“Oh, I haven’t told you, of course, because you’d just say no and complain about what a bad idea it is, and then I’d go off and do it, anyway. I figure, why bother you with it,” she says with a smile, puts an arm across my shoulders.
Teklenburg laughs.
“Anyway, I have been thinking about it,” she says. “I just haven’t looked into it. I know nothing about koi, or ponds. I’ve tried to find information on the internet, but I just can’t figure out those damned search motors.”
“Engines,” I say. “Search engines.”
“Whatever.” She turns to him, hooks a thumb in my direction. “He’s no help, because he doesn’t know anymore about the internet than I do.”
I shake my head. “Not interested, thank you. I’ve got enough distractions in my life.”
“Do you have much experience on the internet, Chick?”
His eyebrows rise above his wire-framed glasses as he puts another potato chip into his mouth. He chews slowly for a moment before saying, “The internet?”
“Yeah. You know, I bet you could sell your work on the internet. Or, maybe you do. Do you?”
He empties his wineglass with one gulp.
I say, “I’ve heard a lot of people are making money on that, um…what is it?”
“EBay,” Renee says, nodding. “I have a client who makes little animals out of hot glue, puts eyes and ears on them. Makes a small fortune selling those silly little things on eBay. So, do you sell any of your work on the Internet, Chick?”
His head bobs again, but he is tense. “Yeah, I’ve sold a few things on the internet. At online art galleries, that sorta thing. Uh…” He looked around, eyes darting. “Could I use the—”
“Do you surf the web a lot?” Renee asks. Suddenly, there is an edge to her voice that I have heard before. It means she’s getting angry and is about to blow.
“Well, not a lot,” he says uncomfortably. “Could you tell me where the—” “It’s nice to know there’s art on the Internet,” she goes on. “I mean, the way people talk about it, you’d think there’s nothing but naked girls and people having sex out there.” She laughs, but it was a laugh that could cut flesh.
I close my hand on her elbow, squeeze. “Honey, I think you’re keeping him from going to the bathroom.”
He smiles and chuckles, but it’s forced. “Could you point me in the right direction?”
“I’ll take you, Chick,” I say with a jerk of my head in the direction of the house. I lean close and whisper in Renee’s ear, “Keep an eye on Snow White, over there. And calm down. Have another beer.”
I take Teklenburg into the house. As I turn to close the kitchen door, I see Wylie hurrying in my direction.
“Right down that hall,” I say, pointing. “Second door on the right.”
As soon as he’s gone, Wylie comes in, speaks in a whisper. “Goddamned briquettes wouldn’t burn. I just put the first batch of patties and weenies on the grill.”
“Where’s Ricky?” Without meaning to, I whispered, too.
He leans close. “Down the street.”
“I thought you were going with him.”
“I was, but I couldn’t get the fucking briquettes going. Figured I’d have a buncha burgers done by now. You wanna take over the grill for me.?”
“Not if I’m supposed to keep an eye on him, too.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll have Deeny do it. But I don’t want it to look like I’m sneakin’ off somewhere.”
“Get a couple vegeburgers cooked. Give him some food, and I’ll try to keep him occupied for a while. How long will it take?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Come on, Wylie, I can’t keep him here forever.”
“Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes. Just don’t let him leave till we get back.”
“You don’t know how long it’ll take? I thought you had this planned.”
“Give me a break, I planned this overnight. If it hadn’t been for—”
Footsteps in the hall shut him up. Teklenburg comes out of the hallway frowning, a hand on his stomach. “You know, guys” he says, “I’m not feeling so well. I’m thinking maybe I should go home and lie down.”
Panic hits me hard for a moment. Ricky is already in the house, but if Teklenburg decides he really wants to go home, how can we stop him?
“You just need to eat, that’s all,” Wylie says with booming enthusiasm. “I’ll put a coupla yours on right away.”
“No, really, I think—”
“You want some Alka-Seltzer?” Wylie asks. “Some Pepto-Bismol? Maalox? I got ‘em all.”
I put an arm around Teklenburg’s shoulders and my insides recoil as I smile. “Can you try to stick around a little longer?” I ask. “This is the first time a lot of us have had a chance to meet you. Nadine would be very disappointed, I think, if you—”
“Oh, Deeny’d be beside herself,” Wylie said, going to a kitchen cupboard. He opens it and removes something, hands it to Teklenburg. A packet of Maalox tablets. “Chew up a coupla these. If they don’t help, then you should go home. But for Deeny’s sake, stick around a while. I’ll get you a burger.”
Wylie hurried out ahead of us and I followed with Teklenburg at my side.
A few more people wander in and the music changes from Garth Brooks to Faith Hill. Not my kind of music — I’m a jazz guy — but it’s just white noise. Nadine brings us hamburger patties and hot dogs on paper plates. We take them to the table where the condiments and buns are waiting.
“You feeling better?” I ask Teklenburg as I apply mustard and lettuce and onions to my burger.
“Yeah, I think so. A little hungry after smelling this.”
“Good. You looked pretty sick for a few seconds, there.”
He simply chuckles and says, “Yeah.” Then bites into his burger.
Nadine is cooking at the grill. Wylie is nowhere to be seen. After we finish our hamburgers, Renee suggests a game of horseshoes.
“I know!” Renee says. Her beer is showing. “We can play in teams.” She turns back to the patio and calls, “Melinda! Come play horseshoes with us.”
Melinda mutters something grouchy.
“This is neither a suggestion nor a request, Melinda.”
She comes out of the patio with her head down, shoulders slumped.
Renee says, “You and Chick against your dad and me.”
“Mom!” Melinda says, dragging the word into two long syllables.
Teklenburg smiles and holds up a hand, palm out. “Um, maybe I’ll sit this out, ‘cause I’m pretty stuffed, and I—”
“Oh, don’t pay any attention to her,” Renee says. “She’s just feeling persecuted this evening. Come on, let’s play!”
We walk over to the two metal stakes in the lawn and take sides. Teklenburg and Melinda talk to one another quietly, but try to keep their heads down when they do it. Probably hoping we won’t notice. As we play, Renee and I whisper back and forth.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I say.
“I can’t either. You should never let me drink.”
“Right now, they are two of the most uncomfortable people in the world.”
“Yeah. Ain’t it hilarious?” Her words are cold, without humor. “What do you suppose they’re saying to each other right now?”
“I don’t know, but the only reason I’m allowing it is that I know that son of a bitch is gonna be dead in a while.”
I nearly burst out of my skin when someone claps me on the back.
“All systems go, Houston,” Wylie says in my ear. Then he raises his arms high, waves his hands and shouts, “Deeny and I play the winners!”
5.
We’re smiling and holding hands, Renee and I, as we walk home. Melinda mopes a couple of steps behind us.
Laughter and shouting and splashing come from behind the Morgan house, just two up from us. Obnoxious rap music, too. The glow of their torches hovers over the back yard and tendrils of smoke rise above the ro
of of the house. Several unfamiliar cars are parked on both sides of the street. A couple of adults stand on the front lawn smoking cigarettes.
“Well, that was a pleasant evening,” I say on the way up the front walk.
“Yes, it was,” Renee says. “Did you have a nice evening, sweetheart?” No response. “Melinda? Did you have a nice evening?”
` “No, the evening sucked.”
I stop and turn to her. “Hey, you want to watch your language, little girl? Especially when you’re talking to your mother. Maybe you talk that way around your friends, but not with your parents, do you under—” I interrupt myself by spinning around and going up the steps to the door, saying, “Never mind, we’ll talk inside.” I take my keys from my pocket, unlock the door, and go in the house.
Melinda slinks away and heads down the hall for the sanctuary of her bedroom.
“Oh, no you don’t!” I say. “In the living room.”
Sighing and harrumphing, she turns and goes into the living room. A second later, the sound of a studio audience laughing itself silly comes from the television.
We’re still standing in the entryway when Renee whispers, “You sure you want to do this now? I’ve been drinking.”
“That’s right. And you’re happy and cuddly. Perfect time.”
She tries to suppress a laugh, but it snorts through her nose as she nods. She smiles, hooks her arm through mine, and leans on me as we go into the living room.
Melinda sits at the end of the sofa, legs curled up beneath her, watching TV.
“Turn it off,” I say.
She aims the remote, turns down the volume.
“I said off.”
Jutting her jaw, she turns off the television as Renee sits at the other end of the sofa. I sit in my recliner, swivel it toward her. Lean forward with elbows on knees. “Did you enjoy meeting Mr. Teklenburg tonight?”
She fidgets, brings her legs out, hugs her knees to her and stares at the television as if it’s still on.
“Didn’t you find him interesting?” I say. “I mean, Chick being an artist, and all, I thought he was fascinating, didn’t you?”
She ducks her head lower, trying to hide behind her knees. Her eyes glisten with unfallen tears.
“I’m talking to you. Tiffany.”
She buries her face between her knees. Her body quakes a few times, but she does not make a sound.
“I saw your video,” I say. “One of them, anyway.” I wait for some response. Instead, the phone chirps. Renee, who has been unusually, almost unsettlingly, quiet so far, starts to get up. “Let the machine get it,” I say, and she nods. I turn to Melinda, open my mouth to continue, but I cannot. Out of habit, I am unable to ignore the answering machine. After my recorded voice, the beep sounds, then:
“Renee? You there, honey?” Renee’s mother, Enid. She pauses a moment. “I been thinking about that neighbor of yours, and I think you’d better have Melinda checked for AIDS, and make sure she’s not pregnant.”
Melinda lifts her head, face red and wet with tears, and shrieks, “You told Grandma?”
Enid’s voice drones on as I say, “Dammit, Renee, I told you—no one.”
Renee spread her arms wide. “Who’s she gonna tell? She lives twenty minutes away in Cottonwood, it’s not like she hangs around the neighborhood here.”
Dropping her feet to the floor, Melinda grabs a throw pillow from the sofa, puts it in her lap and pounds a fist into it repeatedly. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you told Grandma!” Her voice is quivery and thick with tears. “Who else did you tell, Mom? Did you take out an ad in the paper?”
Renee’s voice gradually raises as she says, “You’re in no position to complain, young lady, so I don’t want to hear any—”
“Whoa, hold it,” I say, “Can we quiet down, please? This is not going to be a shouting match. We’re going to discuss this calmly and quietly, okay? Now, Melinda. Can you tell us, calmly and quietly, why you’ve been having sex with Chick Teklenburg on the Internet?”
She pounds the pillow again, then tosses it aside and stands. “You weren’t supposed to know, you were never supposed to know!” She paces between Renee and myself.
“But we do know,” Renee says. “And even if we never found out, how could you live with yourself, Melinda? Why would you do such a thing?”
Melinda shrugged and spread her arms. “Why is it such a big deal? It’s not a big deal! Nobody was hurt, and it’s not like I was some, y’know, innocent virgin he, like, corrupted, or anything.”
“But on the internet!” Renee’s anger breaks through and she stands, steps in front of Melinda. “My God, why didn’t you just do it in the street? Or on television? Don’t you have any self-respect?”
“Look, he pays good, and Cherine knew I was saving for a car,” Melinda explains, calmly, rationally, as if her words would solve everything.
“He pays you?” I ask. “Don’t you have a problem with that? Don’t you know what that’s called?”
Renee’s voice trembles as she says, “It’s called prostitution, Melinda, and it makes you a prostitute.”
“He doesn’t pay for the sex!” She rolled her eyes. “He just pays for the right to use my image on his website. I would’ve had sex with him whether he was shooting it or not.”
Covering her eyes with a hand, Renee says, “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Someone shouts out in the street. Sounds like an angry teenager. I ignore it. My attention is already overtaxed as I try to keep up with the conversation, and at the same time, I’m preoccupied with how angry I am at Renee for telling her mother. My anger seems misdirected, though, because it’s unlikely that Enid would be able to—No! A tiny voice in the back of my mind cries. No, it is likely, it is! And I know the voice is right, but I’m not sure why. It’s just beyond my memory’s reach.
Melinda takes a deep breath, rubs her hands over her face. She speaks softly in a monotone, never meeting Renee’s eyes. “Look, Mom, sex is… well, it’s just not like it was when you were my age.”
Outside, a couple of voices shout at one another angrily. I glance in the direction of the front window, but stay in the chair.
“Don’t give me that,” Renee says. “You think your generation has reinvented sex because you’re doing it on computer screens? You’ve just found a better way to degrade it, that’s all. Sex is still sex, Melinda. And it still spreads diseases and gets you pregnant! We had this talk when you were nine, remember?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No, I don’t think you do! We’ve had a lot of talks about boys, too, haven’t we? About how some will try to take advantage of you and—”
“I don’t like boys, Mom. I like men.”
Renee drops back onto the sofa, leans forward and puts her face in her hands.
Something clangs in the street outside, more voices shout. Frowning, I stand and go to the front window, pull the drapes apart.
The Morgan boy is walking down the street. The Elliott boy hurries to catch up with him. There are others, too, all walking toward the end of the street. My first thought is, It’s happened already? His house has already gone up in flames? But I know that’s not right. The voices would be different if that were the case, they would sound distressed, not angry. And they wouldn’t be carrying torches. The Morgan boy and the Elliott boy are carrying burning torches. Tiki torches. And a hammer, the Morgan boy has a hammer. And behind him, Garry Elliott is jogging along, beer gut bouncing, a torch held in one hand, a large gun in another.
“Oh, shit,” I say as it comes to me, the thing that’s been bugging me about Renee telling her mother about Teklenburg.
“What?” Renee says, and I hear her and Melinda hurry toward me, feel Renee’s hand on my back as she pulls the drape back father. “What’s happening? Where’s everybody—”
“Your mother,” I say as I back away from the window, turn to her. “When did you talk to her?”
“This morning.”
“Was she on her w
ay to a hair appointment, by any chance?”
She turns to me, eyes round. “Yes! How did you—oh, God.”
Enid Plummer, Renee’s mother, has her hair done at the Golden Orchid, always by the same woman, one Janet Smidden, who lives with her husband and triplet toddlers just up the street and around the corner on Madison Way.
I step forward, jerk the drapes apart and look out the window again. Some are carrying golf clubs, others tire irons. Teenage boys, grown men. And women, too—there’s Rita Bartlett, whose daughter recently turned seventeen, and she’s carrying what looks like a .22 rifle, and behind her, Kate Murchison, who has two adolescent girls, carries a machete.
I shake my head and say, “Dammit, Renee, you had to tell your mother?”
“She can’t be responsible for this,” she says. She’s emphatic, but I can hear the doubt in her voice.
“Are you kidding? She told Janet Smidden all about it, then Janet came home and made a few phone calls, word got around—” I point at the people going up the street. “—and now they all know.”
“Oh, my God, what’re they gonna do?” Melinda asks. There is real concern in her voice, her eyes.
“They’re going to kill him, that’s what,” I say, heading out of the living room.
Melinda moves close to the window, palms flat on the pane. “He hasn’t done anything wrong!” she cries.
“You have no idea how idiotic you sound,” Renee says as she follows me out of the living room. In the entryway, as I reach out to open the front door, she asks, “What exactly are you planning to do out there, Clark?”
I freeze. I have no idea what I will do out there. Try to hold them off? Shout at them, Hey, you people can’t kill this guy—we’re killing him! My hand drops from the doorknob and I go to the phone in the kitchen, call Wylie. Nadine answers.
“Wylie said you might call,” she says. “I’m supposed to tell you not to worry, he’s got everything under control.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“What’s going on out there, anyway? He told me and the girls to stay inside.”
“That’s probably a good idea, Nadine. Thanks.” I turn the phone off, return it to its base at the end of the counter.
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