by Jaime Clarke
Heat burned across Hands’s forehead. He stomped back down the walkway, blinded, a portrait of Axia sitting on Figs’s lap projected everywhere he looked. He was on the precipice of homicide when he summoned me from the poker game, though I put up a small fight—“The best hand I’ve had all night”—but the bloodthirsty look in Hands’s eyes communicated that he was ready to yank me away from the table, and so I folded the four aces and king and followed Hands outside. His litany of grievances against Figs had a violent timbre, Hands straining his voice as we strolled along Garden Lakes Parkway.
“Loyalty is the only thing one friend can offer another,” he said. “Disloyalty should be treated accordingly.”
He’d regained his breathing, his hoarse voice scarcely above a rasp. Our legs ached; we’d walked miles around the lake bed. “Keep it quiet until the morning,” was my parting advice. Hands didn’t say anything that night, or in the morning, either, instead moving out of his room and into the house next door, Mr. Malagon’s old residence.
The sound of hammering woke us, Hands deafened by the pounding as he repaired the doorframe of his new house, not hearing our calls as we passed by on our way to breakfast.
Chapter Twelve
We did not curse the sun as a heat wave gripped Garden Lakes, though the heat persisted well after midnight, dropping only a few degrees as the moon waned. The unbearable stifle distracted us from the truth that Hands was not merely repairing the damage done to Mr. Malagon’s residence—a notion we commended as prudent, seeing how our parents would be arriving in a week and would ask questions—but had moved his belongings into the house, rehanging one of the plywood sheets we’d nailed over the broken windows that had slid to the ground.
There were those of us who guessed at the reason for Hands’s relocation, but confirmation came only when Hands—who would one day lead his family’s sixth-generation brewery to ruin by distrusting his chief financial officer, whom he considered a rival for his wife’s affections, engaging in endless, meritless litigation against the CFO that ended with a huge judgment against the brewery—circulated a private invitation to a select few for a housewarming of sorts on Wednesday night after dinner. The invitations were proffered by an unlikely source—Hands had chosen Kerr and Laird to discreetly deliver the announcement—and Roger threatened to punch Laird during breakfast when Laird tried to whisper in his ear. Those of us who had been invited wondered who else had been so privileged. The only certainty was that Figs would not be in attendance, a certainty unwittingly aided by Reedy, who happened upon Figs in his search for someone to take a look at the air conditioner attached to his residence, which had apparently frozen and shut down.
Figs fetched a hammer and a flathead screwdriver from the supply shed and descended on the air conditioner like a paramedic, Reedy right on his heels. Figs’s quick reaction was an extension of the mode he’d been in all day, a manner triggered by his lust to impress Axia. Not even Hands’s ditching out morning construction could shake Figs’s focus. If he had to carry the team himself, he would. And Axia would have a front-row seat to his heroics.
The full roster convened in Hands’s living room: Roger, Lindy, Sprocket, Assburn, and me. Kerr and Laird hovered near Hands, not realizing that their usefulness had expired.
Hands got right to it. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “We’ve all sacrificed our summer to be here, and now we have a situation that puts that sacrifice in jeopardy.” We knew what Hands was referring to. Hands continued his tirade without mentioning Axia specifically, couching his argument in terms of her residency being a corruption of the rules. “Like Mr. Malagon said, we must have cohesion. And part of being cohesive is following the rules, regardless of what the rules are. If the rules said it was okay to have visitors, we wouldn’t have to meet like this.”
“It’s not right to just turn her out,” Laird said, mistakenly presuming he was an equal member of the committee.
Hands continued as if Laird had not spoken. “I’m only interested in what we’re all interested in,” he said. “I want our parents to roll in here next week and see that we’ve accomplished what we set out to accomplish, and then I want go home and enjoy what’s left of summer. Is there anyone who disagrees with that idea?”
We did not disagree with Hands’s thesis, though the idea seemed to us a reiteration of the case he’d been making since Axia arrived.
In later testimony we would swear that no stratagems were designed that night, no plan of action called upon, a truth that was subverted by the fact that by breakfast the next morning, Garden Lakes was swirling with innuendo that Figs and Axia were a couple and that Figs was granting Axia haven for wholly personal reasons. Certain of us would not repeat the rumor, but others actively promoted it, Roger and Hands the loudest voices in the choir. Figs’s absence from breakfast lent credibility to the accusation.
The heat forced us to retreat to our residences halfway through the morning construction, Roger and Hands calling off work in Figs and Warren’s absence. We dropped our sanding equipment where we stood, assuming we would begin again after dinner, racing against the gloaming to finish, not knowing we wouldn’t return to our positions until that Saturday.
Figs, who would one day cover up an embezzlement at his firm, shifting the blame to an innocent department head at his father-in-law’s insistence, resulting in the department head’s firing, passed time at Axia’s. He’d forgotten about his promise to call Mr. Baker and did not worry about the consequences, firmly believing one of two things would happen: that by his not calling, Mr. Baker would have excuse enough to dodge any reprimand, or that Mr. Baker’s busy schedule would overtake his memory about the final inspection. A third principle guided Figs’s confidence: A final inspection before Open House would serve only to point up the mistakes—it would be too late to repair any flaws.
Instead, Figs whiled his time in conversation with Axia about how best she could serve the community. He did not want to presuppose that Axia would be content with the kitchen and laundry duties—his parents interchanged these responsibilities in his own house, and he knew that it was insensitive to consider kitchen work womanly—and he ran down the gamut of our chores so Axia could pick and choose. It became evident, though, that Axia was not interested in helping with the construction (“I don’t mind doing errands, but I’m not good with tools”) or with the classwork (“I wasn’t a good student”).
“I’m fine in the kitchen,” she said.
Figs knew that Axia’s contributions would be vital to the unprecedented credit they would receive at Open House. He delighted in the idea of Principal Breen and Father Matthews learning about Axia, and how Axia had pitched in under his leadership. Figs was composing a speech about assimilation in his head, in case the administration tried to level a case against Axia.
Having missed breakfast, Figs was the first to arrive for lunch. The rest of us drifted in whether we were hungry or not, desperate to escape our caged existence. The air in the community center was not as cold as that in our residences, and the heat killed our appetite. We sat in front of plates of uneaten sandwiches, opting for liquid lunches, lining up at the soda machine to refill our glasses, which we stocked with ice.
Hands sat at one of the tables positioned under an air-conditioning vent, most of the roster from the night before filling the remaining seats. He appeared relaxed, despite the heat. Kerr and Laird were nearby, taking turns holding their hands against the window, one counting until the other drew his hand back, shaking it as if it were on fire.
The whispers that Figs was trying to sabotage our fellowship had reached him via Reedy, who had been recruited by Roger. Reedy promised to follow Roger’s instruction to spread the word that Axia was Figs’s girlfriend, but he was so curious about the information that he had to confirm it with Figs.
Figs approached Hands’s table.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.
“Sure,” Hands said.
Figs searched the
faces at the table. “Privately?”
Hands did not move to get up. “You can say it to me here,” he said.
“You sure?” Figs asked. He hid his trembling hands in his pockets.
“I don’t see why not.”
Figs rocked forward as Sprocket wheeled by behind him. “What is this about Axia being my girlfriend?”
Roger, who would one day be court-martialed for taking a platoon of men in Iraq AWOL and killing one of them after the soldier had been wounded by enemy fire, begging him for a mercy killing, couldn’t control his snickering.
“Is she?” Hands asked. “I didn’t know. Congratulations.”
As Figs began to refute the claim, Axia appeared, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Uh-oh,” Roger said. “The missus.”
A sharp laugh went around the table. Figs would later wish that he had called Axia over to dispute the gossip, though what he wouldn’t admit to anyone was that he secretly liked the idea and couldn’t bear to hear the contrary, especially in front of witnesses.
“It’s a lie,” Figs said quietly, hoping Axia would not hear.
“The only lie I’m aware of is yours about the grocery truck driver finding Warren,” Hands said coolly.
Warren looked up from his ham sandwich at the mention of his name. He grabbed his lunch and corralled Axia, who was looking for a seat under the air-conditioning. “Help me in the kitchen,” Warren said, leading Axia out of the room.
“Better watch out,” Hands said. “Warren’s after your girl.”
Some of us laughed as Figs turned away. Cantu darted out of the kitchen carrying a jar of pickles, and Figs called out to him.
“Yeah?” Cantu set the pickles down cautiously.
“Come over here,” Figs said.
As Cantu waded through the room, Figs addressed the crowd. “Many of you no doubt heard the story I made up about Warren’s rescue,” he said. “I want to apologize to everyone for making that up. Most of you know me well enough to appreciate that I try to do the right thing. Which is what made me come up with that story. I wanted to . . .” Figs struggled for the words to explain what he’d hoped to accomplish with the lie without exposing the sophomores to ridicule by divulging their fear or their thoughts of desertion. “I wanted to ease everyone’s minds.” Figs looked down at Hands. “The same reason I went along with the story about seeing Mr. Malagon that first morning,” he continued. “I knew it was wrong to lie, but I was persuaded that it would put everyone at ease. So I went along with it.”
Hands scoffed.
Figs motioned at Cantu, who had been leaning against the wall. “I think Cantu might have something to say about that.”
Hands tensed up, realizing that Cantu would corroborate what Figs had said. He regretted not covering this with Cantu, maybe getting Roger to lean on Cantu if he refused. Hands was about to confess that he’d had a hand in the lie about Mr. Malagon when our attention was diverted out the window. We stood as a coyote rambled onto Garden Lakes Parkway, its furry head hung low, tongue wagging. Kerr and Laird stepped back from the window, and the coyote registered their movement, raising its head. Its ear twitched uncontrollably, and the coyote took a few steps toward the community center and then collapsed, its fur ruffling like grass as an arid desert breath swept over it.
Bagging the coyote and hauling it out to the front gates for trash collection was the day’s only event, a task Roger handled eagerly. Lunch had left a pall in the air and we languished in our rooms, speculating about if we would finish the work on 1959 Regis Street or not, or if we would receive credit for the fellowship once Randolph realized that Mr. Hancock and Mr. Malagon had left us stranded. The circumstances were so extraordinary we had no way of knowing.
Figs debated disclosing to Axia the rumor circulating about them. It wouldn’t be long before she heard it—if she hadn’t already—but Figs couldn’t decide if it was better for her to hear it as he had, by accident, or if Figs should be the one to give it voice. He worried that she would believe he was the origin of the rumor, but he also did not want to report the lie only to witness her derision at its ridiculousness. The dilemma tired him, and it was when he mounted the stairs to his bedroom that he noticed Hands’s empty room, the bed stripped bare, the dresser drawers hanging open like tongues stuck out in scorn.
Figs was awakened later by a knock on his bedroom door by Cantu and Reedy, their backs soaked with sweat. He wondered how long he’d been out. “The air conditioner quit again,” they said. With one foot still in slumber, Figs stood on the mattress in Hands’s room and shut the air vent, the slats giving a high-pitched whistle. Figs closed the door and followed Cantu and Reedy to their residence.
All the houses along Loyola Street were shut tight except for Reedy and Cantu’s. “We had to open the windows to get a breeze going,” Cantu said.
The sun had begun its descent, though the temperature held. Figs stood over the air conditioner without seeing it, wondering what time it was and which part of the schedule was being violated. He hadn’t really fixed the air conditioner the time before, he knew, the unit whirring to life when Figs had banged it with a hammer. He beat his fist against the metal siding again, but this time the air conditioner did not cooperate.
“It’s dead,” he told Reedy, following Reedy inside, where Cantu, Kerr, and Laird lounged shirtless on the couch. “You guys will have to move into Mr. Hancock’s place.”
The idea bristled the sophs. “No way, man,” Reedy said. “If he comes back and finds us living there, he’ll freak out.”
Figs hadn’t considered the idea that Mr. Hancock would return. He wondered when he’d ruled it out as a possibility. That Mr. Hancock would reappear after being gone for weeks was incomprehensible, but not impossible. What if others believed Mr. Hancock would return? Would it be enough to keep focus for one more week, until Open House? Figs filed the idea away.
The sophomores continued to refuse to move into Mr. Hancock’s residence, so Figs told them to bunk in his and Hands’s old rooms. “I’ll take Mr. Hancock’s place,” Figs said.
“What will we do about beds?” Cantu asked.
“Can they be moved?” Figs asked.
A short investigation revealed the beds to be too awkward to move down the hall, around the corner, and down the stairs. “What about just bringing your mattresses?” Figs asked.
“Sleep on the floor?” Reedy asked.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we moved into Quinn’s old place?” Kerr asked.
“Well,” Figs said. It wasn’t clear if the sophs were suggesting that they should move in with Axia, or if Axia should be displaced so they could take possession. He suppressed the surge of jealousy he felt at the idea of the sophomores bunking with Axia. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
Figs found Axia lounging on the couch in the front room of her residence, flipping through one of his old handouts, the lesson about FDR, intermittently using the handout as a fan to whisk away the warm air. “I came by earlier, but you were sleeping,” she said. “Hardly anyone came to dinner.”
“Was Hands there?” Figs asked, wishing he hadn’t.
Axia shook her head.
“How many were there?”
Axia let the handout slip to the floor. She sat up and yawned. “Ten or twenty that I saw,” she said. “I sat with Phillip.”
“Phillip?”
“The kid in the wheelchair.”
Figs convinced himself that Sprocket would not be a host for the gossip infecting Garden Lakes and turned his attention to the matter at hand.
“Listen,” Figs said. “I was thinking. There’s an empty house down the street that you might be more comfortable in. It used to be a model home and it’s a lot . . . nicer.”
“This is good enough,” Axia said. “That stuff doesn’t matter to me. I’m used to living in a tent, remember?”
“I just thought you’d like it better down the street,” Figs said, scrambling. “There’s a tub.”
&
nbsp; “You don’t say,” Axia said, reclining.
“Yeah,” Figs said, sensing he had her on the hook. “The furniture is nicer too. And the bed is a king, I think.”
“Nice furniture. King-size bed. A tub,” Axia said, ticking off the amenities on her fingers. “Sounds like a hotel suite.”
“There’s other nice things too,” Figs said, though he couldn’t remember what.
“I don’t know,” Axia said coyly. “I’m settled in here.”
The last of the sunlight faded and Figs shut the blinds on the living-room window, catching a glimpse of Lindy, who was headed out to the lake bed, his telescope tucked under his arm. He held his hand up to the air-conditioning vent. “It doesn’t feel very cold,” he said.
“I just turned it on,” Axia answered.
“You should leave it running,” Figs said. He went to the thermostat and turned the dial down to seventy. “It’ll take a couple of hours before it’s cool in here.”
Axia shrugged.
“You know,” Figs said, struck by inspiration, “the air-conditioning has been kept low in the house down the street. You’ll sleep better over there.”
“Okay, okay,” Axia said, exasperated. “I give. Let me get my stuff.”
Figs clapped his hands together. “Great. I know you’ll like it more. It’s the house on the other side of the community center, the first one on Loyola Street. I’ll meet you over there in a few.”
Figs skipped out of Axia’s house, pepped at being able to solve yet another problem. As he broached the walkway leading to the sophs’ house, ready for the accolades due him for arranging their release from the torrid prison, he heard Reedy yelp. Figs sprinted the final distance, throwing open the front door. Had he been in the company of others, the scene would’ve been one of hilarity: Cantu poised above Reedy’s partially shaved head with an electric razor, a bald Laird jumping around in the background while Kerr looked on. Reedy touched the nick above his ear. “It’s nothing,” Cantu assured him, continuing. The living room was covered in their hair.
