Saving Room for Dessert

by K. C. Constantine

  Rayford didn’t know which of these combinations of neighbors was worst. God knows, the Scavellis and the Hlebecs had been beefin’ about three times as long as the other two. And until about five years ago, the Hornyaks and the Buczyks appeared to have been good friends as well as good neighbors. Pete Hornyak and Joe Buczyk had played football for Rocksburg High School, guards on offense and linebackers on defense. Both went on to play college football at notorious football factories, but neither had graduated, not even with the kinds of degrees football factories notoriously dispense, such as physical education with an emphasis in playground supervision or recreation direction or summer camp administration or camp counseling, degrees that weren’t even valid certificates of class attendance because the only classes they ever attended were taught by assistant coaches and their only textbooks were their play-books and films of their games, their practices, and their opponents’ games.

  With banged-up knees, shoulders, and hands from playing sixteen years of football since the second grade through five years in college—through various dubious schemes tacitly approved by the bodies that were supposed to govern football played by pretend colleges—and having no marketable skills to speak of, Pete Hornyak got a job driving a truck for a furniture store, and Joe Buczyk got a job driving a truck for a building supplier. Twenty-five years later, Hornyak and Buczyk were both working for Home Depot, Hornyak selling flooring and floor coverings and Buczyk selling paints and painting supplies.

  They each married the girl of their dreams, former drum majorettes for the Rocksburg Rams varsity marching band. Mary Falatovich became Mrs. Peter Hornyak, and Susan Syzmanski became Mrs. Joseph Buczyk. They bought houses next door to each other in the Flats, and for many years apparently happily shared beer and barbecues in their backyards, watched televised football in each other’s basement game rooms, and even vacationed together in Atlantic City, New Jersey, or Ocean City, Maryland. Rayford had collected this information over the last six years from reading unusual incident reports and from talking to the patrolmen who’d written them.

  He’d also learned that the Buczyks had two children, a boy, seventeen, a senior in high school, and a girl, fourteen, a sophomore. The boy was cocaptain of the football team, and the girl, like her mother before her, was a majorette. The Hornyaks had no children, apparently because either or both had some physical problem that prevented it; if they’d talked about this problem sympathetically with the Buczyks at one time, they certainly were no longer doing so. Fact was, their last confrontation became physical when Pete Hornyak accused Joe Buczyk of taunting him that if he was a man he could’ve had children. Buczyk denied it afterwards, but that didn’t keep the blows from landing.

  What started to spoil the friendship, as near as Rayford could figure out, was that approximately five years ago, the Hornyaks and Buczyks decided, whether by design or accident was uncertain, to get into the dog-breeding business. Mrs. Hornyak’s mother died and left her daughter, among other things, a registered male Border collie, barely two years old. It so happened that the Buczyks had two female Border collies of their own, both duly registered with the American Kennel Club. Nature being nature and dogs being dogs, the two female Border collies soon dropped litters, seven pups each. Registration papers were filed, ads were placed in newspapers in Rocksburg and Pittsburgh, the Hornyaks got the pick of each litter and ten percent of the sale price, and the Buczyks sold twelve Border collie pups for a sum of money, the exact amount of which became the start of the dispute between them.

  Now the Hornyaks had three Border collies, the father and two daughters, while the Buczyks still had their two females, the mothers of the only litters which had produced pups for cash. After the first couple of arguments about who had paid what to whom, the Buczyks, without discussing it with the Hornyaks, had their females spayed, thus ending the breeding business. And the friendship.

  The other observable fact about these two couples wasn’t anything Rayford could have put in any of his unusual incident reports, but it was something so obvious he’d have to have been blind not to notice. Rayford had long ago observed about white people that if you talked to a white woman long enough, sooner or later she’d start talking about what she was eating and why, whether she was on a diet, had been on a diet, was planning to go on a diet, or why this, that, or the other diet did or didn’t work. He’d also observed that on the covers of any of the magazines white women bought out of the racks in the checkout lines in grocery stores there was guaranteed certain to be one headline on the cover about how to lose ten pounds in ten days or how to eat all you wanted while the fat melted off while you slept. Then there were those tiny books, the fat counters, the cholesterol counters, the Hollywood diet, the grapefruit diet, the high-protein low-carbohydrate diet, the low-protein high-carbohydrate diet, the soy diet, the vegetarian diet, right there in the little racks next to the TV Guide. Then there were the medical reporters on the local TV news, interviewing skinny doctors who raved about the obesity epidemic as though fat germs were carried by rats or mosquitoes and the whole population was in danger of being infected. The only black woman Rayford had ever heard making such a fuss about diet was the queen herself, Oprah, but even she in the last couple of years seemed to be backing up a notch on her obsession with weight.

  When the Hornyaks and the Buczyks were going at each other, it was impossible for Rayford not to notice that Mrs. Buczyk and Mr. Hornyak seemed to be growing rounder and rounder, while Mrs. Hornyak and Mr. Buczyk seemed to be growing leaner and more muscular. The first time Rayford had responded to a call from Mrs. Hornyak about a tree problem—almost six years ago—the four of them seemed in fairly good shape. But over these last six years, Mr. Hornyak had put on at least fifty pounds, most of it around his stomach and buttocks. Mrs. Buczyk, on the other hand, seemed to have distributed her extra fifty pounds all over her body, from her cheeks to her ankles. And more than once Rayford had spotted Joe Buczyk sneaking looks at Mary Hornyak and Mary Hornyak sneaking looks back.

  It was another chicken-and-egg puzzle, like the Scavellis. Were they screwed up before their kids died or did they get screwed up because they’d died? Were Susie Buczyk and Pete Hornyak getting fat before they started selling dogs? Or were they packing on the pounds because they were trying to eat their way out of the stress that had developed because they’d stopped selling dogs? And what was behind those sneaky little glances between Joe Buczyk and Mary Hornyak?

  “You’re imaginin’ shit,” Canoza said after the last blowup.

  “No I’m not. Check ’em out, I’m tellin’ you, there’s somethin’ cookin’ between those two. I don’t think its about the dogs at all. Or the trees. Or the parkin’ spaces. The dogs, the trees, the parkin’ spaces, they’re all just excuses. It ain’t about where the cars are parked. Somethin’ else is goin’ on. I think two of those four want the cars parked in front of the other house.”

  “Ah you talk to Reseta too much, all that psychology shit.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, next time—and guaranteed there’ll be a next time—you watch those two. They’re eyeballin’ each other. That man is checkin’ out her legs and behint, don’t think he ain’t.”

  “And what’s she checkin’ out?”

  “Don’t know that. But her old man’s gut is so big, I’ll bet she gotta tie his shoes for him.”

  “So what?”

  “Hey, would you want that whale humpin’ you?”

  “I don’t want any whale humpin’ me. Or any guy either.”

  “Plus, that man’s a heart attack walkin’. What if he has one on top of her? He collapse on top of her? She’d suffocate, man.”

  “Aw he just drinks too much beer, that’s all. Eats too much pizza. And you think too fuckin’ much. Course that would be funny.”

  “What would?”

  “The headline. Fat husband fucked to death, crushes thin wife to death. Police suspect foul foreplay.” Canoza thought that was hilarious.

  “And you think
I think too much? How long you been workin’ on that one?”

  “What, you think I didn’t just think that up? I ain’t as slow as everybody thinks.”

  “Yeah? Well think about this. You ready? ’Bout two weeks ago Reseta and me were runnin’ along the old Conrail tracks, you know? And we saw ’em.”

  “Saw who?”

  “Who we talkin’ about? Joe Buczyk and Mary Hornyak.”

  “Aw you two fuckin’ guys, you’re seein’ shit all the time, swear to Christ. You two, I’m tellin’ ya, he’s got your head so fulla that psychology shit, you don’t know what the fuck you’re seein’ anymore. Besides, even if you saw ’em, say it was them—which I ain’t, okay? But say it was. How you know they weren’t just tryin’ to patch things up?”

  “I didn’t say I knew what they were talkin’ about. What I’m sayin’ is they were alone. Their spouses weren’t anywhere around, okay? And they were lookin’ very chummy when we passed ’em.”

  “Aw probably wasn’t even them, c’mon. How good a look’d you get? And anyway I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’ for a long time now.”

  “What?”

  “All white people look alike to you?”

  “Aw will you shut the fuck up—do all white people look alike.”

  Canoza threw his head back and howled and gave Rayford a playful backhand into his shoulder that nearly knocked him off his feet.

  “Hey man, easy, what the fuck, you tryin’ to bust my shoulder?”

  “C’mon, just a little love tap.”

  “Oh yeah, real glad we’re buddies and shit. You don’t know your own strength, man.”

  “I been wantin’ to ask you that ever since I met you. Just wanted to see your face, see how you’d react.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “It was worth it. Shoulda seen your face. You got really pissed there for about a half second—till you caught yourself. Wish I’da had a fuckin’ camera, man, that was funny. You fuckin’ spades make me laugh, no shit.”

  “Is that a fact? Us fuckin’ spades make you laugh, no shit.”

  “Hey don’t get all huffy, I meant that in a good kinda way.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Yeah. Hey listen. When I was in Nam, know what I did? I ran the NCO club in Pleiku. Know why? ’Cause they needed a bouncer. ’Cause the fuckin’ MPs got slower and slower respondin’ to shit, know what I mean? So when I showed up, they said, oh man, here comes Big Stupe. Let’s get him to run the fuckin’ NCO club, nobody’s gonna fuck with him. Well they didn’t fuck with me but they sure fucked with each other. Believe me, I saw more shit, more blood than half the guys in the line outfits. And you know what most of it was? Shit between the whites and the blacks. Not the lifers. The FNGs, the ones that went through NCO School, Leadership School or whatever they called it, over there.”

  “The what kinda NCOs?”

  “FNGs.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You were in the air force, you don’t know what FNG means?”

  “Just ast you, didn’t I?”

  “Fucking new guys. Get a couple stripes, go to that school, they’d come in with chips on their shoulders big as pizza pans. After about six months of that shit, I’d just walk up to ’em soon as they came in, I’d say all white people look alike to you? ’Cause if they do, just turn around and get the fuck out now. ’Cause those ones thought like that? Get three, four beers in ’em, man, they’d start woofin’ and shit? Knives, pistols, bottles—I don’t know how I didn’t get killed in that fuckin’ place. I did more hand-to-hand combat in there in one week than most grunts did their whole tours, and I didn’t even get a fuckin’ CIB out of it.”

  “A what?”

  “Combat Infantryman’s Badge.”

  “Wait wait—you wanted a medal for breakin’ up bar fights?”

  “Hey fucker, combat’s combat, I don’t care who it’s against. You think you shouldn’t get letters of commendation when you make a good collar just ’cause you collared Americans? Case you haven’t noticed, you ain’t collarin’ Canadians. PDs hand out medals all the time, you get one you gonna give it back ’cause it wasn’t in action against some fuckin’ slopehead? Since when?”

  “Oh yeah? Well there’s an interesting point of view. So, uh, back to this other thing. Tell me, you ever ask the white guys if all black people looked alike to them?”

  “Huh? Whattaya mean?”

  “I mean did you ever ask the white guys? You said you asked the black guys if all white guys looked alike, but you didn’t say anything about askin’ the white guys if all black guys looked alike—”

  “Hey, Rayford, c’mon, okay? I’m just bustin’ your balls, that’s all. I never asked anybody anything—whatta you think, I’m stupid? If I’da asked everybody came in the door somethin’ that dumb, how long you think I woulda lasted, huh?”

  “Oh. So was it really that bad? Between the blacks and the whites?”

  “Hey, all I know about is when I was there, which was from June ’69 to June ’70. And there was a lotta bad shit between ’em then. You don’t remember that time? Man, after Martin Luther King got dusted, whatever was here, it just got carried over there.”

  “You kiddin’ me? I wasn’t even born till 1969.”

  “Trust me. It was bad shit after King got dusted. Riots everywhere, man. But hey, even before he got dusted, there was bad shit in LA, Newark, Detroit, ’65, ’66, I don’t even know all the cities where they had these riots.”

  “Yeah, I’ve read about ’em. Lotta people got killed by cops, they weren’t just killin’ each other.”

  “Course they did, whatta you think? Just like in Nam, lotta guys got dusted by friendly fire. That shit happens. Every war. And all these people all worked up about the MIAs, you know? You ask me, half those guys are deserters, and the other half got blown into so many pieces they couldn’t even find their dog tags. Know how many MIAs there were in World War Two? I looked it up once ’cause I got sick of listenin’ to all this bullshit about the MIAs in Nam.”

  “No. How would I know that?”

  “Just thought you mighta read about it. Can’t guess? Huh? Take a guess.”

  “Guess? Couple thousand, what do I know?”

  “Aw what’re you, shittin’ me? Couple thousand, come on, Christ. Like between fifty and sixty thousand. All over Europe. Just fuckin’ disappeared. Now how many of those guys you think traded some Lucky Strikes or Camels for some civilian’s clothes and just sorta faded into the woodwork, huh? C’mon. I had uncles and cousins in that war in Italy, man, they told me. Fuckin’ guys were buggin’ out every day. You can only stand so much of that war shit, you know? Then you either go nuts and shoot yourself in the foot, or blow your thumb off, or start takin’ your clothes off, shakin’ your dick at your CO. We got this dumb-ass attitude in this country, everybody in Big Two was Audie Murphy or John Wayne or some shit.”

  “John Wayne was never in a fuckin’ war. Only war he was ever in was in Hollywood, even I know that much.”

  “I know that. But not Audie Murphy. He was for real, man. Most decorated soldier in World War Two. He was a real fuckin’ hero, that guy, way before he was a movie star. But what I’m sayin’ is, for every Audie Murphy, there was ten guys never fired a shot. My uncle, he went through the whole fuckin’ war in Italy, never fired his rifle once.”

  “Yeah, but which side was he on?”

  “Oh that’s fucking hilarious. Our side, you Bojangles motherfucker you.”

  “Yeah, but can he prove that?”

  “Same way you can prove you saw Joe Busy runnin’ with Hornyak’s old lady.”

  “Joe Busy?”

  “That’s what I call him. How you s’posed to pronounce all them z’s and c’s and y’s? When he says it, it sounds like Bu-chek. I just say Busy. Fuck’s the difference, I know who he is.”

  “And I don’t, huh? ’Cause all white people look alike to me?”

  “Now you got it. Right. Exactly right.”

&nb
sp; “Aw fuck you. Who’s writin’ this up, you or me?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t the first one here. This is yours.”

  Rayford remembered that conversation as if it had happened yesterday. In fact, it had happened only two weeks ago, right after he and Canoza had processed Joe “Busy” Buczyk for violating the statutes prohibiting assault and aggravated assault on Pete Hornyak.

  And now here was Rayford again, pulling up to the curb across Jefferson Street from the Hornyaks’ house. He left the light bar and engine on, pushed the foot brake, and put it in park. He reached for his baton and MagLite and got out, slipping them into their loops on his duty belt, and walked quickly across the street, stopping before he reached the sidewalk.

  Hornyak and Buczyk were in each other’s faces, each standing on his side of the property line which extended from between their houses out to the street. They were both inviting the other to cross the line as Rayford approached, saying, “Whoa down, folks, everybody just whoa it down here a second. Take a step back, please. One step back, c’mon, you can do it, I know you can.”

  Dogs were barking and howling in both houses. One of the Border collies in the Buczyks’ house was scratching the aluminum storm door.

  “I ain’t afraid of you, Joe,” Hornyak was saying.

  “Well good for you, you ain’t afraid of me. I ain’t afraid of you either.”

  “Well that’s good that nobody’s afraid,” Rayford said. “’Cause fear will mess you up, make you do all sortsa dumb stuff. What do we have here, gentlemen? Who wantsa go first?”

  “Whatta we always have here?” Buczyk said.

  “You tell me. You sayin’ it’s about the same thing as last time?”

  “And the time before that and the time before that and how far back you wanna go, huh?”

  “Okay okay, let’s see if we can’t find somethin’ different about this time, okay? This time. Right here, right now, okay? Stay back, Mr. Hornyak, don’t be edgin’ up there.”