by S. E. Hinton
You two eat like horses for such skinny boys. They had heard that all their lives. Then they hit twenty and filled out, like someone had colored in an outline, and people said no wonder you two ate so much.
Mike wondered what Terry was eating this afternoon. Maybe they got something special on Sundays.
He put his sandwich down.
“I saw Amber at Dillard’s. She said to say hi.”
“I don’t need to hear from her,” Mike said. “We’ve been broke up a year.”
“Well,” said Aunt Jelly.
That last night he spent with Amber. Starting off sweet and slow like always, getting hotter and fiercer. He was settling on top of her, and then he had to go and think, “Terry can’t do this.”
And then think what Terry might be doing instead. He lost it fast, like he’d heard you could, but it was the first time for him.
The feel of someone else’s skin on his had made him sick; he had the flu, he told her, after he ran to the john to puke. And sure enough, he shook all night with chills.
He got drunk, picked a fight with Amber the next day, scared if he tried to get close to her again it would happen just the same. And the day after that. It surprised him how long she stayed with him. But she had finally left.
“So any new girl, then?”
“Maybe.” Mike didn’t mean to sound so rude. He had always loved talking to Aunt Jelly. Sometimes even more than to his own mom. Especially after the step-bastard. He had spent a lot of time at this house after the step-bastard.
But it was hard to talk to her now. The room felt so empty without Terry.
Mike shook himself like a wet dog. He had to quit thinking like this. He’d go nuts if this kept up.
Last Thursday, at the ballpark, high up in the stands, he got to thinking how when they were little, they’d come up here to drop peanuts on people. Then in high school, to cruise for girls. Then, the last few years, to watch the game.
When the crowd got up and left, Mike did too. He had no idea of the score.
“So what are you doing the rest of the day?” Aunt Jelly asked. She had seen it was no use making another sandwich.
“Change the oil in the truck,” Mike said. “Next week I’ll do yours.”
He looked after her car now, but even before he’d done most of it. Terry’d hang around and talk while Mike did most of the work. Mike didn’t mind; Terry was a good talker.
Holy shit. Was he never going to quit thinking this way? It had been over a year now.
He couldn’t lay in the grass and look up at the sky and not think, “Terry can’t do this.”
He couldn’t go fishing, play catch with the dog, stop in the grocery store, take a nice long hot shower without thinking, “Terry can’t do this.”
He got up and carried his plate and glass to the sink.
In the distance, a police siren wailed. The glass broke in the sink.
Aunt Jelly said, “Never mind, honey.”
But Mike didn’t hear.
He was back in that deserted parking lot. It was real late at night. He and Terry sat in the dark car, smoking.
“They’re late,” Mike said.
They were messing with stuff they shouldn’t have been messing with. Dealing with people they shouldn’t have been dealing with.
They knew better. They were smarter than that. All the stuff he heard later, it was true. It didn’t change a thing…
“Aw, they’ll show up. They just better have all the money this time,” Terry said.
They weren’t too nervous. After four or five times you got used to thinking nothing would go wrong.
Through the alley, across the street, you could see the lights of an all-night Jiffy Stop.
“I’m going to get a slurpie,” Mike said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Well hurry. Get me a beer while you’re at it.” Terry said. “Slurpie? Geez, Mike, how can you drink that shit?”
Mike got impatient with the clerk behind the counter. It wasn’t like he had all night. A beer and a grape slurpie, how long could that take to ring up?
The clerk was watching TV. Columbo was about to nail the murderer. And then the screen was filled with a radar map and some weather guy blithering about tornadoes.
“Goddammit!” The clerk pounded on the counter. Then he looked at Mike. Then past Mike’s shoulder. “What’s going on over there?”
There were flashing lights behind the building across the street. You could see them down the alleyway. Now there were more flashing lights coming down the street. And then they turned on the sirens.
Mike and the clerk and the two other customers watched out the glass storefront. Someone said fight. Someone said mugging. The clerk said probably a drug bust; there was so much of that around here.
Mike drank his slurpie without saying anything. When the others left, he did too.
And when the police showed up to question him the next day, he said he’d been home all night. Watching TV. Columbo. But the goddamn weatherman had ruined the whole thing.
That fit with Terry’s story, that he’d been alone. And even though Mike could have read Columbo’s plot in the TV Guide, he wouldn’t have known about the weather bulletin.
If he had been anywhere near the drug bust.
Mike couldn’t bring himself to go to the trial, see Terry all scrubbed up and in that suit he’d bought only a couple of months before, for Grandma’s funeral. To have Terry see him walking around free.
But he heard about the sentence. The fucking gun in the car added three more years. He had told Terry they didn’t need a gun in the car. Stupidass bastard.
He stared out the kitchen window at the mimosa tree in full bloom. It was a lot bigger now than when they were kids. It smelled so strong.
“I love that smell,” Terry had said. “That is pure-dee summer.”
Aunt Jelly gently pushed him aside, picked the glass pieces out of the sink and put them in the trash. She wiped her hands on a towel.
She hugged him for a minute.
“It’s such a comfort to me,” she said, “to know, at least, you’re free.”
After The Party
“Just want to say thanks for the great party.”
The female voice in Mike’s ear woke him up. He’d only been half-asleep, though, with those weird dreams mixed with memories you get when sleeping drunk. He looked toward the door and saw that it was shut.
“What time is it?”
“Close to noon.”
“People still here?”
“A few. Couple passed out in the other room. Some having breakfast. Cody’s asleep on the couch.”
“He still got his virtue?” Mike yawned.
“Still.”
Mike’s chuckle made his headache worse. About halfway through the night before it became obvious a few of poor Cody’s old girlfriends were going to give the groom-to-be one more try. The result was Cody appearing with a combination lock hung through his belt buckle.
Mike, headache or not, couldn’t help laughing at the memory of Cody’s drunken declaration: “Only Angela has my numbers. The rest of you ladies stand back.”
Good party. Damn great party.
In a minute he sighed.
“You got a nice way of saying thank you.”
“Bet you have a nice way to say you’re welcome.”
It was close to three in the afternoon when he woke up next. As bad as he wanted a beer, he had to get his teeth brushed, cold water on his face. He shook his head at the sight of his reflection. It had “good party” stamped all over it.
Someone had made an effort to clean things up—some of the dishes were washed. Had to be the girls. Mike couldn’t remember one of his buddies ever tossing an empty in the trash can. Whe
re was the chili? There had been more than enough. Someone had put it in the fridge, still in the pan. He took it out and set it on the stove, took the leftover baked potatoes out of the oven, threw them in a pot with some water to heat.
There were still a few cars in the driveway, but the only person he found in the house was Cody, sitting up now, staring blankly at a soundless basketball game. Mike sat down and handed him a cold beer.
“Where’s the rest of them?”
“I think in Bill’s camper. They decided it’d be better than the floor.” Cody sipped his beer automatically.
“The cops were here, right?” he asked after a while.
“Twice.” Mike said. “First for the music being too loud, then Starla was running around screaming her head off in the back yard. I think the neighbors thought she was being attacked.”
Cody shook his head. “I take it nobody was arrested.”
“It was pretty clear everything was consensual,” Mike said. “But they said if they had to come back again, they’d be taking people with them. At least it got quieted down.”
Mike went back to the kitchen. He couldn’t stand the noise of the mixer, so he mashed the potatoes by hand, adding cheddar cheese and a small jar of jalapeños. Then he fixed two plates with mashed potatoes covered with chili and took them back to the couch.
They ate and stared at the game.
“You sure there wasn’t any film in that camera?”
One of the girls who was losing at poker had hopped onto Cody’s lap. Mike whipped out his camera and shot off a half-dozen flashes. He had enjoyed Cody’s misery for at least an hour before he confessed to no film.
“I’m sure.” Mike heard the cars starting up in the driveway. In a few minutes Bill’s camper pulled out too.
“Great party,” Cody said. Mike was glad he thought so. In the beginning poor Cody had been so worried Angela would find out, show up, he couldn’t have any fun. And some of the teasing had bordered on mean…
“It’ll be the last one like that I’ll have,” Cody said. “Short leash from now on.”
“Yes.”
Mike’s heartbeat picked up a little at the thought of the wedding. He ran over his list in his mind. Got the tux rented. Made sure the other guys did, too. Had Cody’s plane tickets and confirmation numbers in a safe place. Would get the ring, the license from him the day before. Had part of the toast written down … Just knew it’d sound stupid…
“Good stripper,” Cody mused.
“Ought to be at that price.”
“Probably my last stripper.”
Poor Cody…
Mike went for a couple more beers. Somebody’s shirt was on the porch. Yes, he remembered now. Bill had fallen down, landed in dog shit, chasing Starla around the yard. That was when she was screaming so loud the neighbors got worried. Guess they couldn’t tell she was laughing. Damn great party…
Mike tried to get interested in the basketball game but didn’t even care who was playing.
“You nervous?”
“Not really,” Cody said.
“You sure? No more parties…”
“You remember grade school, Mike? Playing war? Then that wasn’t so much fun. Then middle school, we got so serious about baseball. Then cars … You just keep happening into different kinds of fun. Being married just seems like the most fun thing I can think of right now. The kind of fun that can last damn near forever.”
Cody’s phone started ringing, and he dug his jacket out from under the sofa cushions to answer.
“Hi, sweet thing. Nothing. Just over at Mike’s watching the game. You have a nice time at your grandma’s? Dinner at your parents? Sure. Pick you up about seven? Sure, honey. Loveya too.”
Cody put the phone back in the jacket.
“You’re whipped, man,” Mike said.
“Yep.” Cody took another pull on his beer. “Your turn next, bud.”
“Not a snowball chance.”
“Poor Mike.”
Cody got a damn goofy grin on his face. You could tell it wasn’t from remembering the party.
Jailed
“I told you I couldn’t pay you back till tomorrow.”
Mike unlocked his door. He had been real surprised to see the other bartender, Ed, waiting on his front porch when he drove up. He couldn’t figure out what the older man would be doing there.
“I didn’t come for my money,” Ed said. “I told you, no hurry.”
He followed Mike into his house without an invitation, set a box down on the coffee table.
“You got to quit running around like a chicken with its head off.”
“What?” Mike’s nerves were humming, his temper short—he hadn’t slept in three days. Yes, he owed Ed big time right now, but also he was in a really bad mood right now. The guy had better start making sense.
“You went back to the bar, didn’t you? To act it out.”
Mike stopped pacing for a second. That was where he had been. But the closed, deserted bar had provided no answers.
“Sit down,” Ed said. “Breathe.”
“What the … I am breathing.”
“No, you’re not. Sit down. Think about it. In. Out.”
Mike, too buzzed to argue, sat down, took a breath. Then another. Then another. His mind cleared a little. His heartbeat slowed. He breathed.
Ed came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses. One was water. He handed it to Mike, who drank it without protest. The other was an ice tea glass full of whiskey, and he handed that to Mike too.
“I will kill the next cop who tries to cuff me,” Mike said after a long swallow.
He looked at the marks on his wrists. There had been no need for that. He wasn’t resisting arrest.
“I don’t think so.” Ed sat in a chair across the table, opened the box. It was pizza.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re starved,” Ed said.
Mike was getting tired of this. Ed always treated him like a kid. Even called him that most of the time.
“I won’t go back to jail.”
“You won’t have to. Not for this. The guy is going to cool off, drop charges. You get paid for throwing jerks out of the bar; you were just doing your job. He swung first. There’s a dozen witnesses. You won’t even get a fine.”
Mike slugged some more whiskey. He had been real surprised to see the cops come into the bar. It wasn’t a normal occurrence. More surprised when they cuffed him, shoved him into the back seat. Surprised at his own violent reaction.
If he hadn’t been cuffed, they couldn’t have shoved him around. He had yanked at the cuffs, making them tighter.
“Hang on, kid.” From somewhere he had heard Ed’s voice. “I’ll get you out. Hang on.”
Mike’s heart had pounded. A rage flickered. He couldn’t remember being helpless like this.
“Open a window, willya?” he had said at last. The cops paid no attention, and Mike didn’t repeat his request.
If he could have gotten the cuffs off, he would have killed them. He knew it.
“Look,” Ed said now. “I’ve watched you bounce bozos outta the bar for three years. I’ve never seen you do anything you’d serve time for. You sometimes drive when you shouldn’t, that’ll do it, too. But you’re good at your job. Don’t worry.”
Mike was remembering being in the cell. The other guys hadn’t bothered him; he wasn’t the first person you’d pick to mess with. But he could not breathe in that place. He looked at his watch every two minutes, sure that hours had passed. He’d paced back and forth, like a dog on a chain.
He would have skinned himself live to get out of that place.
He was halfway through his whiskey. He finally admitted what was on his mind.
“Other g
uys get jailed. Do time. Laugh about it. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that.”
“You’re claustrophobic, kid. You know that.”
Mike hadn’t thought about it. But it was true he always had to have a window open, in a car, in a house, no matter what weather, had to work the window end of the bar. He could not get into an elevator, but Saturday night he’d been shoved into one anyway…
The pizza was half gone. He drank some more whiskey.
“Terry…” he said.
“Yeah, cousin Terry’s doing hard time, and you should be in there with him.”
Mike looked up.
“You talk more than you think when you’re drinking. And you sure as hell drink more than you know.”
“If I was in there with him maybe we could watch each other’s back or something.”
“I doubt it. You’d be in the nut bin by now. He like you?”
Mike was puzzled. They were the same age, had the same long-boned build, the same color of hair. People always took them for brothers…
“I mean with this claustrophobia thing.”
“No.”
Terry was bad about heights. Mike did not know if there were any heights in that place.
He never went to see.
Mike wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning and not wonder, first thing, if Terry was still alive.
“Well, he may come out of it okay. Some of them do. I did a year in a county jail. It was a piece of cake after ’Nam. Take off your boots.”
“Why?”
“You’re going to pass out in five minutes, and I don’t want to do it for you.”
It was hotter than hell when he woke up. It had been one of those stifling Oklahoma nights. Must be in the nineties. Was the air conditioner out? No, the small window unit was still pumping out cold.
Then he knew, without looking, that all the windows, both doors were open. It had happened before. Sometimes he even remembered doing it.
Mike rolled to sit up, rubbed his head. He was so sick of hangovers…
