by Bill Cameron
Something about the video rings a bell, but I can’t pull the memory up. I make a mental note to Google it later. Eject.
The only disc label that differs from the rest is the one which reads PM on SdT. At a loss, I stick it in the DVD player. Another auto-play.
The show is called Stravaganza del Talento. High-speed gibberish spills from the TV, Spanish maybe. I don’t know. Three people who must be judges, American Idol-esque, sit bantering in front of an audience. A foreign version of Ryan Seacrest is on stage. He talks for a minute or two, grinning and waving his arms. I pick up one word which I think sounds familiar, but I don’t realize what it is until the music starts.
Philip.
He’s a lot younger, maybe nine or ten. But there’s no doubt. He’s scraping his violin, as good then as he is now—to my ear, at least.
I watch, transfixed. The camera views bounce all over the place, from the judges to Not Ryan to the crowd and back to Philip. The audience is vocal and appreciative. Then it hits me. They’re speaking Italian.
“I saw Italy,” Duncan said. He must have been talking about this video.
The camera flashes on two women in the front row and it all makes sense. Sort of.
Okay. Not really.
Bianca Santavenere and Mrs. Huntzel—smiling, excited, hands clasped before them. Bianca’s face is less warped and orange. There’s no gray in Mrs. Huntzel’s hair. When Philip finishes, to nutbag applause, the camera shows the two again, this time hugging each other.
A moment later, the video ends. I turn off the television and sit, silent, on Mrs. Huntzel’s bed.
I have no fucking idea what’s going on. But I gotta wonder if this video is why Duncan is dead.
2.10: Suck For a Buck
I spend an hour or three pacing Kristina’s floor, talking myself in and out of going to Duncan’s wake. There may be a few people who actually give a shit what happened to him, but for most it’s just an excuse for a party. Like anyone needs an excuse.
But as daylight fails, morbid curiosity and/or my text promise to Trisha overcomes good sense and I pull out Ferrell’s flyer. Because Katz Learning Annex is a magnet school, the students live all over town. In the Learn Something New Everyday category, the flyer tells me Yancy Krokos shares a backyard with the Huntzels. Sure, the backyard is Mount Tabor—all two hundred acres—but still.
It’s full dark as I climb down from the park into the steep backyard of Chez Krokos, an uninviting hive seemingly constructed from stacked shipping containers. The exterior is half glass, half rust-streaked steel—the landscaping faux-naturel to the point even a dandelion seems planned. Signs inform me all wastewater is recycled; the house is heated by passive solar and compost. Sunset magazine did a feature.
In other words, an ideal location for a Katz Karouse.
The house is one box after another, each space sparsely furnished with objects of no apparent use. The floors look like cork, the walls are colored panels pop-riveted onto metal studs. I don’t see any smoke detectors.
Katzoids swarm through every room. The chatter sets me on edge, both the noise and topic: Duncan. In what might be the dining room, Somers and Ferrell pass around growlers of beer home-brewed from Honey Nut Cheerios. My nose wrinkles at the scent of clove cigarettes. Beth Black offers me a drink from a flask with Hello Kitty printed on the front. Vanilla schnapps.
“You’re late, Joey.”
“The flyer said six till whenever.” I hand her the flask and grab a cup of Somers/Ferrell ale to kill the taste of schnapps. “It’s nowhere near whenever.”
“Trisha didn’t think you were going to come.”
A hitch in her voice fills me with sudden anxiety. A burst of laughter and the pulse of house music sounds from deeper in the hive.
“Where is she?”
Beth’s eyes flick toward the opening leading to the next container. “Joey…” I leave her and head into a dim, crowded room with a view of the Tabor hillside. A pounding drum track assaults my ears and I blink at the sight of Trisha on a low table in front of a gas firepit. She’s wearing a black skirt and a white tee-shirt dotted with buttons, which glow beneath an overhead UV light. Blue flames silhouette her dark figure as she performs a slow, rhythmic dance, arms twisting over her head. Onlookers—mostly guys—cheer and hoot, or maybe they’re egging each other on. When I draw near, the buttons resolve into Lifesavers, most sewn over her breasts. A hand-written sign on the table reads:
SUCK FOR A BUCK
No Hands!!!
She spots me and reaches out, fingers beckoning. “Jo-o-o-oey!” Her eyes flare in the black light. “You want a Lifesaver? Only a buck. Lips only, no teeth!” A few damp threads indicate she’s already made some sales.
If the world felt upside down with Kristina at the Square, I don’t know what it is now.
“Me first!” Sketch Echols pushes through the crowd and throws a wadded up bill onto the table at her feet. As Trisha bends over for it, he grabs her ass. Hoots and shouts greet the move as he jumps onto the table. She spins around, the dollar bill forgotten, and smacks at Sketch’s grabby mitts.
“I said no hands.”
“What’ll a hundred buy?” He’s a foot taller than Trisha, looming and wraith white next to her.
A shadow passes over her face. “Read the sign…” Her voice drops; I can barely hear her over the music. “…asshole.” Bodies press closer to the table. I look around and spot Denise and Courtney in a far corner, engrossed in conversation. Courtney’s face is a mask of grief. Neither seems aware of what’s going on.
“Lighten up, girl.”
Sketch is typical Katz glitterati, right down to the fedora and lensless horn-rimmed glasses. Last year, after his parents bought him an eighteen-hundred-dollar digital SLR for an elective photography class, he traded it for a baggie of Adderall and turned in a portfolio shot with a one-dollar app on his iPhone. Word is his folks didn’t blink since he came home with all E’s that term. He’s six-six and wire thin, too noisy during his quiet moments. Right now, his bullshit is deafening.
“Two hundred!” As Sketch lunges at her, I push through the crowd, snag his arm.
“Keep your hands to yourself.” I spit the words through clenched teeth.
He spins, wrenching his arm free. “Is a bitch trying to talk to me?” At my back, his bros laugh. He grins their way, head tilted back so he can see out from under the rim of his idiot hat.
Heat boils up my spine. “You heard me, fucklips.”
Someone jams me from behind. I hold my ground and throw an elbow from my hip. The whuff at my back is satisfying, but then fingers grab my arms, pull me away from Echols. I twist and fight back.
A voice in my ear shouts, “Watch out, Sketch. He hit Duncan last year and now he’s dead.” People seem to think that’s hilarious. I whip my head back, crack a chin. As the hands slide off my arms, I jerk forward. Sketch grabs me around the middle before my shoulder drives through his gut, but the momentum is all mine. He staggers, realizes too late his feet have found the table’s edge. He topples over and pulls me after him. We land on the cork floor with a whump, most of my weight slamming into his chest. I’m on my feet again in a heartbeat. From his back, Sketch kicks out at me. I catch the ball of his foot with my hip, twist away from the follow-through. As I raise my arm, some part of me thinks about how this is supposed to be a party in honor of the last guy I pummeled. Sketch Echols is far more deserving of a beatdown than Duncan ever was.
“Stop—!”
Trisha’s shout is so loud and piercing everyone in the room goes quiet. Only the throbbing music continues. On the table, Trisha stands rigid, arms tight at her side.
Sketch untangles himself from below me, scrambles to his feet. He throws a shoulder into my back, but when I don’t react, he turns his attention to Trisha. “Yo, bitch, I bought me some coconut—”
A s
udden storm rises in her eyes. “You didn’t buy me.” I can’t tell if she’s yelling at Sketch, or me. Both of us, maybe. “I’m not for fucking sale!”
Or neither of us.
The desolation in her voice smothers the fight in me. My hands drop, my fists uncurl. It’s like she’s gazing at me from a deep, dark place. Trisha, I remind myself, is why I’m here. Sketch Echols is nothing more than an empty bag of wind.
I suck in a deep breath. “You’re right, Trisha. I’m sorry.”
From behind me, Sketch’s rage charges the air like static. “You know what, orphan? Fuck your sorry.”
Something in Trisha’s face changes. Sketch’s words seem to drain the spirit out of her. She sags, all but falls off the table. I catch her in my arms.
“I want to go.”
“Let me help you—”
“I don’t need any help.”
But she leans into me. Where her cool hands grip my neck and arms, my skin feels alive. As I guide her through the crowd, I spot Sketch stalking through the doorway into the next shipping container. He glares over his shoulder at us. I meet his stare with cold resolve. It probably didn’t occur to him I’m not the only orphan in this room. Or maybe it did. Either way, he’s lucky I have someone more important to worry about right now.
2.11: The Department of Things Best Left Unsaid
In an act of mercy, someone switches the music to acoustic guitar. Most everyone finds somewhere else to be. Trisha and I are left with blue flames in the firepit and a few people at the margins, oblivious to the scene that just unfolded. “I was being an entrepreneur.” The trill in Trisha’s voice tells me she’s been drinking. “My dad is an entrepreneur.”
Her Baileys-scented breath warms my neck. Hard as pebbles, Lifesavers press through my shirt. A few pop off, bounce across the cork. No one bothers to give chase.
I make eye contact with Denise, still talking to Courtney in the corner. Her cheeks are taut, but her gaze loose. “Can you find her a shirt?”
Denise hesitates for a moment, as if she wants to say something, but then hands Courtney her cup and disappears through a shadowed doorway. Courtney meets my gaze, but misinterprets my anxiety. “I didn’t have a chance to get your goddamn computer, okay?”
At the moment, my laptop is the last thing on my mind. Before I can say so, a shout from the next room—“Is it too late for a suck?”—causes Trisha to cringe.
“Can we go, please?”
“Denise is getting you another shirt.”
“I have one in my bag. Where’s my bag?”
“I have it, honey.” Denise reappears and pushes an oversized leather purse into my hand. I guide Trisha from the room. A nervy titter trails us through the house. Trisha doesn’t seem to notice. I pick a path through shipping box after shipping box until I reach the sliding steel door leading to the front porch. A frosty clutter of stars hangs overhead.
We’re alone at last. Trisha leans against the wall next to the door. “I’m okay. Give me a second.” The only light is the glow of east Portland stretching away below us. Somewhere down there is the Boobie Hatch. I turn back to Trisha.
She holds her head in her hands for the space of a dozen breaths. The tension seems to bleed out of her. Finally she pulls off the tee-shirt and drops it, oblivious to the cold.
She catches my stare. Not all of her is oblivious.
“Don’t pretend you’ve never seen a bra outside a Victoria’s Secret catalog.”
This isn’t the moment to mention Kristina. Trisha takes a wobbly step. “I have an idea.” She starts to slip sideways. I reach out to catch her, snag a finger in her bra strap.
“I’m sorry.”
She rights herself. “Oh, shut up.” Her eyes scan the dark porch. “Where’s my bag?”
I hand it to her. She finds a sweater and pulls it over her head. “I didn’t ask to be rescued, you know. Sketch Echols is the least of my worries.”
Before I can respond, she charges down the steps to the street.
“You coming?”
I catch up with her at the sidewalk. She grabs my hand and pulls me up the steep street, her breath billowing in the night air.
“Trisha, slow down.”
“I have an idea.”
“What idea?”
“We’re going to Philip’s.”
I pull up short and shake my head. “Bad idea.”
“Shut up. You have a key, right? You have a key to everything. I want to see how normals live.”
The Huntzels are anything but normal. “They won’t like—”
“So don’t tell them. It’s a castle, right? I can’t believe you don’t know how to sneak in after all these months working there.”
She turns and trots up the hill, her heels clacking on the sidewalk. I give chase, begging her to come up with another idea. She doesn’t listen. By the time we curl through the dark neighborhood on the north end of the park and come up on Philip’s house, my lungs are burning. But Trisha just laughs.
The house is mostly dark, the only lights above the exterior doors, plus a silver glow from the kitchen nook.
“No one’s home,” she says.
Chess Collective Friday. Philip might hate chess, but routine is routine.
“How do we get in?”
I sigh. “We can’t stay.”
“I just want to see. It’ll be fun.”
At least I don’t have to reveal Kristina’s entrance. I use my key on the kitchen door. The security system beep tells me no one is home. Small relief. All I can hope is Trisha gets bored quickly. As the warmth of the butler’s pantry envelops us, Caliban trots up from the basement and rubs mud off on Trisha’s calf. She bends down to scritch his scraggly head.
“Awww, what a cute dog.”
She’s clearly insane.
“Okay.” She straightens up. “Show me.”
Evidently, I’m the insane one. I give her the tour.
She’s most fascinated by stuff I never think about: Oriental rugs in the conservatory, carved woodwork over the broad doorways on the first floor. To me, those are things to fit into my schedule. Dust, sweep, polish. To her, they’re alluring evidence of wealth and security. We linger in the formal dining room. “They never actually eat in here?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“But you still have to clean.”
“It gets dusty.”
“Oh, forfend!”
The lift enthralls her, down to the basement, up to the second floor. I follow on the stairs, then along the upper hallway as she runs ahead of me. I try to stop her from opening the door the Philip’s room, too late. “He’s a slob. I’m surprised you haven’t tidied up for him.”
“I’m not responsible for personal spaces.”
“Shocking.”
She slams the door and heads toward the library. A breath catches in my throat as she passes Kristina’s door, but she doesn’t slow. We spend twenty minutes inspecting the books. She fixates on titles I never noticed: poetry by Rilke and Angelou, a biography of the pirate Jean Lafitte. Finally she passes down the north stairway to the living room. The ceramic figurines seem to confuse her.
“Isn’t this crap all granny stuff? How old is Mrs. Huntzel, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Weird. Do they actually live here? Maybe they’re squatting.” Before I can answer, she spots the liquor cabinet. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Trisha, you shouldn’t—”
“Baileys!” She opens the bottle and tosses back a slug, then thrusts it at me.
“That’s not—”
“Just drink it.”
Her laughter rings in my ears as I lift the bottle to my lips. The creamy liqueur is better than I expect. I take a second gulp. Almost immediately my head starts to swim.
She
smirks. “Drink some more, lightweight.”
“Trisha—”
“I want to see you fall down.” I try a third sip, then swallow a mouthful, coughing as she tilts the bottle in my hand. She laughs again, snagging the bottle and darting through the wide doorway into the foyer. I follow, stumbling, up the corridor to the kitchen. A trail of laughter leads me to the south stairs and down into the basement. I finally catch up with her at the vault door.
“My dad has a safe behind a picture in his den. Nothing like this, though.”
Everyone needs a hidey-hole, I guess.
She continues to the basement landing. For a moment, the lift tempts her again, but instead she heads into the rec room. The animal heads and grand piano are worth only a glance. She swigs Baileys and crosses to the couch, then turns and beckons. The only light shines from a small lamp on the mantle.
When I join her, she leans against me and I inhale a faint musk. Her hand finds my neck and she falls backward onto the couch, pulling me after her. Our lips meet and our teeth click, drawing a husky laugh from her. I feel her tongue on mine, taste Baileys and a lingering hint of cherry Lifesaver.
“Joey.” In her way, she draws my name out. “Why haven’t you ever tried to kiss me?”
A moment before, I’d have said because of The Plan, because I didn’t want to introduce another layer complexity into my life.
Now? I have no clue.
“You’re such a dumb fuck. You know that?”
