by Paul Levine
Okay, Steve, you were picked off. Your team lost. What's it have to do with us?
But she didn't want to appear critical. What was it her mother had said?
"A woman must support her man."
She wrapped both arms around his neck and moved so close, their noses nearly touched. "I understand, sweetheart. You feel your life has been a lie."
"Well, not my whole life. But I feel so much better telling you what really happened."
"So that our relationship can move to a new level?" Prompting him, trying to make it easier.
"What level is that?"
"I thought you wanted to open up, discuss feelings, remember?"
"Yeah. I was feeling bad and now that I told you the truth, I feel better."
"You feel better?" She took a step back, astonished. "What about us? What about words like 'love' and 'plans' and 'future'? Where do I fit into your life now that we know you were picked off fair and square?"
Steve seemed startled. He took a gulp of his beer, then moved toward the window. In the yard, white smoke billowed from the hibachi. Either a new pope had been selected, or it was time to put on the steaks.
He turned to face her. "Vic, all these years, I never told anyone else what really happened in that game. I couldn't have told you if I didn't love you."
"Keep going, partner. What else?"
"I'm sorry I've been such a jerk about moving in together. I figured everything was good the way it was. We each had our own space, and I was afraid that if something changed, we'd be headed for the great unknown. So I guess I was scared."
"And now?"
"Life is the great unknown, isn't it? If we shy away from risks, we're running from life."
"So you do have plans? For us, I mean."
"My mind's full of plans, except I call them 'hopes.' When we met, I didn't dare plan you'd want to be with me. But sure, I hoped you would. Even when we got together, my hopes all came with fears. The biggest one, you'd wake up one morning and realize you'd made a gigantic mistake. So I couldn't talk about any of this. Even now it's hard for me to believe you want to live with me and help me raise Bobby. As for the future—well, I've got hopes there, too."
She didn't know how far to push him, but she couldn't leave that hanging. "What sort of hopes?"
"You know, permanent stuff."
"Yeah?"
"Marriage. Kids." His voice a whisper.
"Is that what you really want, Steve?" Asking ever so gently, trying not to frighten him.
"Someday," he said quickly. "If all goes well."
Okay, a tiny retreat. But he'd moved a mile forward and only one step backward. Once you say "marriage," the word can't be erased.
Victoria took both Steve's arms and wrapped them around her waist, because the poor guy seemed incapable of movement. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. As their lips touched, she murmured, "Those are my hopes, too."
She kissed him again and their bodies folded into each other, the contours fitting perfectly, a yin and yang of man and woman. "And by the way, I've studied those photos from the game. You did get in under the tag."
"No, Vic. I remember the glove hitting my hand."
"You remember wrong, lover. You were safe. You've always been safe."
Thirty-Four
A THUMP IN THE NIGHT
Several hours after the words "marriage" and "kids" tumbled from his mouth like skydivers leaping from a plane, Steve Solomon took stock of his life.
I'm a happy man.
Strike that, Madam Court Reporter. "Happy" doesn't quite say it. I'm a living beer commercial. I'm playing volleyball on the beach with the woman I love.
He had shared his feelings with Victoria and it hadn't hurt. They loved each other and had recommitted. They were about to take the giant step of buying a place and moving in together. Steve, Victoria, and Bobby. A ready-made family.
Bobby seemed happier at dinner, too. Steve made him laugh, and the kid worked up his first anagram in a week. Who knew that "President George Bush" could be rearranged to spell "The person is buggered"?
Now Victoria lay alongside Steve in bed. They had eaten their steaks and polished off an entire pie. They had talked some more in the bedroom, had made love, talked some more, made love again, and talked even more.
Steve was just drifting off to sleep, thinking he wouldn't trade places with anyone else in the world, when he heard the thump. There was a steady breeze, and sometimes a giant palm frond would break loose from the tree and sideswipe the house on the way to the ground. But that sound was different. He felt too tired and content to get up, but he did, anyway.
The house was dark, and he was naked. He reached under the bed, grabbed an aluminum softball bat, and padded out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, he peered through the sliding glass door. The backyard was an ominous greenish black, the foliage backlit by a neighbor's powerful anticrime spotlights. Something seemed different, but what was it?
It only took a second. The grill cover was on the ground. A metal lid, it should have been leaning against the house, where he'd left it. But it had been moved, maybe two feet, as if someone walking along the house in the dark had stumbled over it.
Steve unlocked the glass door, slid it open, and slipped outside, gripping the bat in his right hand. It was light and whippy. He could crush someone's skull with it, no problem.
He smelled something burning. What the hell?
Cigarette smoke.
Then a woman's voice, out of the darkness. "You've gotten bigger since you were nine."
Heart racing, Steve wheeled around, ready to swing the bat.
"Over here, Stevie."
He wheeled the other way and saw the glow of the cigarette and a heavyset figure reclining on the chaise lounge.
"Jesus, Janice! What are you doing here?"
"Here. Take this." She sat up in the chaise and tossed a towel at him. "You remember how Mom always made me give you a bath when you were little? You hated it."
Steve wrapped the towel—wet and cold—around his waist. "You stoned, Janice? What the hell's going on?"
"Clean and sober. I came to see Bobby."
"In the middle of the night?"
"It's the only time we can talk without you hovering over us like a wicked stepmother. Or stepuncle, or whatever the hell you are."
"I'm his caregiver. I'm his father and his mother, and I'd rather see him raised by wolves than by you."
"You're so great at it, where the hell is he?"
"In bed. Sleeping."
"Yeah, well, I just rapped on his window for ten minutes and he ain't there."
Steve's first thought was that Bobby was sleeping so soundly, he didn't hear Janice at the window. But no, the kid was a nervous sleeper. A car door slamming down the block, a police siren on Douglas Road, a teakettle whistling . . . everything woke him up.
A second later, Steve raced into the house and down the corridor. He threw open the door to Bobby's room and flicked on the lights. The bed was messed. And empty.
"Bobby!" Steve yelled. "Bobby! Where are you? Bobby!"
Thirty-Five
ON BEING A MAN
Steve paced in the living room. Victoria made coffee. Janice smoked.
"Here's what we know," Steve said, straining to be analytical, fighting the fear. "Bobby's bike is gone. That's a good sign. If he'd been snatched, he wouldn't be on his bike."
Steve wanted to believe he was right. When he'd seen the empty bed, his first searing thought was that Kreeger had kidnapped the boy. But no, the bike changed all that.
"That Juban princess," Janice said. "Maybe he went over to her house, and we'll find him up a tree."
"The Goldbergs live a block away," Steve said. "He wouldn't ride his bike. But we gotta check it out anyway. I'll walk over there."
"Not with the restraining order." Victoria came out of the kitchen, carrying a pot of coffee on a tray. "You can't go near their property. I'll do it."
"I'll go
along," Janice said.
"No. You'll just start a fight," Steve said.
"Me? You're the one who busted the guy in the mouth."
"Stop it, both of you!" Victoria said it with such authority that they both clammed up. "Time's wasting. I'll go alone. Call me on the cell if anything—"
The doorbell rang. At this time of night, it was a sound as chilling as a scream. Steve's imagination took flight. He pictured a police cruiser, a young officer gnawing his lip, a sorrowful look on his face.
"Are you the next of kin of a boy named Robert Solomon?"
Steve hurried to the door and threw it open.
Myron Goldberg stood there in his bathrobe and sneakers. His wife was half a step behind him.
"Maria's missing!" Eva shoved her spouse aside. "Desaparecida!"
Steve's spirits soared. "That's great, Eva!"
"What!"
"Is she here?" Myron asked.
"No. Bobby's missing, too. But that means they're together. It means they're okay."
"But where?" Myron said. "Where could they be?"
Eva pushed through the open door. "If you put them up to this, Solomon—"
"Back off, bitch." Janice walked into the foyer.
"I should have known," Eva said. "Are you behind this?"
"What's the big frigging deal? They'll be back when they're done." Janice gave Eva a double-chinned grin. " 'Course, they ain't gonna be virgins no more."
"Puta," Eva snarled.
"Okay, everybody relax," Steve said. "Let's work together on this. Myron, is Maria's bike gone?"
"I don't know. We didn't look."
"I'm betting it is and they're within a couple miles of home. Where does Maria usually ride?"
"The two of us go down Old Cutler," Eva said. "The path to Matheson Hammock."
"Bobby knows the place, too. That's a start. I'll drive down there, but we'll need people at each of our houses."
"Janice and I will stay here," Victoria said.
Meaning the Goldbergs should head home. Smart, Steve thought. Otherwise, Janice and Eva would surely end up mud wrestling before daybreak.
It only took Steve a minute to step into his running shorts and a T-shirt. He was headed to the door when Janice said: "I need a drink, Stevie. You got any liquor?"
"Bottle of Jack Daniel's above the bar."
"Looked there. Didn't see any Jack."
Steve wasn't about to start searching for whiskey for his sister. But as he got into the Mustang, he wondered about it. What happened to that new bottle of Jack Daniel's, the expensive one, Single Barrel?
* * *
"Ooh, that's strong," Maria said, sipping at the golden liquor. She took another swig, then passed the bottle to Bobby. "Bourbon, right? My dad drinks it."
"Sour-mash whiskey," Bobby corrected, "but people call it bourbon." He raised the bottle to his lips, took a gulp. His eyes watered as the liquid seared his throat.
They were walking at the edge of a mini–rain forest inside Fairchild Tropical Garden, navigating a tangle of woody vines thick as high-transmission wires. It was spooky in the dark, especially if you've seen those movies where killers in hockey masks jump out from behind trees.
Bobby screwed the top back on the bottle and they continued through the forest. They wound their way past towering ficus trees, giant ferns brushing against their knees, sneakers sinking into the moist earth. Bobby carried a flashlight, but that only made the shadows deeper and scarier. He slipped and nearly fell. Totally uncool, but Maria didn't laugh. Then, hopping over a slippery log, he lost his grip on the flashlight. The beam skittered off to one side, and for a split second Bobby thought he saw the shape of a person, someone looking their way. But when he picked up the flashlight and pointed in that direction, no one was there.
He shook it off. This was maybe the best night of his life, and it was just beginning. An hour earlier, when they had gotten on their bikes, Maria took the ball cap from Bobby's head and put it on, tucking her hair in. The gesture, so feminine, made Bobby's heart ache. Maria was wearing short-shorts and a pink sleeveless T-shirt that had "Spoiled" spelled out in rhinestones with a glittery heart dotting the "i." In the light of the street lamps, her complexion was the color of café Cubano, heavy with cream.
They had ridden their bikes along the Old Cutler path, going airborne where the roots of banyan trees poked up through the asphalt. In the moonlight, Bobby watched the gentle curve of Maria's calves as she pedaled, could see a line of smooth caramel skin above her shorts. She was hot, so totally hot. He couldn't believe he was here.
"The next full moon. The rain forest at Fairchild. You'll score, I promise you."
Dr. Bill had told him that. He knew so much that Uncle Steve didn't. Or maybe Uncle Steve knew but wouldn't tell him. Like girls getting hot at the full moon, even girls who weren't hoochies to start with.
They'd ridden down Old Cutler to Matheson, crossing a marshy hammock, inhaling the salty smells, listening to the croaking frogs and the creaking insects. Then, standing alongside a tidal pool, a full moon dangling over the bay, they'd kissed.
The kiss was tentative, Bobby leaning in, waiting for Maria, hoping she'd join the action. She did, smelling of oranges and vanilla, her mother's perfume. The second kiss was softer, slower, wetter, deeper. He'd gotten a raging boner.
Slammin' idea, Dr. Bill.
They'd started hitting the Jack Daniel's then. Rocket fuel, ninety-four proof, according to the label. Bobby's stomach was a little queasy, and his forehead felt sweaty. What they needed was something to eat.
"Bring along something to drink. Vodka or rum or bourbon. The higher the proof, the better. Loosen her up."
But Dr. Bill hadn't said anything about food. Pretzels and chips would have been good. Maybe a blanket, too. And condoms?
But where would he get condoms, anyway? Uncle Steve didn't use them. Bobby had seen Victoria's birth control pills in the bathroom, looking like little candies in a Pez dispenser.
After three swigs of bourbon, two hiccups, and five wet kisses, Bobby and Maria got back on their bikes, rode back through the hammock, then down the path to Fairchild. The gates were locked, so they hid their bikes in a hibiscus hedge and climbed over a fence. Now they were headed through the rain forest toward the tropical fruit pavilion to find something to eat.
The pavilion was a giant greenhouse with a roof shaped like a pyramid to accommodate large trees.
The door was unlocked, and once inside, Bobby set about picking fruit. The lichees and passion fruit he recognized, but he needed to read the little signs stuck in the ground for the rest: jackfruit, langsat, sapodilla, and a bunch of others, scaly and unappetizing.
They sat on a grassy patch, nibbled the fruit, and drank more of the whiskey, kissing between nibbles. The passion fruit was tart, the tiny black seeds crunchy. The jackfruit was spicy hot and the lichees sweet like grapes. None of it went that well with the whiskey. Bobby lay back on the grass, looking at the treetops that seemed to be swaying in the breeze, but there was no wind here.
I'm dizzy. Dizzy from whiskey and kisses that taste like passion fruit.
Maria was talking about a girl at school, a total slut, who after P.E. used a banana to show her posse how to, you know, go down on a guy, but she gagged on it, then spit it up so that it squished out her nose.
"Totally grossed everybody out," Maria said. The story didn't make Bobby's stomach feel any better.
Maria was giggling, going back over details of the banana episode. Bobby was half listening, when he thought he heard the door to the pavilion squeak open, but maybe not. A moment later, Maria leaned over and kissed him again. Then, he wasn't quite sure how it happened, they were lying on the grass, their legs wrapped around each other, kissing and moaning and rubbing their bodies against each other.
Bobby let a hand slip under Maria's T-shirt, but she latched on to his wrist and pushed him away. A second later, he feinted with that hand, then sneaked the other hand under the shirt—If Pi
ckett had used a similar zigzag, the Battle of Gettysburg would have turned out way differently—and a second later, he had hold of her bra. The fabric was cottony soft, and he could see the top of it peeking out of her shirt.
Pink brassiere. The letters rearranged themselves in his brain. BARE PENIS RISK.
He tugged at the bra.
"Bobby, don't."
Remembering what Dr. Bill had told him. "Man is the hunter. Man kills the game and takes the female of his choice."
"No, Bobby." She pushed his hand away again. Firmly, the way mothers teach them, Bobby figured.
"C'mon, Maria. You want it. I know you do."
Hearing the doc's voice now, as if he were right here watching. "When she says no, she means maybe. When she says maybe, she means yes."
"Bobby, I like you. I really do. But let's just kiss for now."
Sweat poured out of him, and his stomach heaved. But his boner was so hard, it had started to hurt. He took her left hand in his right hand and pinned it to her side. Then he slid his left hand around her back and tried to unfasten her pink bra.
"Bobby! No!"
She wriggled left and right, but maybe she just wanted to excite him more.
"The female always yields to the strong man."
He couldn't unsnap the damn thing, so he yanked the bra, and it slipped halfway around her torso.
"Ouch! Bobby, what are you doing?"
"Be a man, Robert. Take what you want. Maria will love it. Trust me. I know."
"You'll love it, Maria," Bobby said, deepening his voice. "Trust me. I know."
Thirty-Six
WHAT GIRLS WANT
The air should not smell so sweet on a night like this, Steve thought.
Top down on the Mustang, the scent of jasmine in the moist air, a full moon ducking in and out of clouds, he drove down Old Cutler Road, more worried than he had let on to the others.
With all the chaos swirling around—Janice and Kreeger, Victoria and Irene, Freskin and Goldberg— Steve wondered if he had been spending enough time with Bobby. Had he let his own problems distract him from the number one priority in his life?
