A red and white flashing light on Pole Line Road gets Mr. Cody fast back into his pickup. In no time at all the pickup’s gone, and Mr. Cody’s gone, and Billie and I are breathing again.
Did he see us? Billie says.
I don’t know, I say.
He didn’t see shit, Diane says.
What about the cops? Billie says.
Your dad’s OK, Diane says. They were pulling someone over on Pole Line Road.
When Diane leaves, I reach over, take a hold of Billie’s hand. Billie and I sit there trying to get our shit together. Neither one of us can speak. I light a cigarette, one for Billie, one for me. My hands shake while I hold the match to Billie’s cigarette. I figure I should say something nice to mellow things out.
He’s gone now, Billie, I say. Your dad’s too drunk. He won’t come back.
That’s when in a moment, something else.
On Pole Line Road, past the flashing cop car, the Buick drives by. Mom’s driving the Buick, and she’s on the other side of the four-lane highway. Just as I look, the Buick’s in front of the driveway to the Kraft cheese factory. Mom’s head is stuck out the window. Her hair is flying, and she doesn’t have her face on.
I don’t say a word to Billie. Billie and I just keep sitting and smoking, trying to get our hearts back inside our chests. We smoke our cigarettes, put out our cigarettes, light two more. Billie’s got her Kleenex out again, blowing her red nose. She’s no longer breathing like she’s going to bust a placket. My breath, of course, is something else.
Where’s Kathy and Carrie? I say. We’ve got a dance to go to.
Billie opens her mouth. She’s telling me something about Kathy and Carrie, but I don’t hear a word she says.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Out the back window of the Pontiac, I see hair poking up, I see Mom. She’s walking between the Snatch Out fence and the backs of the cars. She looks in the back window of the green ’54 Mercury on Billie’s side of us.
Mom comes around the back fender of the Mercury and heads straight for Billie’s window. I quick lean across Billie, push down the lock on her door, then the door lock in the back.
My hand bumps into Billie’s Hoss Cartwright hat. When Billie looks around, I smile and say: Just in case.
I lock my side too, front and back.
Mom is walking past the Pontiac on Billie’s side. There’s nothing I can do. My heart pounding. Where’s the breath? The feeling in my arms that means I’m helpless, I go fucking catatonic.
My hand is on the door pull. At least I can keep her away from Billie.
Something happens, though. Outside Billie’s window, Mom’s face moves in close to the glass. Mom’s eyes look straight into Billie’s eyes. Then straight into my eyes. Mom’s not wearing her big plastic glasses. She’s as blind as a bat without her glasses.
Billie doesn’t move. I don’t move. We look right back. Smoke curling up from our cigarettes.
Fuck, Billie whispers.
Fuck, I whisper.
Mom’s face stays framed in Billie’s window. She just keeps staring in. The wrinkle in her forehead that starts at her hair and goes to in between her eyes isn’t there. Her jaw isn’t clenched, no ripples in her jaw. Even the wrinkles around her mouth look gone. Someone so young, a mother of long ago, looks in. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes are flecked with gold.
Mom walks on around to the front of the Pontiac, then over to the black ’58 Chevy sitting next to us on my side. She bends down, looks in the window. Then on to the next car, and the next car, and the next. All the way down the line of cars.
Rain. Another cloudburst, raining pitchforks.
In the smeared ghostly light, walking in the rain along the cars in the Snatch Out, Mom doesn’t look like a zombie or a crazy maniac.
Mom looks like a woman walking in the rain.
She looks lost.
Who knows how long Billie and I sat staring straight ahead. I mean it was like an acid trip. Body rushes. Mind warps. Jeez, I thought for sure my body had merged with the Pontiac cushions and all I was was a head sticking up like a headrest out of the front seat.
Finally, when it was long enough to know for sure that Mom was good and gone, finally, my mouth said: Fuck this waiting for Carrie and Kathy, I said. We got to get out of this place.
But as fate would have it, Billie and I would have two more visitors that night.
Carrie and Kathy, they were not.
The universe has always conspired to fuck me up.
Into the empty space on Billie’s side, a red and white ’59 El Camino backs in. Billie doesn’t see the El Camino. She’s too busy smoking, staring into space. It’s Joe Scardino’s El Camino. Scardino’s driving, and somebody’s with him. When the El Camino has backed in all the way, when Scardino shuts off the car, I look and there’s the curly dark hair, there’s his thick neck, there’s the big shoulders.
Billie is sitting four feet away from Chuck diPietro.
The feeling in my arms that means I’m helpless.
Billie goes to turn her head to the window. I squeeze her hand hard.
Don’t look now, I say. But Chuck is parked right next to you.
It’s a blow straight to Billie’s heart. Or a blow within her belly. What holds Billie up, stops holding Billie up. Billie closes her eyes and curls into the steering wheel, her arm across her belly.
In that moment, I understand so much in that moment.
It is a blow of love.
Billie Cody is in love with Chuck diPietro.
In a moment that lasts forever, all around me the world is a car wash, smeared ghostly lights and echo sounds. The top of my head is a dirt gray mushroom cloud. The rest of my body is a thick mud hole, dark midnight and mud deep and far away. I can’t climb out.
Jealousy sucks.
When I climb out, my cigarette is hot-boxed. Then, after I get my breath back, something else.
I want to slap her, hit her with my hat, open the door, kick her butt out the door. Yell at her. I want to yell at her and call her all the names my mother had called her, all the names my mother had called me, plus the C that didn’t stand for Cody but for cunt.
But a man isn’t supposed to do any of those things to a woman, let alone a pregnant woman.
And Billie isn’t just any pregnant woman. Billie is Billie. My friend.
Then what happens? I get a whiff of Billie’s French smell.
Then there is her hand, Billie’s hand with the tiny red fingernails. Her hand is trembling.
Billie? I say.
Under her Hoss Cartwright hat, over her John Lennon glasses, Billie opens her eyes.
Rig? Billie says. What am I supposed to do, Rig? We can’t just up and drive away now they’ve pulled in here.
Why not? I say. We can drive away.
It will look like we’re running away, Billie says.
What we look like.
Joe Scardino and Chuck diPietro on one side.
Billie and I on the other.
Joe and Chuck are tough and cool and hip. They have it all, beauty, balls, and confidence.
Billie and I are differnt. We’re puffy-eyed, pregnant, gawky, and limp-dicked. We are afraid of our fathers and our mothers. We are wearing stupid hats.
Fuck.
That moment. That’s when it really started to happen.
Fuck as philosophy. Fuck as a possible way to address the world.
More precisely: Fuck you.
Plus, you know what? All the men and all the women in the world you need to tiptoe around. The world is full of asshole bullies, evil bitches. But five times now, I’d fought back and came out of it alive.
Billie, I say, come on. You’re going to be fine.
Simone Signoret, I say, you can win the Academy Award for this one.
Now turn around and look diPietro in the eye.
Billie’s face. That song “Funny Valentine,” that’s Billie’s face. The smile that goes all across. Her cheeks go up,
and there’s almost a dimple.
Billie puts her cigarette out. She blows her nose, snuffs up, sits back.
Beyond Billie, in the El Camino, diPietro and Scardino are talking to a girl standing at Scardino’s window.
Billie is saying fuck fuck fuck under her breath. Billie pushes the rose-colored John Lennon glasses back up her nose. She reaches up, pulls the rearview mirror around, gets the gold tube of lipstick out of her purse. The red lipstick rolls up slow out of the gold. Red first on the top of her right lip, then down. Red on the top of her left lip, then down. Then Billie holds the tube of red in place as she slides her bottom lip across. She rolls the red back into the gold, caps the lipstick, puts the lipstick into her black purse, closes the silver clasp.
Billie cocks her Hoss Cartwright hat a little to one side. She puts the cigarette in her mouth, rolls down the window, leans out.
Billie looks across to Chuck diPietro, she gives the horn a toot.
It takes a while for Chuck to look around. When he does look, Billie tips her hat. Her cigarette bouncing on her lip, Billie says: Howdee do? Billie says, Nice evening, ain’t it?
My God, then what Chuck diPietro does, blows my mind. Fear and surprise in his eyes, Chuck quick ducks his head, turns around. He totally loses his cool.
For diPietro too, it’s a blow.
Billie’s not the only one in love.
In no time at all, Chuck has his door open, he’s out of the car, he’s not looking at Billie, he’s looking down at the ground, he’s got the car door closed behind him, and he is almost running toward the Snatch Out takeout window.
Even I, I think, could learn to like this guy.
Billie and I kiss each other on the cheeks. We’re saying Right on and Cool, and we’re slapping on our knees. I’ve just tapped out another cigarette. I’ve just lit the match and stuck the match to the cigarette, when all at once, there he is, Joe Scardino at the window. Billie jumps. I jump. Thank God I don’t scream.
It’s been a long time since I looked into Joe Scardino’s dark eyes. I’d seen him now and then, usually in the Snatch Out or in the Dead Steer, but always in his car and just in passing. I didn’t see him at school. He’d dropped out of school. I’d heard enough about him, though. He was Pocatello’s James Dean.
But I had not forgotten. The last time I’d been that close to Joe Scardino was the day he’d stuck a yellow tulip up my ass.
Hey, Billie, Scardino says.
The Joe Scardino smile.
Hi, Joe, Billie says.
Then: Hey! Klueless! How’s it hanging?
Scardino’s hand at the end of his big arm comes into the Pontiac past Billie’s face. Some kind of scratched-in tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Billie turns and looks at me look at Scardino. The gold hoops in her ears catch the light.
The feeling in my arms that means I’m helpless. It takes me awhile, but finally my hand reaches up and shakes his hand.
Scardino, I say.
Scardino leans his arms down onto the window ledge. His hair isn’t a duck’s ass anymore. It’s like the Beatles’. He’s wearing Levi’s and a black T-shirt. Puka shells around his neck. He’s checking out Billie’s Hoss Cartwright hat, her red cunt–splooged wedding dress. He’s checking out the cleavage. He’s checking out my porkpie hat, the iron burn on my white collar, my short pants, my wrists sticking out of my jacket.
His dark, deep-set eyes, his skin. He looks so much like George.
Where’s your truck? Scardino says. His hand patting the top of the Pontiac. That truck’s a real beater, he says. You stock-race it?
Quiet. It is time for me to talk, and everything is quiet.
Then: No, I say. That’s my dad’s truck.
Scardino flips his shaggy black hair out of his eyes. Before he speaks, he raises his index finger, points his index finger at me.
I see you’ve taken up smoking, Scardino says.
His thick red lips, one side snarled up.
I put the cigarette to my mouth. I do a passable French inhale. The way my heart is beating.
You want one? I say.
From my shirt pocket, I pull out George’s pack of Camels. I tap a cigarette out for Scardino, reach across Billie. Scardino takes the cigarette, puts the cigarette onto his lip into his snarl.
Scardino lights the cigarette, sucks the smoke in. He’s every tough guy you’ve ever seen smoke.
Scardino keeps his big arms on the window ledge. He squats down, puts his chin on his forearm. That smile. His one tooth there that is sharp.
Hard to imagine, Scardino says. Klueless smoking cigarettes. Last time I saw you, you were diagramming sentences.
Now look at you, Scardino says. Smoking, drinking, running around with wild women.
Scardino’s brown eyes roll over at Billie.
Something always going on behind Scardino’s eyes.
Makes you worry what that something is.
Scardino flips the shaggy black hair out of his eyes.
Don’t try and fool me, Scardino says. You can’t fool me.
Just look at you two, Scardino says.
What? Billie says.
What? I say.
You can fool everybody else here, Scardino says, but you can’t fool me.
Howdee do, Scardino says. Nice night, ain’t it.
Scardino hacks up, turns his head, spits. Bounces up and down on his haunches.
The weird hats, the weird clothes, he says, I mean, really, what the fuck. Nobody normal just starts doing shit like that.
Scardino sticks his tongue out, crosses his eyes.
You guys are doing acid, Scardino says, ain’t you?
Billie and I look at each other. We look at each other like we are doing acid looking at each other. The hats, the glasses, the red cunt–splooged dress, the jacket, the pants, the iron burn. It all fits. That quick, both of us are laughing.
All the while I’m laughing, though, it’s Scardino. The way he’s looking at us. The way he’s smiling. What makes you worry about Scardino’s smile is it’s never really a smile.
What kind is it? Scardino says. Where’d you get it?
What’s been going on behind Scardino’s eyes, what’s been covered up by his smile — it’s all there now, in full bloom all over his face.
I’m not surprised. That recess years ago, the way Scardino’d hit me, knocked me back against the incinerator. I sat down or fell down. I remember I didn’t cry until I put my hand to my lips and saw the blood. And as fate would have it, for whatever reason, here he is again, Joe Scardino back in my face in the window of my life. His arm is pounding up and down on the window ledge. His face is bright red, his lip is curled, his sharp tooth. Something inside me gets cold.
What the fuck! he says. Dealing acid out of your car in the Snatch Out! he says. Where’d you score?
Billie is surprised.
She laughs a laugh I’ve never heard from her.
Acid! Billie says. We’re not dealing acid. We’re just selling a couple joints.
Scardino’s fist comes down hard.
Don’t lie to me, Cody! Scardino yells. He points his two fingers at his eyes. You’re tripping your tits off!
How many hits you got? he yells. What is it?
Billie goes to say something.
But there’s no use in saying anything.
There never was any use.
Once Scardino wants something, there’s no stopping him. Scardino’s going to get it.
The way I put my hand on Billie’s forearm makes Billie look down at her arm, then up into my eyes. I really look into Billie’s blue eyes so she knows the story I’m telling with my eyes has something to do with the story I’m about to tell with my mouth.
My mouth don’t open at first. The fear high up in my chest. Under the fear, though, across my middle, something that is old, something solid and full, moves slow.
The jig is up, I say.
Thank God my voice isn’t high.
Billie looks at me like, W
hat the fuck are you talking about? She’s freaked. She knows what Scardino is for me.
The jig? Billie says.
Yah, I say.
I lean around Billie, make sure that Joe Scardino can see all of Rigby John Klusener’s face.
We got one hit left, I say.
One hit? Scardino says. What is it? Purple barrel?
Windowpane, I say.
What? Billie says.
You’re shitting me! Scardino says. A hit of windowpane? You can’t get windowpane in Pocatello! Let me see it!
I go to move, but there’s nowhere to move to. I open my coat, look at the lining. The color orange in the cloakroom. It had been a miracle.
I needed a miracle.
Billie sits there. I sit there. Scardino squats there. The only thing that happens happens in our eyes.
How much do you want? Scardino yells. Ten? Twenty?
In a moment, Billie reaches up, puts her hands behind her head. She lifts her chest and stretches out long. Somebody needed to do something.
Billie’s breasts hang there between Scardino’s eyes and my eyes.
Scardino leans his body closer in. His eyes are on Billie’s breasts. Then his eyes go up and lock in on my eyes.
Sweat down my armpits.
From behind Scardino, I see him come around the El Camino — Chuck diPietro. His hands are full of Cokes and hamburgers and French fries and napkins and Coke straws. He’s still looking at the ground.
What holds Billie up stops holding Billie up.
I swear Billie Cody is so predictable.
Hey, Chuck, Scardino says. No onions on mine, remember?
Then, loud enough for Chuck to hear, Scardino says: So who’s kid is it, anyway? Scardino says.
Chuck diPietro stops. Everything about him stops. He’s a forty-pound block of cheese. He’s concrete. He’s lead.
Joe, Chuck says. Let it alone!
That quick, Billie leans forward and starts the Pontiac. She’s got it in drive, and her foot is on the gas pedal. We’re just about to tear ass out of there.
That quick, I reach down and shut the car off, take the keys. The key chain and the lava rock in my palm is heavy.
Now Is the Hour Page 43
