by M. O. Walsh
I had no excuse for such things.
And even then I understood the despair that must have sunk into my mother’s bones when she saw this. I also understood the way this discovery must have recast for her the conversation we had with the police officer in our living room, when she realized, in other words, that this box may have already been sitting there silently, beneath my bed, when I performed so innocently for the Simpsons. What was she to do with this idea?
I didn’t ask.
Yet it all looked so devilish out in the light, my private collection, where it was never supposed to be. This was especially true of the way I had pasted Lindy’s face onto the torn-out pages of those magazines. Heaven help her. There she was, glued to the page, disembodied and smiling innocently for the school photographer as she unknowingly bent over some enormous penis or pinched her nipples with a trail of semen on her breasts. The poor thing. I see that now.
I didn’t know what I was doing. Please understand that. I don’t want this confession to lose you. No boy knows what he is doing when he first stumbles upon masturbation. We become amateur inventors, we gawky and lunatic teens, and Lindy was simply the stuff of my workshop, of my laboratory. And I’ve spent years wondering how different my life would be if I was like the millions of boys who hadn’t been caught, if I was like any other normal person who had the privilege of privacy, if I’d have been able to keep these fantasies locked up where they should be, in my mind, in my heart, with no empirical evidence to speak of.
But who am I kidding? I’ve never been any good at keeping things locked away.
Look at me now, for instance. Look at me telling you, of all people.
Yet the real problem, it turned out, was not the pornography, which my father laughed off when she told him. Nor was it the Astroglide lubricant that, in a fit of unbelievable bravery, I had purchased at the K&B Drugstore within biking distance of my house. Nor was it even the rambling poetry or mix tapes I had made but never given to Lindy, nor even the blue Reebok, which I was able to explain to her in the way I have to you.
No. The real problem was the pair of binoculars, and the photo I confessed to her came from the Landrys’. These items brought repercussions. Our home was never the same.
16.
The binoculars first:
In 1988, the year before Lindy’s rape, the Landrys fostered a young criminal by the name of Tyler Bannister. He arrived shortly after Tin Tin’s quiet and unexplained departure and was sixteen, the oldest child they’d ever fostered. As it turned out, his years of bouncing from one family to another had done to him what it did to many other young boys in that limbo and made him distrustful and cruel. His presence in Woodland Hills was unwelcomed. There were several reasons for this.
Tyler Bannister introduced a new set of problems to the neighborhood that the younger kids, myself included, had yet to develop. And since we were already dealing with our own budding messes in Bo Kern and Jason Landry, his sudden appearance seemed overkill. He brought to our streets the knowledge of drugs and vandalism, and he did not even look like a child. He kept his head shaved bald in all seasons and had blue tattoos on his wrists, neck, and ankles. He once claimed he’d done these to himself with a needle and Bic pen. Another time, he said they’d been put there against his will. He was a perpetual liar. All we knew for sure was that one of these tattoos, crudely drawn but recognizable, depicted a boy with a gun in his hand. Another was of a dark blue cloud with a lightning bolt through its center. And the one on his neck, just below his right ear, was of a bird with one wing.
In the times he found his way into our yards, Tyler told us stories we weren’t prepared to hear. One I remember about his exhausting sexual relationship with the middle-aged mother of a previous foster home. He talked about how she “loved it up the ass” and about how she would come into his room and give him blow jobs when the father fell asleep. Another anecdote of the way he once put a lightbulb into the vagina of a girl he shared a group home with. We rubbed our eyes and couldn’t believe it. “Chicks are freaks,” he told us. “Don’t let them tell you any different.”
But Randy and I, and even Jason, who seemed totally enamored with Tyler, remained skeptical of some of these stories. They were so wildly inconsistent, so foreign from our experience on Piney Creek Road, that we had little to say in response. When he told us of letting a black guy touch his penis so he could score some blow, for instance, we just covered our faces and thought, What in the world is blow? We were too nervous to ask. Or when he told us that he’d once lived with a band of gypsies who pimped him out for sex in the back of the Kmart parking lot on Plank Road, we thought, Hey, that doesn’t sound so bad, because all we heard was the sex. But the devil was in his details. “It was the truckers that were the worst,” he told us. “Just the smell of their nuts.”
Luckily for us, other stories cast doubt on all this grotesquery.
Like when he told us about his real father, his biological father, who he said was abducted by aliens right in front of him. He told us they were nothing like you saw in the movies, “none of that big-headed little-green-men shit.” He instead said they looked like trees and squirrels and “all this stuff you see around you.” We laughed at this thought. “Laugh all you want,” he said. “It’s not so funny when it happens to you.”
Everything had happened to him.
His mother, he once told us, sold him to the circus to pay for doctor bills. Another time he said she died while playing William Tell with some famous actor. “I won’t even tell you which one,” he said. “There’s no point. That guy’s got serious hush money.” But he’d also once told us his mother had fallen overboard off a millionaire’s yacht and was lost at sea, which confused us, and that she was probably just raising some other guy’s kids now, all “amnesiaed out.” He figured she might come looking for him one day, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Still, Tyler liked to spray-paint his name on things, he said, “in case she ever wakes up from her coma.”
The boy’s dreams were all over the map.
Despite the inaccuracies of these stories, however, there was nothing confusing about Tyler’s actions. Although he was there for only a few short months in the year before Lindy’s rape, Tyler carried out an impressive campaign of terrorism and left a permanent mark on Woodland Hills. He destroyed mailboxes with homemade explosives and M-80 fireworks that he had apparently stockpiled. He stole all the street and yard signs in the neighborhood and stuffed them into the storm drains along Piney Creek Road. We found this out weeks later when it rained and we flooded, the Parkers’ long-lost “It’s a Girl!” yard sign suddenly bobbing its head out of an open manhole. He toilet-papered houses and salted yards. He graffitied images that matched his tattoos on the light poles and oak trees. He let neighborhood pets out of their fences. He stuck garden hoses through open car windows and turned on the water. He also smoked the first joint I had ever seen, sitting in my backyard.
This was a big day. I had been outside playing with a remote-control car my mother had bought me as a surprise. It was a complicated machine called The Hornet that we’d struggled to put together. It ran on expensive yellow-coated batteries that you had to recharge every night, and the motor required constant maintenance. It had become a thing I hated in many ways, as it was too fast for me, and rarely worked when I wanted to play with it. My mom took me to a store called The Hobby Hut most Sundays to get it tuned up, where she talked to the guy that owned the place as I fiddled around with airplanes made of balsa wood. When we got back home I would take The Hornet out in the street and try to drive it, where it would crash and roll over on the pavement. Inevitably, these times would end with some wire burning out and a puff of smoke curling up from the battery.
“I’m sorry,” my mother would say. “I should have gotten a different one.”
“Don’t say that,” I’d tell her. “I love it.”
On this particular day, I wa
s out in the backyard, running the car on the grass, where it was slower and more manageable, when I saw Tyler and Jason walking around in the woods. They came up to me, smiling and out of breath, and Jason said, “We just saw two frogs getting it on in the creek. Tyler blew them up with a firecracker.”
I laughed and struggled with the remote control.
Tyler watched me for a moment and then removed a bag of weed from his pocket. He sat on the grass and began expertly tossing out seeds and rolling it up in some papers.
“Now we’re talking,” Jason said, and rubbed his hands together.
Tyler flicked open a Zippo and lit the joint that I honestly thought was a cigarette.
“You smoke?” I said.
“This place is so fucking boring,” Tyler said. “What would I do if I didn’t?”
I sat next to them in the yard and made the car do loops around the trunk of an oak tree. The scene was quiet but for the buzz of the motor.
“See what I’m saying?” Tyler said, and offered me the joint.
I told him I had allergies. I told him I “just say no.”
“Don’t be so gay,” he said.
“He’s not gay,” Jason told him. “He’s got a hard-on for the Simpson chick.” He made stroking motions with his hand. “He jacks off to her like thirty times a day.”
“I do not,” I said.
“Then where’s my picture?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I forgot about it.”
“Right,” Jason said.
“What fucking picture?” Tyler said, pulling a bit of dope off his tongue.
Jason told him the story.
Tyler smiled until he found out where the picture had come from, the locked room inside their house, and then he took on a look I’ll never forget. It was intense and solitary, and he looked pained, as if balling his mind into a fist. He held the joint beneath his nose like it was a precious thing. He breathed in the yellow smoke.
“You going to share that or what?” Jason said.
“Why should I?” Tyler said, and he didn’t.
He instead removed a couple of M-80 firecrackers from his pocket and lit the fuse of one with his joint. He threw it toward my racer. It missed but blew up a clod of dirt by the tree stump.
“What the hell?” I said.
“Those Hornets suck anyway,” he said. “The batteries are always burning up.”
Was there anything he didn’t know?
“Still,” I said. “My mom gave it to me.”
“I’d give it to your mom,” he said.
“I would, too,” Jason said.
“I’d give it to your little girlfriend, too,” Tyler said. “Lindy what’s-her-name. I’d give it to her right there in her room with all those stuffed bunnies and New Kids on the Block posters.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. I was enraged.
The idea that this vagrant stranger would know the specific contents of Lindy’s room was outlandish to me. I deemed it a preposterous lie and threw it into the same stinking pile with his other monstrous tales. Because the truth was, despite our entire youth together, our series of glowing summers, I had never been inside Lindy’s room. I’d imagined it, sure, down to what I thought would be a green-and-white checkered bedspread draped over a white wrought-iron bed frame with white rose inlays next to a white wooden desk with colored construction paper fanned out on top of it beside a series of fluffy white pillows that Lindy would lie upon while talking on the phone beneath a white bulletin board lined with blue first-place ribbons that her parents had tacked along the edges in neat rows above a pink tape deck on the nightstand where my mix tapes would one day go beside a white bookcase full of yearbooks and picture albums that stood above a shaggy pink rug beneath a heaven of glow-in-the-dark star decals she had pasted to a white and latticed ceiling fan that was constantly turning.
Sure, I’d imagined it all. But I had never seen it.
“Like you’ve been in her room,” I said.
“Dumbass,” he said. “You don’t have to go in it to see it.”
The both of them laughed.
“This guy just doesn’t get it,” Jason said.
“Do I have to teach you fucks everything?” Tyler said. “Come on.”
Tyler then spat on his wrist and extinguished the still-burning joint, an act that looked immensely heroic to me, and one that I myself would ape barely a year later. He got off the grass and told me to grab the Hornet so we wouldn’t look suspicious.
When we got to the street, he instructed me to steer the car toward Lindy’s house as we followed behind it. “All right,” he said. “Check out three o’clock. The oak tree by their driveway.”
I looked over to see a tall water oak sitting alone in the space of grass between the Simpson house and its driveway. It stood about thirty feet high and had branches that Lindy could likely feel if she leaned out of her window just so.
“You notice anything about the trunk?” he said.
The trunk of the tree was warped and knobby, like many of these oaks are known to be. I saw a knot in its trunk about chest high, and I immediately knew what he was getting at. The thing had the look of a foothold.
“One hop on that knot, one jump to that branch, and bingo,” he said. “You’ve got an eyeful.”
“That is so wicked,” Jason said.
“It’s all right,” Tyler said. “How long can you watch some teenybopper talk on the phone?”
Forever, I thought. I could watch into a time with no end.
“The real action is at that house down the street,” Tyler said. “The one with the fat wife.”
“The Mouilles’?” I said. “Isn’t she pregnant?”
“Do I look like a doctor?” Tyler said. “I just call her Tons of Fun. I mean, that lady likes to fuck.”
As we stood there, lost in our own fantasies and looking anything but inconspicuous, Lindy came down her driveway with the bike at her hip. She was wearing green running shorts and a pink tank top, and I felt hugely guilty when she saw us standing in the road in front of her house, talking about how to spy on her. Her bronze and muscular legs. Her fit hips. Her smile. It was all too good for me.
“Hey, dorks,” she said.
“I was just playing with my car,” I told her.
“Hey, girl,” Tyler said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the track,” she said.
“Why don’t you come hang out with us?” Tyler said. “We’ll show you ours if you show us yours.”
Lindy scrunched up her face.
“Gross,” she said. “Like you have anything I want to see.”
“Oh, I’ve got something,” Jason said.
“Shut up,” Tyler told him. He smiled at Lindy. “They’re just kids,” he said. “They don’t know what we’ve got going on.”
About this time, Dan Simpson, Lindy’s father, drove up Piney Creek Road in his silver-and-blue station wagon, just getting home from work, I suppose. We stepped out of the road and he rolled down his window by turning a crank with one hand while awkwardly trying to wave at us with the other. I waved back. After he pulled into the driveway, he stopped his car next to Lindy and said, “What’s on tap for today? We breaking the four-minute mile?”
Lindy smiled and walked her bike a few feet closer to his car as they casually rehashed what all of us already knew, where she was going, what time she’d be back, who she’d be with, and we all laughed sarcastically when Mr. Simpson used his horrible Italian accent to say, “Just do not-ah be late, mi amor, because tonight I make-ah the famous Steak Simpsone Pizzaiola!” He then kissed his fingers as if to say delicioso!, waved good-bye to all of us, and drove his car into their garage.
Lindy straddled her bike, smiling earnestly, as if that particular meal actually did sound good, and lifted the
kickstand with her foot. She looked back at us, and then at Tyler specifically, as if she’d forgotten he was there.
“Shouldn’t you be out robbing old ladies or something?” she asked him.
Tyler laughed. “Maybe I will, mi amore.”
“Good, then,” Lindy said. “At least you won’t be bothering me.”
Lindy then stuck out her tongue and took off down the sidewalk on her bike. She pedaled hard with her rear end up off the seat in a way that I now realize, in my worst moments, seemed to me some juvenile invitation. Tyler grabbed the remote control from my hand and made The Hornet follow her up the road. He was an expert driver, it turned out, and almost caught her.
“You shouldn’t be so mean,” he called to her. “I know where you live.”
Lindy flipped us the bird as the car squealed up the sidewalk behind her until it finally died and sat still, out of radio range. We watched her ride out of sight.
“You should totally nail her,” Tyler told me. “She’s too bitchy for me.”
I had no reply.
He handed me back the remote control, now useless, and said, “Let’s go check on that fat chick. There’s this great row of shrubs right outside their window. She goes nuts before her husband gets home. Uses all sorts of toys and shit. I’m telling you. Don’t let chicks tell you any different.”
So the two of them walked down the road and I chose not to follow.
Instead I walked the path Lindy had taken and picked up my car, the battery now smelling of smoke. I thought I could smell something else in the air that day, too, however. A whiff of her, maybe. The way we leave a trail. I stood there for a long time.
And although I still think of Tyler Bannister often, I saw him only a few more times after that day: once when I was standing in the darkness beneath Lindy’s oak tree and holding that pair of binoculars in my hand. I heard rustling up in the branches, some soft grunting, and the clink of a loosened belt buckle. “Get the fuck out of here,” he hissed.
