Pulling up Stakes and Other Piercing Stories

by David Lubar

  Pulling up Stakes

  and Other Piercing Stories

  by

  David Lubar

  Pulling up Stakes

  and Other Piercing Stories

  eBook edition

  Collection copyright 2012 by David Lubar

  Cover design by digitaldonna.com

  "Shockers" copyright 2005, David Lubar, first appeared in Every Man for Himself. "War Is Swell" copyright 2002, David Lubar, first appeared in Shattered. "The Heroic Quest of Douglas McGawain" copyright 2004, David Lubar, first appeared in Don't Cramp My Style. "Bread on the Water" copyright 2003, David Lubar, first appeared in Destination Unexpected. "Orway Otnay otay eBay?" copyright 2009, David Lubar, first appeared in This Family Is Driving Me Crazy. "Duel Identities" copyright 2000, David Lubar, first appeared in Lost & Found. "Pulling up Stakes" copyright 2004, David Lubar, first appeared in First Crossing. "Here's to Good Friends" copyright 2008, David Lubar, first appeared in Owning It. "Claws and Effect" copyright 2006, David Lubar, first appeared in What Are You Afraid Of. "Words of Faith" copyright 2002, David Lubar, first appeared in Soul Searching. "Habitat for Humanity" copyright 2006, David Lubar, first appeared in Twice Told.

  First Kindle Edition, January, 2012

  Text set in 13-point Bohr-model electrons.

  Dedicated every anthologist who ever gave, or will someday give, one of my stories a good home.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Shockers

  War Is Swell

  The Heroic Quest of Douglas McGawain

  Bread on the Water

  Orway Otnay otay eBay?

  Duel Identities

  Here’s to Good Friends

  Claws and Effect

  Words of Faith

  Habitat for Humanity

  Pulling up Stakes

  About the author

  Other books by David Lubar

  Introduction

  Each story in this collection began with an act of courage, though not on my part. Nearly a dozen times, an author or editor took a deep breath and made the splendidly dangerous decision to create an anthology. I would never be so bold. I would never be so ambitious. I would definitely never want to tell another writer that he needed to cut his story or, worse, that his story didn’t make the cut. Anthologies require a huge investment of time, and receive a lot less love in return for that investment than novels get. Or cakes. I’ve written six short-story collections. Those are easy. Collections are the voice of one writer. I pick whatever plots and topics I feel like. An anthology has a single theme, but a mix of voices. I’ll get a call or email from an editor, stating, “I’d like a story from you about phobias.” Or war. Or, gasp, titter, gasp again, menstruation.

  That’s where I come in. As much as I would never want to edit an anthology, I’ve enjoyed being on the other end of the gun. The editors I’ve had the pleasure to write for have helped me craft some of my best work. One story in here underwent both a sex change and a drastic weight reduction. Another was lengthened on request. Titles were shot down. Awkward sentences were circled. Characters were assassinated, or, at least, removed from the page. It’s a good process.

  As the cover indicates, the stories do seem to involve more than a few sharp objects. I suspect either that’s coincidental, or it reveals an aspect of my personality that’s better left unexplored. I won’t go on at length, here. The interesting part is the fiction, not my thoughts about writing it or the history of the stories. I hope you enjoy what follows.

  Shockers

  Delia shrieked liked she was being gutted with a dull butter knife. Oh boy. I knew that scream. I knew it well. It was the one that announced earth-shaking news.

  We were up in her room. Her folks were pretty cool about that, as long as we kept the door cracked an inch or two, though her mom generally popped her head in at random intervals to ask if we wanted a cup of hot chocolate or to inform us about the topic for this evening's Nightline.

  Her dad glanced in our direction if he happened to be walking down the hall, though he didn't talk much. Our longest conversation took place the first time we met. I'll give him this — he didn't blink. I think my hair was pink that week. Can't remember for sure. I had the earrings, the nose ring, and the one in my lip, but I hadn't gotten my eyebrow pierced yet. Delia's dad lifted his right hand, pointed at my cheek, and said, "Steve, I think you missed a spot." Very funny.

  Back to the scream. It was Friday night, around eleven. I was hanging out, reading Neuromancer for the ninth or tenth time. The book was one of the summer reading assignments for senior English, which I took as a good sign. Delia was downloading the latest top-forty samples, exchanging instant messages with her friends, and surfing for fashion news to make sure the pants she'd bought two days ago were still in style.

  After the scream, Delia leaped from her chair and clapped her hands together like someone killing a bee. As much as I disliked the scream, I loved the way everything moved when she jumped. She was in great shape. She didn't just turn heads. She snapped them. Last week, I swear I saw a guy in the mall do a one-eighty from the neck up. I could almost hear vertebrae separating. Of course, the fact that her skirt could be mistaken for a belt added to the impact.

  "Steve, you'll never guess," she said.

  "Martians invaded the mall?" I asked, placing my book face down to save my place.

  "No. Guess who's playing at the Dome?"

  I replayed her scream through my mind and knew the answer. And, with the answer, all the consequences. My fate was sealed. Life would suck for two hours at some point in the future. Why couldn't love be deaf? Ungritting my teeth, I spoke their name. "Oh! Golly."

  "Yeah. Oh! Golly," she said. "They're playing at the Dome next month. Tickets go on sale Monday."

  "Oh great," I said. Softly. As the posters that were plastered across her walls testified, Delia was their number one fan. I didn't share her enthusiasm. Oh! Golly was one of those bands that, like Frankenstein's monster, have been sewn together by an evil genius. They weren't created in a gas-fumed garage by a group of musicians who'd known each other since birth. They sprang from the depths of a record company's marketing department. Their music was upbeat. Their lives were wholesome. Between the five members of the group, they had enough shiny white teeth to tile a spacious bathroom. The title of their latest album was Puppy Chuckles. Kill me now.

  Delia dashed across the room and hugged me. "I'm so excited. We are going to have the best time." She kept her grip while jumping up and down. Had I been lighter, I would have left the ground. As it was, I could feel part of my body rising. Okay, kill me later. I reached up to return the embrace.

  "You kids want ice cream?" Delia's mom inserted the front portion of her head into the room. "I've got mocha almond fudge, and peanut butter swirl."

  "No thanks, Mrs. Kensington," I said, as I stepped away from Delia and tried to wipe all signs of passion off my face.

  "Well, let us know if you change your mind." She withdrew and moved silently away along the thick carpet in the hall.

  Delia ran back to her computer. I ran various escape options through my mind. Maybe she wouldn't be able to get tickets. Maybe the whole band would come down with food poisoning. Maybe I'd break both legs in a snow-boarding accident. Okay, not likely in the middle of June, but a guy could hope.

  As much as I loved to visit my fantasy world where I could imagine entire bands suddenly struck down with a hideously painful gum disease, I realized I was out of luck. Delia always got what she wanted, whether it was a new outfit, concert tickets, or any guy on the planet. Her dad made good money doing some sort of thing with municip
al bonds. Her mom came from a family that once owned a chain of movie theaters. Delia was an only child. The Kensingtons had nobody else to spoil.

  I'm not poor, but my life wasn't anything like Delia's. We moved in different circles. Possible even in different universes. But we're both good artists. Very good, actually. So we couldn't help running into each other all the time in the art room. I could tell Delia didn't want to admit that some freaky guy with spiked hair and a face full of hardware could draw like a Renaissance master. And I wasn't willing to accept that some egocentric chick with perfect makeup and coordinated outfits could paint circles around the French Impressionists. But there it was. And there we were.

  I stayed after school a lot to work on stuff. One day, when Delia and I were leaving at the same time, we started talking. The next day, we talked and grabbed a burger. I notice that she didn't stare at me like I was some sort of freak. And I tried my hardest not to stare at her like she was some sort of cover girl. I might have failed slightly in my efforts, but it didn't seem to bother her. She knew she was hot.

  There was a Gustav Klimt exhibit opening at the art museum that weekend. None of my friends wanted to go. None of her friends wanted to go. So she and I went. I guess that was our first date. I figured we'd meet at the museum, but she asked me to pick her up at her place. Said her parents insisted on it. So that's when I first met her folks. It was actually sort of nice. The last couple girls I'd gone out with had tried to hide me from their parents. We'd had a good time at the museum.

  Now here I was, more than a month later, still with her. I got ready to head home at 11:45. I have this stupid junior license, so I can't be on the road after midnight. "Hey, I'm glad you're going to get to see them," I told Delia. That was true. I understood the passion, even if I loathed the target.

  "Thanks." She stood and put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm glad we're going, too."

  I leaned forward to give her a kiss.

  Tap.

  Bam!

  Tap. Tap.

  BamBamBam!

  I peered around the door. The culprit was Mrs. Kensington in the hallway with a hammer.

  "Family photos," she said as she lifted a huge frame onto the hanger she'd just nailed to the wall. "Been meaning to put this up for weeks. Come see."

  I came and saw. The newly hung object was one of those photo displays with a bunch of holes cut in a mat board. Lots of snap shots of Delia at various ages in various outfits. All adorable. Faded shots of grandparents. Assorted adults in pairs and groups. One picture caught my eye. Mr. Kensington and Delia with fishing rods, standing by a lake. She's five or six, and grinning. He's holding a fish.

  I noticed him coming down the hall — probably to make sure the wall was still standing. "Smallmouth?" I asked, pointing at the picture.

  He nodded. "Seventeen inches. I hooked it, but Delia landed it. You fish?"

  "I used to. With my dad. It's been a while." Wow. A conversation.

  "Delia hasn't fished in a while, either," he said.

  She made a sound that indicated she had no immediate plans to ruin her streak.

  "Well, I'd better get going." I didn't want to have him start asking about my dad. He'd died way back. I could deal with that. But the sad eyes and all that crap when people found out — I didn't need that at all.

  Delia walked me to the door. Behind us, I heard her mother say, "He's such a nice boy." She said that a lot, usually right after pulling her eyes away from the Persistence-of-Memory tattoo that covered my right arm. But she was getting better. The first time she saw me, her face assumed the expression of someone who just realized she's swallowed a live millipede.

  I managed to get that kiss on the porch, then drove home, with the new Smothered Guppies CD blasting loud enough to scrape any thoughts of Oh! Golly from my mind.

  Hope number one on my list of escape routes was dashed on Monday. Delia hit the phone the instant tickets went on sale and scored seats so close we'd be able to count tonsils. Hot diggity. She bought the limit.

  "Six tickets?" I asked when she told me the news.

  "Sure. We're all going," she said. "Suzie and Candace love Oh! Golly. Everything's set."

  And it was. No freak summer blizzards struck. No crazed fans kidnapped the group. I didn't break a single limb. The time had come. We were going to the concert of her dreams. My mom dropped me off at Delia's house. I'd be getting back too late to drive myself home.

  Delia's mom answered my knock. When she first opened the door, she just stared. I'd changed my hair in honor of the event. I guess it took her a second to process the information and realize the blonde guy on her porch was me.

  "Oh, hi, Steve. Come in. Delia's almost ready."

  "Thanks." I went inside and walked past Delia's closed door. "Don't rush," I called. "We've got lots of time." I really wasn't worried about being late. It was fine with me if we arrived after the last encore. Down the hall, I heard the doorbell, followed by a quartet of cheerful voices. I wasn't ready to join the crowd, so I stopped to look at the pictures on the wall, trying to kill time by guessing where each one was shot.

  I recognized Seaside Heights. And, though I'd never been there, the Eiffel Tower was pretty easy to identify. The picture with the smallmouth bass was probably from one of the large lakes north of here. I thought it was pretty cool that Mr. Kensington had taken Delia fishing. It probably bummed him out that she didn't want to go with him any more. I had vague memories of fishing with my dad — I couldn't have been more than four or five at the time — but no pictures. I didn't want to dwell on that, so I shifted my attention to other photos.

  One shot, with what might have been the Rockies in the background, showed a guy on a Harley. Real biker look — beard, sleeveless denim jacket, boots. Killer tattoo of a two-headed snake on his upper arm. I wondered which side of the family he represented. It would be pretty cool to find out that Delia had a bad-ass uncle stashed somewhere.

  Just about the time I'd managed to memorize all the photos, Delia emerged. "Nice outfit," I said. I think she'd just created a new category — erotic preppy. On her, it worked.

  "Great spikes," she said, touching my choker.

  "Want to wear them?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "Not my style."

  We joined the other two couples in the living room.

  "You know Candace, right?" Delia asked. "And this is Arthur."

  I nodded. I'd met Candace couple times. She was okay, but Arthur looked like he expected me to knife him. Obviously, he didn't know the difference between a punk and a thug. Or maybe he was the sort who expected every person he met to hurt him.

  "This is Suzie, and that's Lindon." Delia said.

  "Nice," Suzie said, reaching out to touch my hair. "Can I borrow you some time? I'd love for you to meet my parents."

  "I don't think your parents would be amused," Lindon said, grabbing her hand. He gave me his tough guy look. I gave him my "you're-invisible" look.

  "Let's hit the road," Delia's dad said. "Traffic's going to get heavy."

  When we reached the van, I noticed there were three seats in the back, then two in the middle and two up front. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this wouldn't work well for our trio of couples.

  "Would you mind?" Delia asked. "Suzie and Candace are going away next week, so it would be kind of nice if they got to spend as much time as possible with Arthur and Lindon."

  "No problem." I went up front. Delia climbed in the back with Arthur and Candace. Suzie and Lindon took the middle.

  "To the Dome, driver," I said.

  Mr. Kensington touched the brim of an imaginary chauffeur's hat. As he backed out of the garage, he reached for the CD player. "My car, my music," he said.

  I braced myself for Verdi, Sinatra, or Conway Twitty. To my relief, what I heard was Clapton. Sure, it was old-folks music, but it was the tolerable sort.

  And then there was the less tolerable noise. I discovered, in the alliterative way in which nature sometimes works,
that Lindon was a loudmouth.

  "Wow, Steve," he said as we headed toward the turnpike, "from behind, you know what your ear looks like with all those rings?"

  I shrugged, uninterested in guessing, but glanced back at him to show I could be civilized even around a total dork.

  "A shower curtain."

  "Clever." I turned away so he could continue to contemplate the back of my head. Apparently, staring wasn't enough for him. He wanted to play with my head, too.

  "So, Delia," Lindon said, "I didn't know you'd broken up with Bronk."

  "They broke up months ago," Suzie told him. "She dumped him for Ricky Skeffs."

  And on they went, discussing an assortment of Delia's past flames. It was a long list. I knew some of the names. Bronk played football for Milton High across the river. Big black guy with dreadlocks and huge biceps. I'd run into him at a party or two. He got along fine with the punk crowd. Skeffs was a skinny loser with a runny nose. Looked strung out most of the time. Most people I knew stayed clear of him. There was even a minor celebrity in the group — Cage Mathus, who drummed for a local metal band. If Lindon was trying to make me jealous, he was wasting his time. Delia's past dates were her business. The present was all that mattered.

  But he did get me thinking. It seemed like all of Delia's guys had been hand-picked from the set of those most likely to freak out upper-class white parents. No, that couldn't be right. There had to be more to her choices than that. But no other explanation quite fit.

  I glanced over at Mr. Kensington as he reached up to adjust the rear view mirror. Beneath the cuff of his short sleeve, I could just see the edge of a tattoo. Snakes, maybe. I stared at his profile and tried to imagine him with a bushy beard. Click. A couple things fell into place. "That's you on the Harley, right?"

  "Harley?" He spoke without taking his eyes from the road.

  "The photo on the wall. Looks like the Rockies."