Adventure was the opposite of school, adventure was a real education.
However, we were boys and often there was an edge to our fun. Sometimes I’d hide in our fort and let Tricky attack with a slingshot to see if it could withstand a raid. Other times we’d roughhouse a little, which I thought might be a learning experience for Tricky, useful if he ever found himself embroiled with another McMeathead. There was also the time we made a spear and I threw it at Tricky, grazing his leg, and then told him to throw it at me, only Tricky seemed upset and wouldn’t do it.
Nothing scared me. To this day nothing does. I thought I might grow up to be a stunt man or a fighter pilot. I liked jumping between the outcrops at Steeple Rocks, Tricky telling me to stop because it made him feel sick just watching me, which was something I never understood at all. Every time I’d just laugh and find a larger gap to launch myself across. When we’d play Tarzan, swinging across the stream, Tricky always wanted to pick a spot by some deep water, but I wanted to go where the rocks were sharp. I loved the thrill. I’ve always felt a supreme sense that nothing will ever go wrong.
If anyone was to hold a gun to my head, for example, I wouldn’t be scared because I wouldn’t believe they had any intention to pull the trigger, even though I understand that they might—I’m not stupid.
That’s just how I feel. That’s how everything feels.
Eventually winter intruded on the games of ’81 with its inevitable snowfalls, each new layer of crust building on the next beneath the air’s deep freeze, and being snowbound made me feel itchy, although at least we could hang out at Tricky’s place shooting tanks or flying biplanes on his Atari and watching shows the McConnells had taped off TV, The Dukes of Hazzard, Fantasy Island. But still, I couldn’t wait for the thaw, glancing hopefully out of my bedroom window each morning, about to begin another turgid day, school always rolling so slowly, the same changeless routine every day—move from point A to point B, wait forty minutes, go to point C, wait forty minutes, D, E, F … How was it that no one else could see this? We were all being trained as drones, everyone just waiting to be dropped into the appropriate box. The whole thing made me restless, my agitation with school often getting me in trouble, although mostly for nothing more than mouthing off or not doing homework. I didn’t get into any more fights—didn’t need to.
Only then something happened that shook up those school days a little.
The two most attractive girls in our year were Hannah Jensen and Christie Laing. Hannah Jensen was sweet and seemed smart and was pretty as hell—although she came across kind of young for her age. Christie Laing, on the other hand, wasn’t sweet. Christie Laing was a nasty piece of work, the kind of girl who brought out the worst in others. Normally I stayed away from people like her if I could, but the problem was, Christie was hot, a hot blonde, and then one day, she kissed me.
In my defense, although I might not have liked Christie at all, theoretically speaking, I was a pubescent boy, fourteen years old. What was I supposed to do? At a certain age, most boys would fuck a bucket if you gave it long hair and a girl’s name. Well, I was definitely at a certain age—and also the only boy in seventh grade who had reached that age, as far as I could tell, more than a year older and foot taller than almost any other kid in my year, seventh grade being a particularly strange stage of growing up anyway, what with the fact that half the girls in our year were taller than two-thirds of the boys. Some of those boys were still doing all the same things they’d been doing since five years of age, happy just playing with plastic trucks or toy soldiers or Star Wars action figures.
I’m pretty sure that at this point in our lives there were only two people in seventh grade prepared to make a fully fledged commitment to their puberty. So you could say that when it came to Christie and me, it was nothing more than a coupling of convenience.
It didn’t take long for it to go beyond kissing and groping. One day during recess, Christie slunk up to me. (We never made a show of being together—which was fine with me, by the way—because Christie didn’t want her cousin Ryan to know. This was probably the most sensitive thing she’d ever done in her life.) In a half-whisper, she then went on to tell me that her house would be empty after school that afternoon. Did I want to come for some fun?
That was my very first time with a girl, with anyone in fact, up in Christie’s bedroom, me concentrating on performing the role properly while two posters stared down at us from above the headboard, one from the movie Grease, the other of Michael Jackson looking sultry in purple silk, the shirt open to his waist, his skin darker and nose fuller than in later years.
While Christie was wiggling beneath me, considerably more adept at playing her part than I was, I looked up at the Grease poster. There was Sandy (Olivia Newton-John) pictured after her transformation in the movie from sweet Sandy to slutty Sandy, a hot tousled blonde with big hair. Down beneath me was Christie, a hot tousled blonde with big hair.
Up, down, up, down, up, down …
Sandy from Grease had her arms around Danny (John Travolta). I looked at his hair, dark and slick, his eyes twinkling twice as blue as Sandy’s. His lips were fuller than hers as well and he was coming across as both masculine and vulnerable at the same time.
Sandy, Danny, Sandy, Danny, Sandy, Danny …
That’s when John Travolta broke character and launched into one of those trademark smirks of his. That’s right, John Travolta was looking at me like he knew where I’d rather be—and with whom.
I thrust a little harder. Christie gasped, her nails digging into my back.
The second time we had sex beneath Christie’s posters, it was Michael Jackson who volunteered himself to my gaze.
OK, so this was getting complicated, and there was an odd feeling inside of me, possibly something a little like fear. Although wasn’t I bored of life with its pointlessly black-and-white rules? And hadn’t the world shaken things up for me?
Only life was about to get even more complicated than posters of John Travolta and Michael Jackson.
NEW YORK, 2008
She is sitting at Patrick’s desk in the corner of their bedroom when her cell phone rings, and she sees who it is, and she answers.
Morning, Mike.
Jesus, Aitch! You were supposed to call me. Confirmation of a little something called breathing, no?
Too loud, McCluskey. Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?
I tip the scales at two-eighty, Aitch, I wake up on both sides of the bed. Now come on, give me some help here, I’m trying to look out for you.
Sorry, Mike. Busy. Lost track.
Well, at least not being slain is keeping you occupied.
I’m going though all his stuff. Closet, drawers, computer.
Who said journalistic ethics were dead?
He’s my husband.
Then it’s kosher.
Exactly.
I figure this means Chef Death isn’t there with you, then.
Wow! What’s with all the names, McCluskey?
Gallows humor, Aitch.
He’s out. Grocery shopping.
Oh snap! That’s exactly what I always have a hankering for after a day of public disturbance and self-mutilation.
Not now, Jen … Sorry, Mike, I have this friend trying to call me, that’s the second time this morning. Where were we?
I believe you were somewhere on the moral high ground. You locate anything useful up there?
Not yet. Wait, what’s this? There’s a document tucked away on his computer here labeled, For Dr. Rosenstock. That’s the name of his therapist. You think it might be like a diary?
Sure, only probably a thousand times more personal if it’s for his shrink.
You think I should open it?
I think … I guess you … Dammit, I’m not Dr. Phil, Hannah. I can’t tell you what the hell to do.
OK, you’re right. I should wait. He said he’d tell me everything tonight.
Then again, of course, it could describe
his fantasies about buying groceries Saturday morning and turning his wife into chopped liver for dinner.
Come on, McCluskey. Whatever Patch was doing, there’s no way it had anything to do with me.
So don’t open it.
On the other hand …
So open it.
That’s all I needed to hear, Mike.
She double-clicks, the document opening on the desktop, her eye moving down …
I remember the gunshots made a wet sort of sound, phssh phssh phssh, and each time he hit her she screamed. Do the math and the whole thing probably went on for as long as ten minutes. I just stood there and watched.
MATTHEW
With the revelation that I was able to find both men and women equally attractive, 1982 had already ambushed me once, but the year was far from done with surprises. The next thing to jump out at me would be the saga of Randy McCloud.
Randy McCloud lived all alone in an inherited house in the center of town. He was a big, harmless bear-man with an overgrown red mustache and a particular fondness for two things in life—White Russian cocktails and strolling around Roseborn looking to shoot the breeze with little kids. Only, to be fair to Randy, the reason he liked talking to kids wasn’t because he was some kind of sick creep but because kid talk was the highest level of conversation Randy was ever likely to achieve.
Predictably enough, this led to all manner of rumors being spread about Randy. Parents warned their children to stay well away from him, or had angry words with the police, or shouted names at Randy across the street, but when the time came for the newspapers to sift through the details of Randy’s life, there would never emerge even one shred of evidence that he was anything other than a genial lummox.
I don’t know for how long Randy McCloud’s existence had been a philosophical challenge to my father, but the incident I myself witnessed happened back in December of 1981.
It was a Saturday evening and me and little Billy were in the back of the car on the way to pick up our mom from her job at the Blue Moon diner when my daddy stopped by the drugstore to buy himself a carton of Larks. While we were waiting, Randy happened to come walking by, and seeing us sitting in the backseat, he stopped, bent at the knees and gave us a wave.
Little Billy waved back, wound down the window and started jabbering away about this action figure Ewok he’d named Danny and why Danny didn’t like cinnamon gum and what Danny really liked was Hershey’s Kisses. Randy was utterly entranced.
That’s when my daddy came out of the drugstore, yelled something obscene and broke into the only sprint I ever saw him work himself up to. Now he was right up in the poor guy’s face, pushing him around, Randy looking hurt and confused as he bumped and bounced from my daddy’s hands like a pinball.
Little Billy was getting upset because Randy had been laughing at everything he’d said despite the fact that the funniest thing my brother had said was cinnamon gum. So just before Randy could get himself shoved all the way out of view, Billy waved goodbye to him and Randy waved back, giving Billy one of those gleeful little wiggle-your-fingers farewells.
That wave wasn’t the brightest idea Randy ever had in his life—my daddy saw it from the corner of his eye and, lickety-split, Randy was down on the ground, holding his nose, blood spilling onto his overshirt.
After spending a few moments shaking the hurt from his knuckles, my daddy crouched down over Randy, and I don’t know what he said, but I doubt it was useful information on the topic of stain removal. After imparting his advice, he spat on the ground, came back to the car, slammed the door and, seeing little Billy crying, cuffed his ear for it. Don’t you ever speak to that fat fuckin faggot again, he yelled. You hear me boy?
Now forward-wind to a Friday night, early April 1982, and although no one knows precisely how the whole thing unfolded, here’s how I imagine it went—
My daddy sitting on a barstool, kitty-corner from Randy, stewing over the roof repairing job he’d just lost, throwing stares at the bear-man enjoying his effeminate cocktail. Randy taking dainty sips of his drink. My daddy noticing some cream from Randy’s White Russian clinging to the bottom of his red mustache …
That probably would’ve done it.
However, O’Sullivan’s wasn’t short of potential suspects that night, and by the time Randy left shortly before midnight everyone’s eyes were swimming and there wasn’t a single witness who could (or would) say who left O’Sullivan’s Dive Inn around the same time as Randy McCloud.
Whoever it was, within a mile they’d forced him off the road, Randy swerving and his truck ending up snagged between the trees of an apple orchard.
Perhaps his attacker didn’t even mean to kill him. Randy was found dead outside his vehicle, killed by a single blow to the head, probably something like a tire iron, said the Roseborn Gazette, quoting the police.
No one living nearby heard or saw anything of the brief but deadly encounter, although several of them were awoken soon after its conclusion by a loud bang, opening their eyes only to see the flames of the explosion lighting their bedroom ceilings.
Randy died at forty-three years of age, unmarried, and never having hurt a fly. In a few months’ time his story, which was covered in depth by the Roseborn Gazette, a newspaper that was used to splashing big on temporary bridge closures and local planning meetings, would be relegated to only the second biggest news item of 1982. My daddy was the catalyst for both.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, SUNDAY AFTERNOON, the police arrived to take my daddy in for some friendly questioning, saying that it was nothing more than wanting to speak to everyone who’d been in O’Sullivan’s that night, but our mom got herself into a state of high panic and, an hour after my daddy was whisked away, she drove down to the station house with me and little Billy and told us to stay in the car.
A few minutes later, inspiration having struck, she came out, grabbed me by the arm, pulled me into the station house, and handed me some change as she told me to call Tricky’s house from the pay phone and ask to speak to his dad. I did what she asked and when Tricky’s dad came on the line, he explained that, as the potential prosecutor should anything go to trial, it wouldn’t be at all appropriate for him to get directly involved, but he also said he had a friend who could stop by and make sure everything went by the book.
By the time the friend arrived in his weekend slacks and blue Oxford, our mom had calmed down a little. The lawyer convinced her to take me and my brother home and he’d make sure everything was taken care of.
My daddy came home a few hours later, all puffed up with smugness, just in time to see the Knicks-Pistons game. Waving a can of Genesee Cream Ale, half an eye on the basketball, he did a lot of bragging about the smooth streak of piss who’d shown up and sat in on his questioning, but never in his life, he continued, had he needed any help runnin rings in a pigpen. Also, he proclaimed, if he’d been the one to kill Randy McCloud, the cops would’ve had no trouble finding the murder weapon, because they would have had to pull the thing out of Randy’s fat faggot ass.
* * *
WHEN I GOT HOME FROM school the next day, I was about to head over to Tricky’s when my daddy told me he was driving into town to pick up some Larks and maybe I’d like to hop in, take the ride with him. This was an odd request and my face must’ve said so.
What, I can’t take my firstborn for a drive and some man talk? he said.
We took the road away from town, window down, my daddy’s arm catching the afternoon sun and not a word passing between us. He turned right before the bridge and, a mile or two farther on, after a lot of glancing in his mirrors, he pulled to the side of the road, stopping close to the river. Getting out, he went back to the trunk, lifted out a blanket, and started wiping something down. After surveying the pastoral scene one more time, my daddy drew a tire iron clear of the blanket and launched it as far as he could, javelin-style, out into the Jakobskill River.
When he got back in the driver’s seat, he didn’t even
look at me, just turned the key, gunned the engine, and spun out through the gravel onto the road, and we drove back just the same way we got there, in silence, all the way home.
NEW YORK/NEW JERSEY, 2008
He pulls up, lights flashing red-white-and-blue, and Hannah hurries into the front seat, McCluskey wrapping his big arms around her, his jacket several yards of cheap cloth smelling of chewing gum, smoke, and baby powder, and as they head out of the city, lights no longer flashing, she starts telling him the story of 1982, only the second time she’s told it to anyone, her former editor Max Reagan the first time, a Newark bar thick with smoke, and now she’s telling McCluskey about Matthew Weaver in the half-light of the Lincoln Tunnel, taillights bouncing from white tiles, their glow like red flares sailing over the ceiling and walls, and when she reaches the part about the tree and the rope, they emerge from the darkness, soaring into the widening New Jersey sky, the story building to its finale, that Red Ryder BB gun, the sting of the pellets over and over, a pain like being punched in the eye, and then darkness.
And though she doesn’t tell him everything, doesn’t tell him what she did that day and weeks before, she tells him enough, McCluskey driving in silence, his knuckles whitening on the black steering wheel.
Goddammit, Aitch, why didn’t you say something? he shouts, hitting the dash, and quickly apologizing, Sorry, Hannah, sorry, I’m not yelling at you, I’m not, it’s just, this damn fuckin world.
Why would I have told you? she says. What difference would it have made?
McCluskey doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say.
Then she starts talking about Patrick, Patch the twelve-year-old boy, Matthew’s buddy, how she thought he wasn’t there, not right there, how she thought he had saved her, only saved her, and then she tells McCluskey what she just saw on her husband’s computer screen, and that she didn’t read everything, but she read enough, enough to know he was there … only half a scream … the way her head twisted despite the rope tied around her neck … more than enough to know he could have stopped it all, and that their marriage, their entire life together, is based on a lie.
Grist Mill Road Page 19
