You can bet on that, said Grill. I never trust the cops in these parts.
Well, we got an understanding with the Man. We bringing in revenue to the county and the state. Not many businesses in these parts can say that.
Money talks, said Grill.
I'm just sayin'. You in a good mood, right?
Yeah.
This here town ain't as backward as it looks. We could be doin' a stop at the Safari Club and leave everyone at the bowling lane and you and me go in for a quick spell.
I'm up for it, man.
Your old lady don't have to know. Right, Ricky? What go down on the bus stay down on the bus.
Ricky smiled as Grill turned around.
Ricky a good kid, said Vargas, looking in the rearview.
He's got lady problems, said Grill.
Who don’t? Join the club, Ricky. You can come with us, too.
Nah, he'd rather go bowling. Hey, li'l brother, you miss the old days back in McDonough?
Doing what, cleaning the bar?
Yeah and dealing with all them motorhead psychos, the Bruze brothers. I don't. I like the farm, man. It's a different consciousness, Ricky. We're going to save the damn planet instead of destroy it.
Yeah, right.
Kid's a cynic.
Nah, Ricky? He believe, said Vargas.
You believe in God, Ricky?
I don't know.
If the price of believing was accepting the sorry state of the affairs of most believers then he didn't see the point. If most people who believed didn't come off any better for their belief, then it was a good proposition that belief was a delusion. He wished for access to something clean and strong that would lift him up, but all he could see leading into the future was necessity and befuddlement.
Scissorhands and Julia led the way off the bus. They were parked in the parking lot of the Wildcat Bowl-A-Rama. Scissorhands looked at Ricky in the seat and then at Vargas.
Keep it moving. You blockin' traffic, said Vargas.
You comin'? asked Scissorhands.
Naw, we got other business. We'll be back for y'all.
Scissorhands looked at Ricky with a see-I-told-you sort of look and moved ahead, followed by Julia with a Mona Lisa smile and eyes wide and vacant.
See ya later, said Vargas. You got any money on you? he asked Grill.
What? Oh, yeah. My treat. You kids get some popcorn. Do it right, said Grill. He reached for the wallet in his front pocket and pulled it out. It was fat with bills. As he fumbled, it fell on the floor and Ricky picked it up.
Just give it here.
Ricky pulled some bills out. This'll do, he said and quickly stuffed the bills into his pocket and gave the wallet back. Grill took it and waved it at Vargas.
Safari Club! Wahoo!
Ricky got off the bus last and shuffled inside the Bowl-A-Rama while one of the nurses and her friend held the glass door open. The place was dark and mostly empty except one guy sitting at the counter next to the registers. Behind him on the wall was the AMF Rules for Safety. Ricky looked closer at the guy at the counter. It was Governor Harris. A woman, jet black hair in a beehive and stains of blue eye liner running from the corner of her eyes, walked in from the back wall by the line of arcade games.
Oh, Mr. Harris's taken care of your group, said the black-haired beehive lady.
Hi there, everybody. We've got everything you need. Just get in a line, said Harris, his voice croaking, barely audible. The women from the bus walked forward, followed by Ricky. Soon the women had everybody else in line, and they started taking off their shoes and getting shoes from the beehive woman and her assistant, a thin, stooped man with light blond hair and trembling hands.
Don made up the teams. Ricky and Julia were paired against Don and Lianne. The four of them took the last two lanes at the end. Ricky watched the way Don picked up the first ball. He cradled it between his legs, looking like a mother kangaroo. He shuffled to the line and heaved the ball away with a crank of the upper body, swinging both arms upward.
Oh my God, said Lianne.
Julia burst out in a high-pitched laugh. The ball bounced a couple of times and fell into the gutter. Don stuck his hands into the pockets of his cutoff jeans and bowed.
Julia was up next.
Come on, Julia, said Ricky. Nice and easy.
She had more of an idea of how it was done, walking up to the line with the ball hanging from the end of her arm, then swinging and releasing slowly and deliberately while she bent down and came up like a rusty piece of old clock. The ball rolled on a tangential track for the gutter, but veered slightly midway and ended up by knocking over five of the ten pins. Her next try was a gutter ball. She sat down next to Ricky and tossed her head. It was Lianne's turn. She rolled a strike. She jumped up and pumped her fist in the air, a mock triumphant gesture.
Way. To. Go, said Don, trying to work up some enthusiasm.
I bet you Ricky's beast, said Don.
Ricky picked up a ball and with no pause strode and released at the foul line. The ball headed straight for the head pin, and it knocked down nine of the ten pins. On the next try he finessed it with a little more effort and struck the one standing pin cleanly for a spare. Don was already up with his ball, and this time he stood away from the line with the ball held up to his chest and breathed in and out, concentrating, and then released a wide swinging cranker with a spin that came back and knocked down eight pins.
That's better, said Lianne, unsure of how seriously to take this. Ricky decided at that moment that the game was on.
Use a lighter ball.
What?
Use a lighter ball. Here. Ricky jumped up to help Julia find a lighter house ball more suited to her lack of experience.
As you're approaching the line, start bringing the ball back and then release with the opposite foot stepping forward, said Ricky, demonstrating.
What?
Never mind. Just do whatever feels good.
Is that what she said, Ricky? asked Don.
Yeah, that was funny.
Uh, oh. Oh no. He's reaching that fever pitch.
Lay off him, Don, said Lianne.
Just trying to get him to relax a little.
I am relaxed. What's your problem?
Oh, oh, Lianne. Ricky's pissed off now.
After ten frames, Ricky and Julia were up, but in the second game, Don threw three strikes in a row and he and Lianne took that one. In the tiebreaker, Julia took a seat after throwing two gutter balls on her third frame.
Sorry, she said.
Hey. Just relax. We're still in it.
Ricky had just bowled a strike and was feeling in the zone, effortlessly stroking the ball where he wanted it. Don had pulled in his horns and was making noises like food was his primary concern. But then he stood and rolled a strike and then another strike and he and Lianne pulled ahead 192 to 178. Lianne then rolled a strike and Don started dancing around to the Ricky Minaj song on the muzak track. Julia looked at Ricky, sharing his disgust.
Come on Ricky. Do it again, said Julia.
That's what she said, said Don.
That was not funny. Not even the first time. Ricky picked up his ball from the return. It was the ninth frame. Nine was his lucky number, a relaxed stable place from which to launch himself.
Hey. French fries are just three bucks. What do you say?
Sounds good, said Lianne.
He stepped, kept his wrist cupped, strode and released. The ball hit with a nice slithering thunk on the dead wood and rolled crisply towards the pins on a good angle. It struck and seven went down. Three were left standing, the one, two and six pins. Ricky let fly on the next try and missed all three. He cursed himself.
Shit, he said to Julia.
No biggee.
He sat down and tried to contain his disgust, breathing deeply a couple of times and exhaling with a horse-lipped sigh. Lianne was up and she rolled a spare. It was going to be hard to beat them. But then Julia rolled an incre
dible spare, her first, Don rolled a careless six and it was his turn again.
This time, everything was the same, the nice easy release, the good angle, and all the pins went down with a satisfying crack that spread throughout the alley. All the farm children, the moms and their boyfriends, were watching their game. He had another turn. He waited for the ball. Don chattered about fries, the only voice in the house, about the best ones to be had in all the states he'd lived in. There were some in a restaurant called Gumbos in Baton Rouge that were the best, apparently. You had to give him credit for the gift of gab, thought Ricky. He had that for sure. The Ricky Minaj song had been replaced with some dubstep number that suited Ricky's mood. He took the ball, got to the spot, and shifted his feet, setting himself. It was all a matter of probabilities. Even if you did things exactly right, there would be a minor fluctuation in the wobble of the ball, some imperfection that could make all the difference. Winning was sweet, and that was all he wanted. To taste the sweetness of putting Don in his place was the desire that he let into his head, held, and then let go. Emptiness. Not even the music in his ears. Only thought was his cupped wrist and the ball at the end of his fingers. Here comes the wave. His heartbeat was right on the level, one with the wave, the ball, the floor, and the sky. Aunt Peggy, Lianne, his mother, his father—dim ghosts all, audience members that had merged and melted into his memory bank. The past and the future spread out endlessly in two directions from his feet planted firmly on the ground. With the first step, he knew he had something, and the ball spun from his hand like the crack of a whip, faster and stronger than he thought.
Strike.
He sat down and took a deep breath.
Where's Don? he asked Lianne, giving her a pointed stare. She looked at him blankly.
He's just up at the counter. Getting fries, she said, nonchalantly.
Oh, that's good. Bowling can be a drain, I guess.
Ricky. That's being an asshole. Don't be like that. It's not becoming.
Becoming. He looked at Lianne disbelievingly.
She looked back at him with a hard stare. Don got back with a plate of French fries and slithered into the seat next to her.
How'd our boy do? Oh, lookee. Another strike. Attaboy, Ricky, lad.
Lianne mouthed a fingerful of ketchup-soaked, oily French fries.
The frame finished. Ricky and Julia lost by two pins. Ricky walked over to the wall of arcade games and pushed the buttons around on a Nascar machine, not moving anything, just watching the cars race around as he attempted to impinge on their banked turns with mental effort. This was it. His life was summed up in this act of futility, he thought, trying to be a part of something that was within striking distance and eternally out of reach unless you paid up to be in. Sometimes the role came on at a moment's notice, and you had to walk off the one stage and into the lonely amphitheater of your own devising. Just leave, he thought. Just walk out and don't look back. But as fate would have it, Lianne and Julia were coming up behind him as he turned around.
Oh, look. I love this game, said Julia. Do you have any money, Ricky?
Yeah, but I'm leaving.
Where you going? asked Lianne.
Ricky shrugged. Don't know.
Lianne looked at him, understanding that this was Ricky's way of saying goodbye. She was as sad as he was, both of them unable to show how they felt.
So. You can keep the backpack, I guess.
Oh. Yeah. Hope you don't mind. Ricky tried to smile.
Good luck, Ricky.
Yeah. You too.
Hope you find your Dad.
And your Mom's out there somewhere. Don't give up.
She came up and kissed him on the lips. I'm sorry.
Yeah, well. I'll be all right.
I'm sure you will. You've got your tablet, right?
Yeah.
You'll be fine. I. . .I love you, Ricky. I'd come with you, but Don and I. . .
Don't. . .say anything.
Walking away was a strange sort of victory, almost like a defeat, he thought. But there was no stopping the train once it left the station. He would miss Lianne. He knew that he loved her and probably always would.
Ricky ducked in the men's room beside the front door. He relieved himself at the urinal and thought about what to do. He would go out the door, turn left or right and walk, just walk, as far as he could, lay down and sleep under a car, in a doorway, and start hitching tomorrow morning to get to Uncle Tony's. He'd been there. He knew where it was. North.
There was a noise in a stall. Ricky turned around, nothing; then he ducked down. Big, blue deck sneakers and crumpled pant legs around ankles. Then he heard it again, a muffled high-pitched groan that was Scissorhands's voice.
He walked over and stood at the door. There were more noises, rustlings.
Scissorhands? Gabe, is that you?
The catch on the door made a sliding click. Ricky pushed against it and it opened.
Scissorhands yelled and jumped. Harris had his pants down, and he let Scissorhands go and turned. With one hand he pulled his pants up and with the other he pulled a gun out of the pants. Ricky lunged for the gun and grabbed it and with the force of the thrust carried himself into the stall and head-butted Harris in the nose, and they both went down as the gun went off. Scissorhands stood on the toilet seat and watched the two of them slide to the floor.
Ricky sat up and pushed Harris off. The man's body rolled over, and they could both see where the bullet had gone up into the chin and blown a section of his face off. Blood and bone fragments were all over the wall. Ricky felt weak and stood slowly. He went out to the sinks and ran the water. Scissorhands came out also and stood there looking at their reflections in the dirt speckled mirror. Ricky tried to do what he could to clean himself off with paper towels, at least his face and hands. He gave up on the shirt. He wondered why nobody had heard the gun.
Doesn't seem like anybody heard, Scissorhands.
No. Nobody hears nothing they don't want to, dude.
I guess you're right. You coming?
You going?
Yeah.
Then I'm coming.
All right. Let's go.
What about the Governor?
Let the dead bury the dead, Scissorhands.
That sounds about right.
A wise man once said that.
Okay then. If you say so.
I do.
Sixteen—Pittsburgh
The two boys, one tall and heavy set through the shoulders, the other short and thin, a wisp, walked and walked along the road in the dark. Ricky stuck out his thumb whenever he heard a car coming. The night was cloudless and moonless, pitch black, and once beyond the town there were no lights along the road. Scissorhands walked slowly, shuffling his feet.
Hey, man. Where we going?
Away from here. Keep walking. If they come after us we're both going to jail, Scissorhands.
What you got in there? Any food.
No. We'll get something to eat when we get to Pittsburgh.
What's that?
That's a city.
I lived in Tucson one time. But I don't remember it. I think we had an Xbox there.
Yeah.
They got one ride from a woman going up to Murfreesboro. She was driving to go pick up her son. He was getting out of jail. It was late when they pulled up in front of a Greyhound station. The car stopped at the curb.
Here you go. Get y'all out of here. I never saw ya, said the woman.
Ricky liked her. She laughed sharply and seemed like she cared enough about her son to spring him with some money she'd raised that afternoon. She'd sold some antique she'd had at a pawnshop. He’d been in jail for seven months for a fight he'd had with his girlfriend. Traffic moved again once the light changed. Scissorhands jumped out and stood on the sidewalk, whistling with his hands in his pocket like some under-sized hobo. Ricky looked across at the woman. She'd lit a cigarette and held her hand out the window, pinky extended with the plum
e of smoke blowing back in the car propelled by the occasional car passing by. Ricky tried to imagine her son. He tried to imagine being in jail for seven months and knowing that night your own mother was coming to get you out and you could laugh at the people who'd thought you'd be in there until you rotted. He looked at her ordinary profile, the hair falling in front of her eyes and thought his own mother had once looked like that, a casual, alive sort of look that could hold all the emotions, like the currents of a fast-moving black river seen from a bridge and just the hint of the force in the water as it rippled over some rocks. That was her face as she turned and looked at him.
Thanks.
Hey. Scat.
I'm not a cat.
No, you're too stupid. But you're hungry. The two of y'all's just hungry runaways.
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