s wrong. You got to learn to look past people’s fault. Everybody makes mistakes. You got to learn to forgive. Now, I may not be a Christian man, but I know one thing Jesus was set on. It’s just part of being a man. Forgive and get on with life.”

  I am not like her. Not at all. And:

  “Well, if everybody is so forgiving, then why the big secret.”

  “No secret,” Sam says. “It’s just not anybody’s business. What business is it of yours who that boy’s mama is? It don’t change the way you feel about him. I hope you’re not that bad.”

  “No, sir,” I say.

  “You about a lie,” Sam says. He chuckles. “I’ve got something to take care of.” He grabbed the truck keys and left.

  *

  Who knows what Big Sam said to Betty. Whatever: that was pretty much the end of the Sam and Betty Lou thing.

  Artie, Betty Lou, and Miss Ida: three people I’d known almost my whole life. And then you find out something like this. What I know now is that it’s not what happens that gets you, it’s the way you find out what happens. Finding out, you wonder if there is something about people that you just can’t see, if everyone you know has got some terrible secret hidden away. In a way Sam is right—it does change the way you feel, but not just about the one with the secret. It makes me wonder about everyone.

  *

  The aftermath:

  As for Sam, for a while he’s around most evenings. He goes into some kind of state, though, and he’s drunk a lot of the time on Budweiser or cheap wine. The shopping is again left to me, as is everything else around the house.

  Artie stays up at the store, and Todd stays across the tracks.

  Just before school starts up I stop in at Miss Ida’s for a few groceries. Betty Lou is behind the counter.

  “Marshall, my man,” she says. She gives me a big hug. I don’t want to hug her, but she looks like she needs one: her eyes look sad and watery. She looks lost.

  “Mama,” she hollers, “look who’s here.”

  When Miss Ida comes out, Betty Lou throws a big pink satchel over her shoulder. She tells me to come see her sometime and leaves.

&
nbsp; “My poor baby,” Miss Ida says behind her. “Artie still won’t have nothing to do with her.”

  She takes my list and starts packing: cereal, chocolate syrup, canned fish.

  “Some things just ruin everything, don’t they?”

  “It seems that way,” I say to her.

  “Go upstairs and see your friend,” she says to me.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Go ahead. He’s been moping up there for days.”

  Artie lies up on the couch watching MTV. His skin is ashy-gray, either from the light or from being locked away so long.

  “Hey,” I say.

  But he just goes to his room and slams the door.

  *

  I keep saying what I learned—from this or that. It’s hard not to. When I saw Artie laying up there in the store, and he walked away from me the way he did, sure I felt sad for him, but also there was a strange feeling—a feeling just as if I had my foot on the back of his neck.

  Miss Ida says some things ruin everything.

  Power + hormones—and the world blows up.

  All of these people’s lives touched and changed. Maybe if Sam had kept his dick in his pants and maybe if Betty weren’t so ready and willing …

  Is it that some of them feel as lonely as I sometimes do? I know I don’t know what the chemistry is or how it works. If chemistry is even what it is in the first place. I know you have to worry about all these emotions. Things can get out of control, and then you’re lost.

  I believe it, too. I believe the world could blow up. Because of a Yeats poem.

  Or a good piece of fried chicken.

  8

  THE FIRST DAY of school there is a junior class meeting. Todd and I go together. Artie doesn’t show up at the bus stop, but I see his car parked on the lot in front of the school. We sit on an aisle real conspicuous so he can see us. He goes up front and sits alone.

  Already there is going to be talk: damn these Pinheads—if a booger fell out of your nose at ten it would be all over school by lunch. I want to stand up and shout “it’s just a friendly spat,” but then maybe your dad doing it with your friend’s mom might be more than a friendly spat.

  Todd lies back real low in his chair and folds his arms on his chest. He’s scoping the two hundred or so pinheads. He’s clearly got something on his mind. With him, you can never be too sure what it might be.

  Retiring queen Connie Jo calls the meeting to order. There are wolf whistles and howls all around in appreciation of the little walk to which Connie Jo treats us on the way to the podium. She clicks her heels and waves her ass in such a way that her flowery skirt sways back and forth in wide swoops. She blushes with shame, but she’s not shame at all. She is wearing entirely too many clothes for September second, but I guess she has a lot of new ones to show off quick before they go out of style.

  “Hey everybody,” she chirps, “I hope you all had a super summer. I know I did.” Connie Jo goes on to say how she is looking forward to a super year, and then goes on to remind us of what a super year we had last year, and then to remind us of all of the super things she’d planned and done for us, and then on to introduce Buzz—her “coworker”—without whom … blasé, blasé, and so on and so forth. The usual Miss America retirement speech.

  Next to me Todd mumbles “dumb bitch” and other such things, and every few minutes Artie turns around, I guess checking to see if it is in fact us and if we are indeed still here.

  “And now juniors,” enthuses Connie Jo, “I have an exciting announcement.”

  A few people yell “go for it” and “whip it out.”

  “As you know Mr. Anderson, the junior class advisor, is no longer with us.”

  A loud, insincere moan fills the air.

  “But I’m pleased to announce we have a replacement, and let me introduce our new advisor, Miss O’Hare.”

  The audience applauds wildly for Miss O’Hare who comes from backstage. Todd sits right up like a rocket in his chair. His applause is the loudest.

  O’Hare has on her no nonsense business suit—the dark blue one with the white blouse. She nods, receiving the applause cordially enough, and then puts on her glasses and gets right down to the point.

  “Thank you for that. I, too, hope you’ve had a good summer, but school has started which means it’s time to get our minds to the tasks at hand.” She reads this from a notecard. So well does she control her voice and her eyes, the Pinheads give her full attention. Or as full as it gets around here.

  “I asked our assistant principal, Mr. Shannon, for permission to form an issues discussion group. Mr. Shannon asked me to take on the role of junior class sponsor. He reminded me of all the exciting events ahead of us: the powder-puff football game, homecoming, winter fun daze, and, of course, prom. I remember my own junior class experiences.

  “The week of my prom four young people—some not much older than you are now—were shot to death on the campus of Kent State University in Ohio. Our party went on as planned and a great time was had by all.”

  At this Todd smiles broadly and rubs his hands together. The Pinheads are in various stages of confusion. Connie Jo, sitting on stage, is genuinely alarmed—you can tell this because she looks as if she were looking for someone to come up there and help her. Connie’s a trooper, though, and she smiles right through it. Ohairy goes on:

  “Well, the war’s over. Ten years now, and there aren’t National Guard troops on campuses with guns at the ready. At least I hope not. Today, instead, we have uncontrolled nuclear proliferation, world hunger, and global injustice to face.”

  Todd shakes a fist and says “yes!” real loud. Someone up front boos.

  “Don’t worry, I’m almost done,” she says pointedly. Connie Jo clenches her fists. “I want to wish you a super year: best of luck on your little dances and things. You certainly don’t need my help for them, and truthfully they interest me about this much.” Miss O’Hare indicates a small distance between her thumb and forefinger.

  Todd alone applauds; Ohairy acknowledges him with smiling eyes.

  “As always I’m available for serious discussions. Please don’t waste my valuable time on color schemes.”

  O’Hare interrupts a smattering of applause. It is led by the now standing Todd. She finishes with, “One more thing: serious candidates and issues for class elections, okay? You are dismissed to your homerooms.”

  The Pinheads stagger out mumbling and whispering to each other. Artie wanders away in the herd.

  “What a woman,” Todd says to me. He is still on cloud nine.

  “Sort of a downer for the first day of school,” I say to him.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he says. “We’re gonna set this fucker on its ear.”

  *

  Late in September Todd announces his intention of running for class president. Imagine: the nerve of a poor kid from the wrong side of even the wrong side of the tracks … I tell him this, too. Tell him that Pinheads don’t vote white trash into elected office. That doesn’t stop him. We go to tell Miss O’Hare, who says, “Perfect.”

  “We’ve got to plan carefully if this is going to work.” She starts sketching in a note pad, looking at Todd. Sometimes she stares at him, hard, as if she were trying to memorize his face. He stares right back at her, boldly, in a way I never would. In a way he wouldn’t have too long ago himself. He’s smiling and I can see the wheels in her head turning. She looks at Todd as if he were some kind of a prize, or a side of beef, and she a hungry lion.

  I’m in on the first stages of the campaign, because, for a while, Todd plays like he is still too shy to go to her office alone. That isn’t true, and it isn’t too long before he’s practically sitting on her lap, drinking in her every word. It’s embarrassing, especially when she tells him what he thinks and why he thinks it and what’s the best way to get himself elected.

  This is all on the sly, too, because in public O’Hare pretends to be neutral. Which is what she’s supposed to be.r />
  One Monday morning in October, Todd shows up at the bus stop, and there’s something different about him, I can tell, though I can’t quite tell what it is.

  “Well,” he says, smiling.

  “Did you get new glasses?” I guess.

  “Kathy took me to the city last weekend. That’s where we found these clothes. Great, huh?”

  “Kathy?” I say. He grins even bigger.

  “She says it’s okay to call her that. What do you think? Really.” He models the new look.

  “Kathy? She bought you clothes?”

  “Cheap stuff. From a second-hand place in Soulard. I spent some of my own money. I bought her a rose.” He rocks on his heels and gives me this raised eyebrow look.

  “You’re in way over your head here.” I tell him.

  I’m teasing,” he laughs. “It’s nothing like that. Really. She’s a … just really a good person. She listens to me. Like a good friend.”

  “I listen. I’m a good friend.” I say this with mock-hurt in my voice.

  “You’re ugly and you wear the same socks for a whole week.”

  This is true.

  “I see your point,” I say.

  The change in appearance takes me a while to see. You take your friends for granted that way. Sometimes you hardly see them at all. But when I do look I notice that Todd is definitely a new Todd. She’d had his hair cut just a few inches shorter, and layered in such a way that it swept back naturally to where he tucked it behind his ears.

  On the clothes she’d done something trickier. She’d replaced the army jacket with an old suit vest and suspenders over a dress shirt. Very impressive, even with the jeans.

  The overall impression: Wash U—he looked like a lot of those guys down at Washington University. It is enough to make the Pinheads, most of whom never before gave him the time of day, take notice.