by Chris Lynch
“Yes,” she says, apparently underreporting. “But I said it was my book, and I forgot it by mistake. And that I had left twenty dollars in it.”
“Oh,” Stacey and I say in unison, “right.”
“Do you have twenty dollars,” I ask, “y’know, for when he eventually came looking for it?”
“No. But don’t you see, by then we would have the poetry, and it wouldn’t matter.”
“Oh Lord . . .” Stacey huffs at her.
When even the breathing goes away, I move over to the living-room window to see what’s happening.
“Damn,” I say.
“What?” Stacey says.
“He’s in his car. Waiting us out.”
“I’ll just call the cops, then,” she says.
This time it’s Molly and me in unison. “No.”
Molly’s rationale is apparent. Mine, not quite so.
“What’s up with you?” Stacey asks me.
“I don’t want to bring the cops here. We just can’t.”
Stacey grins devilishly.
“Just how much of a desperado is this uncle of yours? I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Goddammit,” I say when I look back out the window. “Stacey, could you use your remarkably powerful powers on something more helpful?”
“What? I did nothing. If this is erection-related—”
“My uncle. You made him appear. He’s just getting out of a cab. I’m screwed now.”
“Ah, what could happen?” she says.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” I say.
I watch him get out, then walk around the front of Billy’s van while staring fiercely at both Billy and the van. For his part, Billy stares right back then returns to staring up here. At Syd’s house.
Syd walks around the front of the van and stands on the curb by the driver’s-side headlight with his arms folded. After several seconds of this, Syd makes an unmistakable gesture indicating Billy should move on.
Billy does not heed the advice.
So, slowly, Syd unfolds his arms, walks directly up to the driver’s-side window and therefore the driver, and gets very, very close to him.
Then, Syd steps back, to the sound of tires screeching and that engine racing, fortunately away this time.
“Go, Syd!” I say, proud and pumped up. “He took care of Billy.”
“Yeah,” Stacey says. Molly goes all silent.
I watch Syd approach the house.
I watch Syd approach the house!
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I say, hustling the girls toward the back door.
“Why?” Stacey says.
“Because he’ll throw me out. He’s dead serious about his privacy and his rules and if he catches me messing with them, I’m out. I’ll be friggin’ homeless,” I say, and actually expect sympathy.
“Oh, you poor sonofabitch,” Stacey says as I scoot them out the back door.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Just that way, across the field. I’ll meet you at the beach later, right? Right?” When neither one answers, I answer myself and hope for the best. “Right.”
I close the door, reverse course, and see Uncle Sydney walking through the door at the same time I come across his bathrobe on the floor where I dropped it at Molly’s knocking.
“Hey, Uncle Sydney,” I say cheerily as I snag the robe and duck into the bathroom.
“Hey, Kevin,” he says, just as cheerily and probably not like the voice he used a few minutes before. “You gonna be long in there? I’m bursting.”
“Me too,” I say not entirely untruthfully but in a different way. “But for you, I’ll be quick.”
And I’m true to my word. I hang the robe in the closet, flush the toilet, and come out.
“Are you back a little early?” I say.
That seems to rub him the wrong way. “No I’m not,” he says. “Whenever I come home is the time I’m supposed to come home.” He squints at me as he passes on his way into the bathroom. It’s not a nice look, but I’m hoping it’s because he has to go so bad.
RUDE AWAKENING
When I opened my eyes, reluctantly, I was in Jasper’s bed.
I stared at the ceiling, blinking, blinking, wondering, figuring, hoping, blinking, wondering. I could tell indirectly, from the abundant ambient light, that it was a bright, sunny day. I could tell also that when I had to address that fine brilliant day more head-on, it would mean many types of pain.
Only when I spied all of my clothes on the floor a few feet away did I notice the absence of any clothes on my body.
Only when I probed very carefully around the bed’s surface area with one hand did I conclude that I was here alone. And only then did I sense it had been a while since I’d exhaled.
I exhaled. I was relieved to be alone, and that was no criticism of anybody who might have been there.
Jasper had been extremely kind to me. Thanks to the varieties of darkness I now realize dark rum can produce, I’m not 100 percent certain how far that kindness went. I might not be 60 percent certain.
I’m not certain I want to be certain.
I needed him last night, and he was there. Right now I didn’t feel like I could face him. Not yet.
I jumped up out of bed.
I got immediately so dizzy and flushed I had to lurch to the dresser and steady myself with both hands. That left me leaning and looking right into Jasper’s mirror and my sad, strange mug, which caused me to shove right off again before I would have to punch that face. I got to my things and with as much focus and dread as possible, gathered my clothes in some arrangement over me, and slung backpack over shoulder before exiting, slipping out of the bedroom.
I was like a reverse burglar, creeping down the hall with a loot bag, trying to get away without any valuables, but trying not to be seen by any of the home’s occupants, either.
As I was about to pass the kitchen door, I heard stirrings in there. I smelled coffee, heard the rustling of bags, and composed a picture in my head of doughnuts and fresh orange juice and, goodness, that coffee was smelling good. Dunkin’ Donuts, I reminded myself, Dunkin’ Donuts, the taste is always a disappointment compared to the aroma.
That wasn’t the deciding factor in getting me to then bend low and hope for the best as I scurried like a big rat right past the kitchen door toward the exit. I caught a break. He must have been facing the other way or into the fridge because there was not a word of protest as I made it to the front door and silently got myself out.
I felt even more like a rat out in the light of day, but I couldn’t handle talking to Jasper yet. And because he was Jasper, I suppose I was counting on him to do all the understanding for both of us for now.
TIME RETALIATES
I run out of both hope and wine money more or less simultaneously.
The beach has become my center of operations more than Syd’s place. I’ve put in hours there, killing time and then resuscitating it again every time I thought I caught a glimpse of either Stacey or Molly. I’ve been to the hostel, where neither of them is a resident anymore, and the bus station, the beach again, up and down pointless shitty streets, back to the beach again. Pathetically, I even spent yesterday afternoon staking out the shop where we got those subs, my veal Parm and their meatballs and steak.
The moment is right now, though, when I realize I will probably never see them again. I am ashamed at the childish sadness I am feeling for the absence of two people I met not even two weeks ago. It’s a picture-perfect summer evening here on the shore of the wastewater of Crystal Beach and what more could a guy want?
If I could tell them good-bye, even. And thanks. Even that.
“Hey, man, no, no, come on now,” Mickey is saying, patting my back. It seems I’ve failed at bravely masking my melancholy. “These things happen all the time, to all of
us. It’s all temporary, man, all of it. Hell, see how recently I met you? You’re already, like, my fourth oldest friendship that is still currently up and running.”
I do manage a laugh at the thought, though looking closely it’s not a funny notion at all. What is a funny notion, however, is that Howard and Tailbone seem to believe they’ve got the raft properly fixed, sealed, and filled and are heading down to the water for a twilight test launch.
“Possibility of success, zero,” I say as they hit the water.
“Yeah, but possibility of damn entertaining failure is very high,” he says.
So the two of us drag on down to the good seats near the shore, buoyed on the hope of entertaining failure.
Mickey knows I’m mooning around over the girls because I haven’t been able to shut my sad mouth over it. But there’s another thing getting at me that he doesn’t know and couldn’t know, because I only know it myself as of right now when I open my mouth to release it.
“I miss my dad,” I say, watching the guys pull away toward the horizon with their flimsy plywood paddles.
“I don’t miss mine,” he says.
“That’s because you’re smarter than I am,” I say.
“Did I imagine it, or did you tell me lately that he’s the one who broke your arm?”
“Did I say that?”
“I think so. Somebody did anyway, so I’d say it was most likely you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, yeah. I miss him.”
“How long you have to wear that thing on your arm anyway?”
“I figure I’ll hang on to it until there’s no room left for any more signatures, then I’ll get it removed and give it to a museum, as a memento of my adventures.”
“If I was you I’d give it to my father, as a memento of his adventures.”
“Huh. I like the way you think, there, Mick.”
“Ah, yup, there we go,” Mickey says, pointing out to where the guys are now flailing around madly trying to turn the clearly distressed rubber vessel back to shore.
“Ha,” I say, and the situation deteriorates rapidly to the point where it is now just two guys with plywood planks hacking around at the water without any apparent purpose. Many of the denizens of Crystal Beach have come running—well, no, not running, but an accelerated version of the limpy, shuffly thing they ordinarily do—to hoot and laugh and shout wildly inappropriate sailor innuendo at the two entertaining failures as they wash up.
It is fine comedy, and the closest I’ve seen yet to a widespread communal moment among the beach’s fragmented population.
“Awesome, guys,” Mickey says as the boys approach.
“Seriously,” I add. “Great show.”
“We do it again at nine tonight,” Tailbone says with a wheeze and a salute.
“And two-thirty matinees on weekends for the kiddies,” Howard adds.
They pass us by, heading up to dry off and spark up as usual.
“What were we saying again?” Mickey asks. “Were we finished?”
“Yeah, we were,” I say, and we follow the spark.
• • •
But times are lean, and it is about the time I would be shelling out for some wine. However, I am nearly out of shells. It’s not great news to the guys, but also not a situation they find unfamiliar.
“Yeah,” Mickey says solemnly, “we’re all running pretty low about now.”
I quickly discover how certain topics will turn certain guys from chilled out to worked up without much warning.
“Not him, though,” Howard says to Mickey while pointing angrily in my direction. “Come on, man, lookit him. He’s not broke. He don’t know broke or nothing about broke.”
“Come on, Kiki,” Tailbone says, “are you holding out? Don’t hold out on us, man. It’s us. We’re your boys, your family.”
“I know that. If I had money, I would hand it over, just like I have been.”
Of course I have some money. Everybody has some money, but that doesn’t mean they’re not broke. Wine money is one kind of money and I’m all out of that. Whatever little bit I may have stashed back in my room is a whole different thing, and it’s there for a reason, for when I’m really stuck. The fact that I have no money here now means I am broke. Somehow I’m not sure I could accurately get that idea across very well in this situation.
“Right,” Mickey says, “we just have to go on a quick fundraiser, is all.”
“A fundraiser,” I say warily.
“It’s a blast, you’ll love it.”
• • •
Because I am the rookie, the unmade man of the group, I am required to wear the gang’s big tattered old backpack and serve as the beast of burden for the expedition.
“We’re going in there?” I say as we come up through the bushes off the canal path, a little uncomfortably close to Syd’s place.
“We?” Mickey says. “Well, no, not me. I’ll be watching the house from the back. Tailbone will be out front. Because this is Howard’s scout, and he’s been in the place before, you two are going in.”
“I used to boff a chick that lived there. I was snagging stuff out of that house the whole time, even when I was an invited guest, and I don’t think anybody ever noticed. They got a big summer house someplace and they’re away all this month. I been watchin’. This is a great neighborhood, a really great neighborhood. Okay, there, rookie, it’s gonna be no different than shopping.”
As I crouch down with everybody else looking up at the house, I grip my thighs hard to stop my hands from shaking and letting on how shitless scared I am.
“Shopping,” I say. “Sure, I know how to do that.”
“Yeah,” Howard says, “I’m sure you do.”
I am sure of only one thing at this moment and that is that I wish I were anyplace else on earth. What am I doing? Is this me, now? Is this what I do and how I’m going to live? I’m completely terrified, in addition to not having any rational explanation for why I am here.
“You’re a straight-up guy, Kiki,” Mickey says as he gets up to take his position. He gives me a hug. “I know you’re scared, and you probably don’t even need to do this. That’s huge to me, to us, and nobody’s gonna forget it. Stuff like this, it’s for life, man, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I think I do, yeah,” I say.
I fear that I do, is what I honestly should say.
“Remember, emergency situation with no warning, if somebody’s coming from the front, Tailbone yells “Front!” and you haul ass out back. If they’re coming from the back, I holler and you shoot the other way.”
“What if it’s front and back?” I ask.
“Well, in that case, obviously you’re boned, my friend.”
“But, if he does get caught,” Tailbone says, “he’s the only one who could convince them that he’s the owner of the place.” He punches my shoulder and heads to his post.
“Right,” Howard says as he produces a heart-stoppingly big flick knife and easily works the feeble lock off the bulkhead door. “The whole thing shouldn’t take ten minutes. I’m grabbing the small valuables like jewelry and shit, and I’m pounding all the bigger stuff, electronics, bigger silver and gold items and whatnot straight into your pack. You are simply a dumb transport animal, so don’t try and make any decisions on your own, got it?”
“Got it,” I say, and I cringe at the trembly weakness of my voice.
He hears it too. “Don’t you shit the bed on me here, Kiki, all right?”
“I won’t,” I say, feeling the terror people must feel as they are about to skydive for the first time.
“Go,” he says, and we are off.
We shuffle through the dark basement, lucky that it is largely empty. Howard steers me quickly to the staircase and we feel it wobble as we go up. We enter the kitchen and immediately he starts p
ushing things, a hand blender, a crystal decanter, into my pack. Dining room, he pulls me to a stop at the sideboard and I shudder at the loud sound of him pouring silverware on top of the other things.
Living room, a brass carriage clock and a notebook computer sitting on an end table.
Up the stairs we go, hitting a bedroom, emptying out a three-story jewelry box that I cannot see the contents of but the cascade of stuff sounds expensive enough. He takes extra time, pulling me back when I wrongly guess we are moving on. He’s doing some selecting back there, jamming particular items into the pouches of his carpenter’s belt rather than dumping them on me. There is a second bedroom, which has a tall men’s wardrobe that makes Howard gasp with ecstasy when he sees a collection of two dozen glittering fine watches on an inside shelf all displayed on a tall tube like a man’s arm. He works like a squirrel as he shifts and sorts and stuffs three out of every four of them into his own pouches and the rest into mine.
There is a second, bigger laptop on one of the bedroom night tables and then a small tablet computer on the other. Those get jammed into my bag, complete with power cords, and I can feel it’s taking some packing now to get it all in. The weight is considerable at this point, and when he pushes down my knees buckle, though they would probably be buckling from the fear by now without any extra weight at all.
“Isn’t this enough?” I ask.
“Shut up,” he says. “It’s never enough. Why else would we be here? There is one more bedroom, and we are going there.”
I sigh, and comply.
It is clearly a young girl’s bedroom, all ponies, pastels, and boy bands on every wall.
“There won’t be anything in here,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“What did I tell you, man? You are just labor here, I am the decider.”
He goes tearing through the little girl’s room, thrashing around much more viciously than the other rooms. “I hate this pink shit,” he growls. “Hate it.” He tears all the covers off the bed, picks up a cartoon-cat alarm clock, and pitches it against a wall, breaking the clock and that piece of wall at once. “These brats are totally spoiled today, so there has to be some ridiculous expensive electronic crap around here someplace.”
