The Ice House

by Laura Lee Smith

  “On the count of three,” he said to Chemal. “One. Two. Three!”

  He gave the back side of the wheel a terrific bash, and at the same time Chemal leaned forward and jerked the wheel off the shaft. The force of its release sent the two of them pitching toward the backseat, and with the shift in their weight, Johnny felt the car begin to rock backward on the pile. They both instinctively lurched forward to compensate. The Beetle teetered like a seesaw.

  “Hot shit!” James shouted from below. “Hold on!”

  It happened so fast Johnny barely had time to think. With the shift in weight, the Beetle tipped precipitously forward on the pile of cars, then started a descent. The noise was deafening. In the time it took Johnny to pray that the whole thing wouldn’t go end-over-end, the Beetle executed a flawless slalom down the side of the thirty-foot scrap heap, coming to a grinding but miraculously intact stop just a few feet from James’s stripped-out Dodge.

  “Hellfire!” James yelled. “That’s a new one!”

  Johnny looked over at Chemal, who had bloodied his bottom lip on the edge of the steering shaft.

  “Are you okay?” he said. Chemal turned to him, grinning like the Cheshire cat, covered in sweat and rust and with a thick stream of blood dripping down his peach-fuzzed chin.

  “Dude!” Chemal said. “That was awesome!”

  “Jesus,” Johnny said. He put his head in his hands and steadied his breathing. No exertion. No stress. Steady, fella. “Rock and roll!” Chemal said.

  They fiddled with the Beetle for a while longer and then rode around the salvage yard for another half hour, and by the time they were finished Johnny had pulled the steering wheel, a VW fuel pump, a replacement headlight housing for his Suburban, and a brand-spankin’-new brake line for the Chevelle. The total came to forty-seven dollars. Johnny rolled his eyes and protested that it was too little, but James wouldn’t take a penny more, so when he wasn’t looking Johnny sneaked back to the Kia Sedona and put a fifty on the dashboard. He took a pen out of his bag and wrote on the bill: “Blue Men.” Afterward, they went back to the house for Tootsie Pie and sweet tea. Fayette set them up at a picnic table in the side yard. Chemal fed a bite of pie to Cujo, who then curled up at his feet and went to sleep. Then Chemal told them all about some of his inventions.

  “Well, not inventions yet,” he said. “I haven’t produced them. But I’m conceptualizing them.”

  “Why you yelling, child?” Fayette said.

  “Sorry.” Chemal lowered his voice. “I have a book of ideas at home. Like here’s one,” he said. He pointed at Cujo. “Big dogs equal big poop, right?”

  “Lord have mercy,” Fayette said. “You got that right.”

  “So, my invention is that you put something in the dog’s food,” Chemal said. “Like, a luminescent substance. Maybe heat-activated phosphors. And then when the poop comes out it glows in the dark.”

  “Seriously?” James said.

  “That way you’ll never step in shit. You’ll see it before you step in it.”

  Johnny laughed. He couldn’t help it. Where did this kid come from?

  “I’m serious, Iceman. I’m going to market it. You can get in on this with me if you want. Be, like, my venture capitalist or something.” Chemal took an ice cube out of his cup and held it against his fat lip. “I’m going to call it ‘Go-n-Glo.’”

  “I think that’s a damn good idea, son,” James said, nodding.

  “And then I’ve got this other idea,” Chemal continued. “Shark repellent. For people going to the beach. You put it in sunscreen. Double duty. Only problem is that it smells like dead shark. I need to work on that.”

  “Do people really need shark repellent?” Johnny said. “I mean, what are the honest odds you’re going to be attacked by a shark?”

  “Don’t matter if they need it. Only matters that they’ll buy it,” James said. “I think it’s a great idea, Chamile. Think of it: Are people afraid of sharks? Yes. Will they buy shark repellent? Damn straight. They’d probably buy gator repellent, come to think of it. Don’t matter that all they really gotta do is stay out the swamp. People get scared. They buy shit. It’s the American way, Ice.” Chemal nodded. “Gator repellent,” he said thoughtfully. “You credit me for that one, son,” James said. “When you get rich, you remember me on that one.”

  On the ride home Johnny started to worry that Chemal’s mother might have a word to say about her son coming home with bloodstains on his pants and a busted-open lip.

  “I’m sorry about the lip, mate,” he said. “Your mum going to be mad?”

  Chemal snorted. He eased into a throng of traffic on Butler Boulevard and shook his head. “She won’t even notice it,” he said.

  They rode silently back to Watchers Island. Johnny was bone-tired. He closed his eyes and leaned back. In the passenger seat. Of his own Suburban. He was a little surprised that he was able to relinquish control of the driving situation as completely as he was doing right now. Ah, but what the hell? This kid knew how to drive. Let him get them home. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, then watched a kaleidoscope of shapes pass along the insides of his eyelids. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen these particular shapes before. Or was this the fingerlike extensions in action? How could he ever be sure, these days, that what he was seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting—any of it—was real?

  He opened his eyes. They were on the bridge to Watchers Island. At the top of the span, the ocean was visible, stretching cold and deep. The CD came around to the Moonlight Sonata again. Johnny pulled out his phone and checked Travelocity for flights. Today was Thursday. He could be in Scotland by the weekend: fly into Glasgow, rent a car, zip down to see Sharon and then up to Port Readie to see Corran. Then he remembered: He couldn’t drive. Shit.

  Johnny looked over at the KISS Army field marshal sitting next to him. The KISS Army field marshal who didn’t have enough to do. “So, listen,” he said. “Why are you having such a hard time? In school and such?”

  “You mean in life?” Chemal said.

  “Yes. In life.”

  “Because I’m poorly socialized. And I don’t sense boundaries. And I don’t do well with authority. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “You’re doing fine with me.”

  “You’re not authority.”

  “I could be.”

  “Nah,” Chemal said. “I can smell authority a mile away.”

  Johnny didn’t know whether to be annoyed or pleased. “Well, a lot of people I work with see me as an authority figure. I’m the boss, in fact. Did you know that?”

  “Authority is a relative attribute,” Chemal said. “Depends on the relationship between the two parties. Their degree of investment in reward and acceptance—”

  “Oh, Christ. Whatever. Enough with the psychobabble.”

  “You asked.”

  “Chemal,” Johnny said, “do you have a passport?”

  “A passport? Yeah. I went to the Bahamas with my mom last year. Why?”

  “Just wondering if you want to go on a trip with me. To Scotland. Just for a few days.” He watched Chemal’s face, which went slack with delight.

  “Seriously?” Chemal said. “Like, when?”

  “Tomorrow. I know it’s sudden, but I need to go. And I’ll need help driving when I get there.”

  “Dude!” Chemal said. “I’m on board.”

  “It’s tricky now,” Johnny said. “Other side of the road and all.”

  “No fear, Iceman. I am nothing if not adaptable.”

  “What will your mum say?”

  “She’ll say have a good trip. And don’t hurry back.” They pulled down Beacon Street. Johnny hit the button on the garage door opener, and Chemal pulled the Suburban in, parking it perfectly.

  “Seriously,” Chemal said. “Scotland? Really?”

  “If your parents say it’s okay.”

  “Not parents. Mother and stepfather.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll call them.”

  �
��They’ll be thrilled. Believe me,” Chemal said. He handed Johnny the keys and gave him the peace sign. Then he started to walk across the driveways back to his house before stopping abruptly and turning around.

  “Wait—you’re not, like, a pervert or anything, are you?” he called.

  “Not the last time I checked.”

  “Good enough,” Chemal said. He grinned. “I’ll go pack. Sweet!”

  Johnny went inside and took a shower. He called Jerry and Tina, who were, as Chemal predicted, thrilled with the idea. Then he got online and bought two tickets: Jacksonville to Glasgow, tomorrow, connect in Charlotte. The price was astronomical. He put it on a credit card.

  It was almost five o’clock. Pauline would be home before too long. He’d have to tell her he was booked on a flight to Scotland tomorrow. She wasn’t going to be happy about it. He fell asleep on the couch. He dreamed he was walking with Pauline in a field covered with snow, and it was back in Scotland, cold and windy but everything bright and blue. They were walking toward a shoreline, and across a narrow channel was a small rocky island. The sun was preparing to set over the water. They came to the edge of the snowy field and walked into a meadow of roses. “Why are they all burned?” Pauline said. Johnny looked across the water and could see Corran on the little island, Corran as a child, throwing stones into the water. An air-raid siren screamed, and then a bomber appeared and dropped a bomb, and the explosion rocked Corran off the shoreline, sent him plunging into the water. Pauline screamed and Johnny ran into the cold channel and slipped under the water. Frogs swam all around him. He held his breath and swam and swam, then finally he saw Corran under the water and moved toward him, but the boy remained just out of his grasp. The water went from cold to hot, then began to boil, then turned into fire, the flames licking through the current. Above, Pauline had turned into Sharon, who was throwing the charred roses into the burning water. Johnny reached for Corran. Corran shook his head sadly. No, he said. No.

  Eight

  The second cup of coffee was proving as impotent as the first. Roy Grassi yawned, pulled on his parka, and drained the last of the coffee anyway, thepping a few rogue grounds off his tongue and back into the cup before leaving his office and heading out onto the ice floor. It was just after lunch, with still the whole long afternoon to go, and here he was, weary as a sharecropper. Well, it was his own fault. He knew he shouldn’t have opened that letter last night. He’d found it in the mailbox when he got home from the factory, and what he should have done was left it on the counter next to his keys, where he’d find it in the morning and could safely open it once he was suitably distracted by the impending mental commotion of the workday ahead. But no, he’d opened it during his standing-at-the-counter dinner of a Marie Callendar potpie and a bottle of Rolling Rock, thus violating his own long-standing rule of never opening a missive of potentially bad news late in the day, when it had the very real potential of annihilating any chances of a decent night’s sleep. And in this case, he certainly should have known better. The letter was clearly marked as being from the University of Florida’s Bursar’s Office, which meant that it wasn’t a letter at all, but rather a bill.

  Ah, God! Why did he open it? If he’d only waited, maybe he would have gotten more than a few minutes of fitful dozing before the alarm went off this morning. As it was, the sight of the overdue balance—more than two thousand dollars—had him queasy with worry all night, especially combined as it was with an ominous asterisked disclaimer: “Failure to meet this financial obligation in full within thirty days of receipt will result in forfeiture of Study Abroad enrollment.” Which meant the forfeiture of his daughter Ally’s heart’s desire: a second-semester freshman year Study Abroad program in fashion design in Florence, Italy.

  Admission to the program hadn’t come easy. Ally had worked her butt off, creating an impressive portfolio of sketches and essays and even producing a specialized video presentation as part of her application. The competition, the program literature had warned, was fierce, with only a dozen students selected from a national pool of talent that included applicants from elite private schools and big-city academies who had every advantage and lorded it over a scrappy little Jacksonville kid from a Title I school on the Westside. Roy had distractedly approved Ally’s application effort, dubious of its potential in light of the odds, and had made a foolish and far-reaching promise that if she was admitted, he’d “find a way” to pay for it.

  But Ally had gotten in! His initial astonished pride had quickly given way to a creeping sense of panic as he started to assess the reality of the program’s costs. Thanks to his ex-wife’s contribution, plus the Florida Prepaid College Plan, a Bright Futures scholarship, and a generous textbook grant from the local Kiwanis Club, Roy had been fairly certain that the basic costs of Ally’s on-campus college education would be doable. But Florence was an expensive add-on program. His ex-wife, Bonnie, a good woman but irritatingly practical to the core, had told Ally there was no way she could afford to contribute, and that if her father wanted to make Study Abroad promises that was up to him, but that they could count Bonnie out for any money toward it. So Florence, basically, was down to Roy. How could he possibly do it? Then again, how could he possibly not?

  Roy walked around the ops floor, checking fluid levels and temperature readings on the icemakers and compressors. He threaded the bag handler with the long sheets of serrated plastic that would become thousands of pillow-sized sachets of ice by the end of the afternoon. He glanced at the clock. Was anyone else planning to come back from lunch today? The crew in the water treatment room was already at it, he’d credit them with that, but where was everyone else? No doubt in the break room still sucking down coffee, or taking their sweet time smoking out in the loading yard before clocking back in. The cat was away, they had obviously heard. With Johnny out of the picture for the next several weeks, at least, it was going to fall to Roy to whip some of these lard-asses into gear. Well, fine. Given the mood he was in, he was more than up for the job.

  He pictured Ally, who was probably walking into her UF dorm about now, back from her morning classes. She’d open the dorm room door and what would be the first thing she’d see? That poster of Florence, the one she’d toted with her from where it hung on her bedroom door all summer at home and that had been the first thing she’d installed in her college room. His fingers twitched with the urge to text her. Just to say hi. But he’d been forcefully limiting himself, lately, to one text a day, just to give the kid some space. He’d rather save today’s exchange for later in the evening, the time of day when she was most likely to be chatty. Afternoons were okay, but evenings were best. He never called or texted early in the morning, not wanting to burn his one daily opportunity to connect with her. He knew that in the first few sleepy moments of Ally’s day, she didn’t like to talk, though whenever she was home with him, she would often pad down the stairs in a T-shirt and oversized pajama pants and quietly put her head on his shoulder for a second before pulling out the Rice Chex and folding herself over her iPhone at the kitchen table.

  Ally. God, he missed the kid.

  And if he missed her this badly when she was only two hours away, he could hardly imagine what it would feel like to put her on a plane to Italy in just a few short months. What a rotten catch-22 this was. He didn’t want her to go to Florence. But he didn’t want her to be denied anything, ever. She’d earned the opportunity, and she should take it. She was supposed to be in Florence in January—touring the great fashion houses and taking classes with famous designers and eating pasta in quaint cafés, or whatever the hell it was that they did over there. But unless he made the next payment of two thousand dollars, and did so soon, Florence wasn’t going to happen.

  There were two voices competing for attention inside Roy’s head.

  Charge it, said the first.

  Your credit card is maxed, said the second.

  How ‘bout open another card?

  How ‘bout just tell her no?
>
  Well, that was certainly a reasonable suggestion, he admitted to himself. Just tell her they couldn’t afford it. I’m sorry, Ally, we can’t do it. No.

  Claire’s voice came over the intercom. “Roy!” she said. “Call Claire please!” Why did Claire always seem to be yelling? He didn’t know whether to be chagrined at her tone or simply grateful that she wanted him for something, whatever it might be. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called her extension. She picked up right away.

  “Did I leave my keys out there?” she said. “In your office, maybe?”

  “I didn’t see them,” he said. “But I can go look.” Claire had stopped in his office on her way back from lunch to pick up a pile of shipping receipts. He’d cleared a spot on his sofa, hopeful that she’d sit for a few minutes, but she’d been characteristically frazzled and hadn’t seemed to notice his effort. She’d breezed through in a hurry, complaining about the chill, ponytail swinging, leaving a faint scent of something citrusy in her wake. Now Roy moved across the ice floor back toward his office, trying to think of something interesting to say while he had her on the line. That was the problem, he decided. He just wasn’t very interesting.

  “I’m walking back there,” he said. She didn’t answer. “To look for the keys,” he added lamely.

  She sighed. “I’m always leaving things,” she said. “I can’t keep my head on straight.”

  “You’re working too hard,” he offered. He reached the office and glanced around. The keys were nowhere in sight, but he was reluctant to say so just yet. “You need to decompress sometime,” he said.

  “Ha,” Claire said.

  “I mean, you got a lot on your plate, Claire.”

  “True that,” Claire said. “Hang on.” He heard her put a hand over the phone and say something to someone else in the admin wing. It sounded like she was annoyed. She uncovered the mouthpiece and her voice came back on the line, conspiratorial this time. “My God, Ed from Sales!” she whispered to Roy. “He’s getting on my last damn nerve in here!”