“Sounds good to me,” Rick said, already starting off in the direction of the cabin. “I'm gonna go grab my bathing suit. I'll be back in a little bit.”
Several minutes later, Rick was sauntering back across the meadow in a pair of blue and black swimming trunks, nibbling on a blade of grass, as he admired his new surroundings. It was the kind of day that made him feel as though anything, even life without Lori, was possible. Sure, they had other things to worry about. Sure, they probably should've been trying to figure out a way to get themselves out of the mess they were in, but what the hell? Those things could wait, he supposed. There was always tomorrow. Or so he hoped.
Things wouldn't always be this good; he was smart enough to know that. And he was smart enough to take the day as it was, and not ruin it by speaking his mind. There was too much beauty here, among the mountains and the evergreens, to let ugly thoughts run loose. He'd rather sit by the river, or smoke cigarettes in the shade below the cabin eaves, and let his mind wander lazily from one place to the next. Anything to forget about his life for a while.
Inhaling the fresh mountain air, walking barefoot through the tall cool grass, he reached into the pocket of his trunks to make sure his trusty Zippo was still there, and found that it was resting safely beside his cigarettes. It made him think of Kevin once again, and he wished his friend was there to share this moment of…what was it, anyway? Joy? Serenity? Freedom? Rick didn't know exactly, but whatever it was, it was enough to make him feel like a human being again (which was something he hadn't felt since the morning after the incident at Sundown Beach.)
He joined the others at the river, where they spent the better part of the afternoon in the water and on the water's edge, laughing and talking about everything under the sun, carefully avoiding what thoughts lay hidden in the back of their minds, ready to pounce and maim.
~Nineteen~
Max Kendall was alone on the water's edge, reeling in his precious cargo, when he suddenly stopped what he was doing and grinned around his cigarette. From between the dark jaws of the mountains, the dim reds and purples of the harlequin sky glittered on the surface of the river like flecks of light from a disco ball, and Max was fully captivated by the spectacle of his own reflection on the water, where his face resembled an aquatic being that could only exist in the tidal pools of some alien world.
From the shallow water he pulled up a plastic shopping bag, which kept his cargo, a 12-pack of Budweisers, from escaping with the current. Earlier, he'd decided it was too much of a hassle to carry the cooler back and forth from the cabin all day, and so his lust for alcohol injected him with a sudden burst of ingenuity, and he discovered that the river would suffice in keeping the beers cold.
Meanwhile, in the background, his friends sat in a circle around a small fire, cooking hot dogs on sticks they had whittled with Mike's pocketknife. They laughed, ate, and then laughed some more, and, competing with the crickets and the nightbirds, carried on their own conversations. Full darkness had yet to arrive, but the day was leaving in a hurry, and the mountains were blowing cool night breezes through the valley.
Guided by the rich, charcoaly smell of burnt hot dogs, Max returned from the river with a handful of beers, asking, “Who wants some cold ones?”
He didn't have to ask twice.
After handing out the beers, Max sat himself down between the two brothers.
“You want a hot dog?” Lou asked.
“Sure.” Max took the hot dog and chomped it in half. “It's pretty good,” he said between bites. “But it could use a little ketchup or somethin'. Maybe some hot sauce, too.”
“You and your hot sauce,” Mike said. “I don't see how the hell you eat that shit without burning a hole through your stomach.”
Chomping down the other half of his hot dog, Max shrugged.
“You drink a lot, don't you?” Stacey asked Rick after he'd polished off his first beer.
He shrugged innocently.
“I can tell,” she said, trying to make eye contact. “You drink so fast. It isn't good for you. I knew a kid in college who had to have his stomach pumped.”
He smiled at the tenderness in her voice. “Everything that's good is bad for you,” he said softly.
“What's that mean?” she asked, looking at him questioningly.
“He means,” Max interrupted from the other side of the fire, “that all the good stuff—alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, fast food, fast cars, candy bars, loud music, even sex—all that shit's bad for ya.” He waved his hands in the air, as if to emphasize this, and continued in a cynical voice. “Someday, they'll find out that microwave food gives you cancer, or that too many potatoes can kill ya, or some other stupid fuckin' crap. Scientists prove that everything's bad for you sooner or later; that doesn't mean you have to give up the things you like...what would be the point of living?”
“Thank you for those words of wisdom, Mister Kendall,” Mike said sarcastically, and saluted him with two fingers. “It's a wonder you barely graduated.”
“Okay, but that still doesn't tell me why you drink so much.” Stacey looked at Rick, her eyes gleaming playfully.
Rick guzzled some beer, thought about it, guzzled some more.
Again, it was Max who rushed to answer her. “Some people drink to remember, I guess. Some drink to forget. Some people just like the feeling of a good buzz; it helps them to forget some of their problems for a little while. Plus, it's fun.”
“Oh, I see,” Stacey said sarcastically, and Max smiled at her as he walked to the other side of the fire, where he sat between Mike and Lou. Then she turned, leaning closer to Rick, so that their shoulders were almost touching. “And which one are you?” she said softly, studying his face in the flickering yellow light. “Do you drink to remember, do you drink to forget, or do you just like to get drunk for the heck of it?”
“All of the above,” he answered quietly, and grabbed another beer. He looked up, and for a brief moment, their eyes met.
“Do you want one?” he asked.
Stacey stared at him for a moment, feigning indignation. Then she smiled warmly. “I thought you'd never ask.”
~Twenty~
An hour later.
“Where's Max?”
“Over there, Ricky. By the river,” Mike said, rising from his place by the fire. He dusted off his jeans. “I gutta take a leak.”
“You're drunk, aren't you?” Karen called after him as he stepped away from the firelight and into the shadows. She picked up a flashlight—one of the three she and Mike had bought during their trip to the store—and directed the beam at his ass.
“Naw,” Mike said, unzipping his pants. “Not me.”
Karen leaned over and whispered to Stacey, “He's lying. He's drunk. I can tell by that dopey smile.”
The two girls giggled softly.
“I heard that!” Mike said over his shoulder as he relieved himself, and the two girls erupted into a fit of laughter. “Hey can someone get me a smoke?”
“Mike!” Karen scolded. “You better not be smoking again! You promised me you'd quit.”
Rick got up and found Max standing alone at the water. “What's up?”
“Nuthin',” Max said, his eyes hidden behind long strands of hair. He took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one with a match.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Rick said, and fired up a cigarette with Kev's Zippo.
Enjoying their cigarettes, they stood listening to the muffled voices and hushed giggles of their friends in the background.
“Do ya ever wonder why people turn out the way they do?” Max said after a while. “I mean, you don't have it so bad. You're smart. You're parents are pretty cool. You manage to keep yourself out of trouble…most of the time. And everyone knows Mike's gonna make something of his life…something good. Do you think it's fate, or do you think people can change their…what the fuck do ya call it?…their destinies?”
“I don't know,” Rick said, surprised that Max wou
ld even consider such things as destiny and fate. “I guess it depends on the person.”
“It's just that, sometimes, I wonder where I fit in with you guys. This is the first time I've ever been out of Hevven. I mean, really out of Hevven, y'know? I mean, my mom died when I was just a kid. And my dad, he never had the money for us to travel anywhere. Pretty much the only place I go is to Boston, and that's just to buy weed and shit. This is probably the closest thing I've ever come to a vacation, and God only knows what kinda shit we'll be in when it's over.”
Rick stood beside him in the darkness. “I know what you mean, brutha. I...”
“No offense, man. But you don't know. If that guy from the house finds us here…I don't wanna die. I can't die, man. Not yet. I've pissed my entire life away, because that's what my father did, and that's what I knew was expected of me. I mean, my dad's the town drunk. Everybody knows it. Even when I was a little kid, when people looked at me… parents…teachers…I could see it in their eyes. They gave up on me long before I ever gave up on myself. So I stepped right into my father's shoes, 'cause I thought it would be comfortable there. But you know what? It's not. I've acted like an idiot all my life, and I don't wanna die and have people remember me like that.”
Max paused to catch his breath. He ran his fingers through his long hair, brushing it back from his face and tucking it behind his ears. His blue-gray eyes burned brightly in the darkness, brighter than the orange tip of the cigarette he was holding in his hand.
“No one's gonna die,” Rick said, trying his best to sound convincing. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: “Who cares what people think about you? Life doesn't start and stop in Hevven. There are bigger and better things out there, for all of us. So don't let anyone tell you who you are, don't let anyone else define you, because that's up to you. You can be anyone you wanna be, man.”
Max bowed his head and nodded solemnly. He reached into his front jeans pocket, removing two neatly folded Ziplock bags. He held them up so that both he and Rick could see their contents in the moonlight. The larger of the two bags held three joints and some marijuana flakes; the smaller held a dozen or so pills of various shapes and colors.
It's my life in this bag, Max realized. Every dollar I've ever earned. Every accomplishment I’ve ever made. Every dream I’ve ever had. I never thought I'd end up like this. I'm a loser. The truth now dawned on him: He was nothing but a useless piece of shit, just like his father always said. His father had told him, when he was very young, that his mother had left because she knew her son was nothing but a piece of shit. Max always thought his father had made that story up, but now he wasn't so sure.
Rick watched Max with steady interest, blocking out the detached laughter of his friends in the background. He'd never seen Max so down before. Something strange was happening inside his friend, and Rick could sense it. It was as though Max's mental gears were grinding down, seizing, and Rick thought when they stopped, Max would snap. Or maybe, thought Rick, it’s more like the gears are finally turning after so many years of being dormant. Maybe this is his awakening.
After a few seconds, Max packed the two bags together into a single ball (Pedro Martinez, eat your heart out) and hurled it into the darkness, and into the river. There was no audible splash, no sound with which either of them would associate the moment later on; only silence. But the feeling of relief that washed over Max was as powerful as a tidal wave.
For a minute or more they stood in silence, each noticing how the dark outlines of the mountains rose to meet the starry sky, how the river gurgled softly downstream, reflecting moonlight as though its surface were made of diamonds, and how the full moon seemed so much closer to the earth than it did in Hevven. But above all, what both of them felt, though neither of them had the need to discuss it, was peace. The two bags of drugs floated silently downstream and disappeared into the night.
“Can I ask you somethin'?” Max whispered after a little while. “And I want you to answer honestly.”
“Go for it.”
“Why do you guys bother with me? I mean, why do you guys put up with all my bullshit? I know I'm not a very good friend. I try, but ...”
Rick smiled in the darkness. “Because you're one of us.”
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS DOIN' OVER THERE?” Mike called out from the fireside, and followed that with something they could not hear(probably something obscene) that made the others laugh hysterically.
Rick looked at Max. “Feel better?”
Max inhaled deeply and the tip of his cigarette flared orange, lighting up his face. “Yeah, I guess. But I could use a few more beers, that's for damn sure.”
Rick chuckled. “Let's go get 'em before they're gone.”
“Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“And Rick?”
“Yeah?”
Max pointed at the bandage on his friend's wrist, the one that covered the suicide scar. “Don't you ever goddamn do that again, alright? There are bigger and better things out there, for all of us. You know what I'm sayin'?”
Rick nodded, and the two boys shook hands.
Soon they returned to the circle by the fire, and the small band of stragglers talked, joked, and told each other stories well into the night.
And in the distance, the giants sat and listened.
~Twenty-one~
“See you in the morning,” Rick said, spreading a blanket on the oval carpet which adorned the living room floor. He curled the blanket over his body like a taco, using his denim jacket as a pillow, under which he tucked his hands. As he rested his head upon the surrogate pillow, he closed his eyes, already feeling the gentle arms of sleep waiting to embrace him.
Stacey switched off the flashlight she was holding and set it down upon the coffee table. “G'night,” she said from her place on the couch. An awkward moment of silence washed away her words. The others had retired to the upstairs bedrooms several minutes earlier, and it was so quiet she could hear the cabin creaking as it settled on its foundation.
“Good night,” Rick whispered after a while, his voice muffled as he yawned into the makeshift pillow.
Stacey was the first of the two to fall asleep, and it came with unexpected ease as she thought of the boy sleeping on the floor beside her.
In the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms, standing in the pale shaft of light that shone through the room's only window, Mike Swart stripped down to his boxers while Karen Sloan watched, admiring his lean body.
“Come to bed,” Karen whispered from the floor, where she was wrapped in one of the sleeping bags she had brought from home. She patted the empty space beside her, as if to emphasize her invitation, and to show that his place beside her was still waiting. You will never, ever know how much I really love you, Mike Swart, she thought. Not even if we were married for a hundred years.
Settling down, Mike pulled one corner of the sleeping bag over himself and snuggled against her. “Love you,” he whispered. He gave her a little kiss.
“You taste like beer.” She giggled, her big, expressive eyes twinkling in the splash of moonlight which came from the window.
“Sorry,” Mike apologized, and wiped his mouth with one hand. He put his head on her shoulder. “I love you, you know that?”
“You already said that,” she teased.
“Life's too short. You can never say 'I love you' too many times.”
“I know...I like to hear you say that.”
He said it again.
She kissed him on the forehead. “I love you too, Mike Swart.”
They said their goodnights.
I'm gonna marry this girl someday, thought Mike. He fell asleep with a dopey, drunken smile.
~Twenty-Two~
Stacey Mackinnon awoke to a cool darkness.
Lying still, she waited until her mind adjusted to the waking world. After a few moments she grabbed the flashlight from the coffee table and shined
the beam on the floor where Rick had taken up for the night. Nothing there but the tangled mound of his blanket.
Concerned, she tossed her covers aside and rose soundlessly, despite her dizziness, pausing once to shake the remains of the alcohol-induced dreams from her head, and then moved on. The cabin door was open, and moonlight spilled across the threshold. She went to the open door and poked her head outside, where everything glowed a ghostly white.
Rick was leaning against the far railing, facing the river, staring off into the distance. Though it was dark and he was looking away from her, there was no doubt that he was grieving; it was in his posture, the way he was slumped forward, shoulders sagging, and how he trembled as he breathed. From this angle, had she not recognized him, she would have thought him a crippled old man.
He looks defeated, she thought. And tired; so very tired.
As she started onto the porch, a floorboard creaked, and the sound was magnified tenfold by the preexisting silence. Rick turned away from the heavens, and his tear-filled eyes fell upon her. With a trembling hand, he raised a cigarette to his lips and puffed on it restlessly. He sniffed a little, faked a smile that was too pinched to be sincere.
For a split second, the way the moon made everything pale and colorless, she felt as though she'd suddenly stepped into a black and white movie with a brooding, dark-haired James Dean. Perhaps it was the alcohol she had consumed at the campfire, but everything looked so incredibly surreal.
Stacey knew why he was upset. She knew all about Lori, the accident, and a lot of other things Karen had told her earlier that day as they sat on the sandy banks of the river.
“Rick, I...” She suddenly realized she was at a loss of words. She barely knew this boy, let alone his heart.
“I wanna be alone,” he told her, bowing his head. But the sorrow in his voice wasn't so easily concealed, especially by someone who knew sorrow as well as she. It made her heart ache with empathy. If only it was possible to ease his pain; to absorb his suffering with a simple touch. If only she could heal him. So much pain, she thought. So much pain trapped inside. She moved toward him, fumbling words in her mind.
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