Jane Two

by Sean Patrick Flanery

“I’m pretty sure just one family each.”

  “Damn! Let’s check out the bedrooms.”

  Down a wide hall past a huge, modern kitchen, I found what should have been stairs, but, like outside the house, there were just two flanking zigzag supports. I grabbed some planks that leaned against the wall and set them across the zigzag frame and climbed up to find two more floors, counting the attic, and five bedrooms each the size of my living room. The largest bedroom on the second floor overlooked the golf course at the back of the house. On the third floor, the back bedroom was in the process of being painted bright violet with apple green trim. I noticed another sawhorse, measuring tape, carpenter’s pencils, and raw wood shelves. Across the room, two shutter-style doors hung ajar. A single poster was curling off the back wall of the walk-in closet. A large can of primer sat empty beside the closet door. I crossed the large room and opened the two doors all the way and stuck my head inside a walk-in closet that was the size of my bedroom. It looked like someone had abandoned a tea party in the closet with five purple toy cups and saucers and purple napkins and a guttered candle. A Farrah Fawcett T-shirt lay rumpled as the tea mat. I pulled down the curled corners of the poster to see that it was a classic shot of Marc Bolan from his T. Rex tour. I thought about stealing that poster until I saw a small, unfinished painting leaning against the wall in the corner. It was the painting of the field of green that I had observed Jane laboring over in her garage, with those detailed blades of grass. It now had a giant white H goalpost right in the foreground. And I knew exactly where I was. It was Jane’s room, and I was standing in it. I grabbed one of the wide-angle carpenter’s pencils from the toolbox and quickly scribbled I liken us to two balloons across the bottom of her Bolan poster. And again, I prayed that she would remember that first day in the classroom.

  “Jeezus, mother of Christ, Mic, where do they get the money?” I had no idea. “Oh shit, Mic, we better get the fuck outta here, I hear a motor.” In a fit of panic, Firefly’s red crew cut disappeared as he ran clomping back down so fast he knocked off most of the stair planks we had laid in place, forcing me to jump from the third floor to the second and then climb down a window frame all the way to the ground. My fear of going to jail superseded my desire to stay in her room forever…so I ran.

  As I met Firefly out back behind the Leviathan past giant rolls of lawn sod, I noticed the pipes of the in-lawn sprinkler system and realized that even their dirt was “designed.” And then a golf ball rolled right up to our toes. Gasping for air, Firefly reached down and started laughing uncontrollably, reading the ball.

  “Fuck does zat mean, Mic? Tit-lee-ist? Like the biggest tits? I’m titly-est! Balls fer boobies.” He held it up to his chest like a nipple then popped it in his pocket. “Check out that fuckin’ golf cart goin’ in circles. Buncha faggits, look at ’em wearin’ them pink and bright green pants! Hey Mic, how far to the pool?”

  “At the end of this path, there’s another velvety putting green thing. Right next to that.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Only with my mom to sign up and get a suit.”

  “I ain’t wearin’ no faggit’s underwear, showin’ off the baloney pony! I ain’t no goddamn figure skater!”

  “Maybe you can ask to wear something else? But my dad says you won’t go as fast.”

  “Shit! We gonna hafta start doing this trip five times a week!”

  “It’ll get easier.”

  “No it won’t, I’m gon’ die!”

  The golf cart cruised up with two older men dressed to a T, one in starch-pressed pink trousers and the other in creased Kelly green trousers, and matching alligator shirts. The pink pants had a fabric belt with little blue-and-white whales on it. And the green pants had a matching green belt with little white sailboats around his gut. The older golfer in pink pants, who was around forty, came up to us with this swagger that looked like he might even fall over. You could tell that he was trying to be stealthy like a shark, but he just looked like a fat, overfed goldfish. Firefly and I got on our bikes.

  “Say, have you boys seen a Titleist Three around here?” We looked at each other and shrugged before Firefly turned around to talk to the man.

  “The hell’s a Titus Three?”

  “Title-ist. It’s the brand name of a ball, a golf ball. Have you seen anything roll through here?” We shook our heads and started to pedal off. It was funny, I thought at the time, how the man had rolled out the word roll like he was putting on a south-of-the-border migrant Mexicano rrrrrr, yet he was talking like Mr. Howell from Gilligan’s Island.

  “Kid, if you should see it on your way, do grab it and I’ll give you a buck for it.”

  “A whole buck? For a little piece a plastic shit?” yelled Firefly over his shoulder. Then Firefly locked up his brakes and tore a slash in the velvet green beneath his tires and turned to face the man. We both looked at him in disbelief. Then Firefly yells out, “I can find it for a buck. I mean, probly. I can probly find just about anything for a buck.”

  “All right, let’s see you do it!” said Green Pants, the younger of the two.

  I followed Firefly around the hedgerow where we huddled. Then we turned around and headed back toward the golfers.

  “Hey, mister, found your Titly-est!” yelled Firefly.

  “So, kid, how do I know you didn’t have it all along?”

  “Well, I guess ya don’t.”

  “Well then, I guess I don’t know if we’ll give you two little thieves a dime!” snarled Pink Pants, but he wasn’t very convincing.

  “Then I guess I’ll run and chunk it in that lake over there for the gators to chomp on, sir!” Firefly looked to me and grinned. “Can you believe these queer baits wearin’ these weird-ass colored clothes? Fuckin’ pink!”

  “Boy, I’ll run your fat ass down before you get ten feet away,” boasted Green Pants. “And it is Nantucket red, you nitwit, not pink.”

  The provenance of pink trousers was lost on us, but Firefly, whose eyes sparked piss and vinegar, and smiling wide, threw the ball to me. “Yeah, well both of you together cain’t catch Mickey. Gimme the buck and it’s yours…or Mic runs, Mr. Pinkie, sir!”

  Pinkie and Green Pants finally agreed to pay us, and I realized that our golf course currency was more valuable to them than the thick wad of cash they had in their pockets. Our economic glory led to ice cream from the Snack Shack at the pool, and to Firefly shaming himself in front of the young lady behind the counter.

  “How much is a Fudgsicle?” Firefly ogled the waitress’s chest. “Do you see them titties, Mic? She’s the Titly-est right there, man!”

  “Thirty-five cents. Hurry up, there’s a line behind y’all.”

  “DAMN! What a rip-off. Okay, gimme one of those, and a Coke. How much is a Coke?”

  “Twenty-five.” The girl got his ice cream and drink from the cooler. “Anything else?”

  “You sure, Mic? There’s forty-five cents left. But if you get something, you’re just as big’a crim’nal as me.”

  “It’s forty cents, dumbass! And I’ll have an ice cream san’wich, please, ma’am.”

  Firefly choked down the last of his Fudgsicle, disfiguring his mouth with brown glop, just as a sun-straw blond California surfer-type guy reeking of body odor approached us in nothing but a Speedo and flip-flops. Ominous like a giant praying mantis behind his mirrored aviator shades, he was very fit and very tan, and seemed very intent on us.

  “Nice shades. Jeezus, this beach bum smells like he bathes with a crystal. Or shit, right?”

  The man had stopped directly in front of us with his hands on his hips.

  “Okay, which one of you is Mickey, and which one is the Food Flea?” He growled when he spoke.

  “Who the hell wants to know, Leif Garrett? You eyeballin’ my friend here? Mic, will y’look at this faggit, he’s nekked!”

  “I can hear you, you little shit. You do know you’re standing right in front of me, don’t you? I’m Coach Randall, and
I need you to watch that tongue.” As our new swim coach’s eyes seared a laser burn around Firefly’s slack-jawed and chocolate-ice-cream-slathered mouth, he reached over and removed my ice cream sandwich from my hold and threw it in the trash without taking his gaze off Firefly.

  In awe, Firefly finally conceded, “Fuck, I’m sorry about them cuss words. That last one, too, even.”

  “I’m guessin’ you must be the flea. So you must be Mickey. Your principal told me all about you.” I wasn’t sure what Coach Randall had heard, so I kept silent. “But I think Mr. Totter’s an asshole, so, you two should be all right with me. C’mon. Let’s warm up. Oh yeah, and there’s only one rule. You can’t eat for an hour before practice. If ya do, well, you’ll see.” Then Coach Randall looked at me and softened a bit. “After practice, I’ll buy you another ice cream sandwich.”

  Right then and there, as we walked together from the Snack Shack to the pool, Coach Randall started making us learn his oath he had picked up on Maui as a surfer. I pledge allegiance to the health of this wondrous jewel that is my body. One instrument, under God, that every positive act I intend to contribute to this world is necessary for, and without which, the provisions of love, knowledge, and goodwill—on and on it went, but by the end of our first practice, Coach Randall had succeeded in beating the oath into us.

  And sure enough, right off the bat Coach Randall exhausted us both, traversing that pool more times than I could count. By the end of practice, Firefly was puking up his Fudgsicle and wailing about the loss of our extorted funds. Our teammates fled the pool as I grabbed two skimmers and helped Firely clean the water, since I did not want to swim in his vomit, either. There were two Olympic-size pools right next to each other, and the twelve- to sixteen-year-olds’ team in the other pool kept ragging on Firefly about the puke.

  “I couldn’t help it. Hey, can I have a bite, Mic?”

  As promised, Coach Randall handed me a new ice cream sandwich and then headed over to the other pool, shouting instructions to each lane, mostly kids with kickboards doing laps. I savored the first bite slowly and then handed the remainder to Firefly, who wolfed it and immediately wailed, “Brain freeze!” and threw himself into a poolside conniption, banging himself in the head with the skimmer lid, then wrapping the skimmer net around his head as he rolled around by the edge of the pool.

  “Okay, I’m fine.” Calmly, he stood and looked around. “Is there more ice cream?”

  In the parking lot just past the fence, I noticed the red Firebird, so I moved closer with the skimmer, still pretending to scrape the surface of the water. At the adjacent pool, Coach Randall talked through the wrought iron fence to Kevin, leaning on the hood of his car.

  “Oh, he’s a fuckin’ pothead. Coach’ll get him arrested.”

  “Shhhh.” I sidled closer to the wrought iron gate to eavesdrop.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with his car? Fuck, I want that car.”

  “Shut up Firefly, I wanna listen.”

  “Kevin, don’t let the others see you smoking!” Coach Randall snatched Kevin’s cigarette and doused it in a puddle poolside. “I don’t care how good you are, if you don’t put in during practice, you’re not swimming in the meets.” Grinning, Kevin was looking right at me once again. “Hey, are you hearing me? Kevin, eye contact, right here!” Coach Randall was gesturing big to get Kevin to look at him. Kevin never responded. “Kevin, you gotta show up for practice!”

  “You ain’t the boss of me,” Kevin bit off.

  “Kevin, Jesus! Hey!” Frustrated, Coach Randall glanced around and waved the swimmers to focus on practice.

  Kevin grinned and gave me the peace sign, then fired up his plank and drove off.

  On our way home, Firefly and I biked by Sandpiper Drive past Jane’s house, where the movers were in the truck. The house looked empty, as if this was maybe the last load.

  “Ya know, Mic, it’s quicker to take Bentliff the whole way.”

  “This is the way you gotta go, so I might as well just go with you then go around.”

  “But we could drop by your house and eat somethin’.”

  “We’re nearly to your turnoff.”

  “God, I don’t know how you don’t get tired ridin’ this far. I’m fuckin starved.”

  We reached the end of Sandpiper, where Firefly had to go straight to reach his house, and I turned onto Bentliff.

  “All right, see ya tomorrow, man.”

  “Yeah, meet you at The Ditch first thing.”

  I waited till Firefly was out of sight, then turned right around, riding back by Jane’s. From the ficus hedgerow, I sat on my bike and observed the movers loading furniture. After a while, I set my bike down and pushed past the branches to the other side, and peered around the corner. After Jane’s couch got loaded onto the truck, the movers glanced over at me and went back into the house. I crept around the side of the garage and looked in the backyard, where her trampoline was rusting. I was appalled—her trampoline was rusting. I headed back around to the front. One of the movers was strapping in a chifforobe against the inside wall of the truck, so I ventured closer.

  “Hi, sir.”

  “Hey, kid!”

  The mover went back into the house, and I took a step into the garage, where Jane’s paints remained on a table. Her canvases were stacked up against the wall. Another mover came walking out with a taped-up box.

  “Hi, sir.” The mover ignored me and mounted the ramp into the truck. So, I got a bit closer and tried again, looking up at him. “Hi, sir.”

  “Hi, there!”

  “Do you know if the Bradfords are home?”

  “They’ve been gone most of the day.”

  “Do you know if they’re gone for good?”

  “Electricity ain’t even on in the new place yet; guessin’ they’ll be back if ya wanna wait.”

  The mover jumped off the truck, and when I was sure he was all the way inside the house, I approached Jane’s workbench with her brushes and paints like I was approaching a shale precipice. I picked up an old brush encrusted with dried paint and inhaled the pungent chemical scent Jane breathed every day. I put on Jane’s headphones and felt the foam that had wrapped her ears wrap mine.

  “Hey, kid, you a friend’a the little girl?” I jumped and yanked off the headphones.

  “Um, I don’t know…maybe…”

  Chuckling, the man continued on into the truck to set down his boxes, smiling to himself.

  “Well, when are you gonna know for sure?” It took a second for me to figure out if he was still talking to me or not, but there was no one else there.

  “I thought maybe today.”

  The man nodded knowingly and went back into the house. I looked at the paintbrush in my hand and then back to the door to see if anyone was looking. I ran through the bushes to my bike. Struggling with my bike that was caught up in ficus, I dropped the brush but caught it before it hit the ground, and rode off. As I rode past, I waved at Mr. and Mrs. Milan parked out on their supreme green lawn and realized I was waving Jane’s paintbrush. Without disentangling their clasped hands from each other’s, they waved back at me as one.

  Lined up on aluminum lawn chairs in my yard, I found Mom, Dad, Lew Hoagie, and his can of Miller High Life and a cigarette surrounded by remnants of the garage sale they had had out front. As I was riding up the drive, Lilyth was finishing selling her black velvet wall tapestry of a tiger to one of Magda’s grimy new boyfriends.

  “Yes, I’m sure she loves it. Just buy it for her, stupid.”

  “Hey, Touchdown, what do you say, Mic?”

  Lew raised his beer and cigarette to me in greeting.

  “Um, I don’t know, Mr. Hoagie.”

  He was already pretty drunk, and his short shorts were riding up his chicken legs toward his gut.

  “You want to go to Shakey’s tonight, Sug?” I hugged Mom and remained attached to her hip. “Your dad and I made a hundred and eight dollars today.”

  “Wow, yeah! How’d ya do that?�
��

  “Garage sale, Sug.”

  “Whole neighborhood came over and bought all the junk your mom’s been keepin’ for a rainy day, and Lew sold his Purple Heart from Vietnam.”

  “And his Bronze Star. Them medals was so nice.”

  “Fuckin’ meant nothin’ t’me,” slurred Lew.

  “Mickey, go put your bike away so we can eat, ’cause we gotta stop by the Piggly Wiggly, too. Lew?”

  “Bring me back one of them hamburger pizzas, Genie. And a six-pack, if you’re goin’ by the grocery. I only got four left.”

  I ran my bike toward the house, while my parents and Lilyth gathered up to get in the car. Molded to his chair on our lawn, Lew stayed.

  “You sure, Lew? Don’t taste so good out of a box.”

  “Tastes better if it ain’t burnt, Genie,” Lew slurred aggressively.

  “Watch yourself, Lew, she cooks things exactly how I like ’em.” Staring Lew down, Dad put his hand on Mom’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, Paul, I meant no disres…,” quailed Lew, completely stewed.

  My dad watched him sternly. “Lew.”

  “Yeah, Paul?” My dad just kept watching Lew, but Lew was past giving a shit. “What the fuck does Genie know about nice medals?”

  “Lew, that’s enough!” Dad shot back.

  “It’s fine, Paul, Lew’s just drunk. I don’t take it personal. He’s a nice man, I know that.”

  “Let’s go.” My dad kept an eye on Lew while holding the car door for my mom and kissed her as she stepped in. “I’m sorry, Genie.”

  “It’s fine, really. Paul, he’s one of your oldest friends, I know he don’t mean it.”

  We piled into the Gran Torino, and when I turned around to look back, Lew was already passed out.

  * * *

  At Shakey’s we feasted on pizza and Coke. Mine tasted like Lilyth’s perfume and I felt nauseated. Lilyth had on cutoffs and kept wiggling her shoulders to Little Eva’s “Loco-Motion” on the jukebox, readjusting her button-down shirt that was not buttoned, but tied. Mom kept scowling at her and they started bickering, so Dad rolled up his Shakey’s placemat, I guess to tune them out, and tapped me on the head. I wanted to roll mine up, too, and have a sword fight with him, but I needed it for something else.