“Hey, guys. Listen up!” Hiram called when they reached the fire. “This here’s Kyle Klinger, from L.A. Visiting his daddy for the summer, maybe longer, right, Kyle?”
Kyle nodded. He grinned at the boys and girls, most of them with beer cans in hand, and wondered which girl was Marta.
“And, Kyle, these ugly lowlifes,” Hiram announced loudly, “are my good friends—Chuck, Mac, Billy, Tyler, Werner.”
“Hey, man, who’s calling me ugly?” someone called out.
“What about us?” a girl’s voice asked.
“Oh, yeah. The pretty ones are Jane, Marta, and Susan. The one with the big mouth’s Marta.” He laughed. “And now, how’s about some beer for us, too?”
The girl who had spoken up had long brown hair and a small mouselike face. She wore a tight short skirt and a knit top that left her middle bare. Although she stood arm in arm with one of the guys, Kyle felt her eyes on him. He was glad for the darkness so no one would see him blush.
He moved with Hiram among his friends, trying to keep the names and faces straight. Mostly he listened, because they talked about people they all knew. About local fishing and out-of-season hunting. About gun swap meets coming up and then about something that had happened in Waco, Texas.
“The govamint had no right to go in there!” Hiram said hotly. Waco, Texas? What was that about? Then Kyle remembered a TV special he had seen about a man named David Koresh. Koresh was the religious leader of a kind of commune in Texas. The government said he stored illegal firearms there and went after him. A lot of people died when the commune went up in flames during a raid by government agents.
“The damn feds killed them,” Hiram went on, slurring his words. “Blew up innocent people just because they kept weapons to protect themselves!”
The way Kyle remembered, the fire in the fortress started from inside, so how could it have been the government’s fault? But he didn’t speak up. Not with everyone else siding with Hiram.
By midnight Kyle realized he was enjoying himself. He liked some of the guys who hung around him asking about Los Angeles. Had he ever been to Disneyland? Had he ever met any real actors? Did he surf? Were there gangs in his neighborhood?
Hiram set up a firing range, with flashlights set to shine on the beer can targets. Everyone seemed to have a gun and even the girls competed. Laughing and hooting, they shot wildly—not just straight on, but bent over and between their legs, and over their shoulders. Kyle laughed at the antics, half-drunk with the excitement, as well as the beer.
It was very late when someone shouted, “Time! Hit the road!”
Instantly they all raced for their cars.
Hiram yanked at Kyle’s arm. “Come on, Klinger, let’s go! Last one out’s a fairy!” They raced back to the truck. Hiram plugged the keys in the ignition, got the truck going, skidded around, and hauled on down the dirt path, over the creek bed to the main road.
“Whooo-eee!” he screamed, switching off his headlights. He pressed his foot hard on the gas pedal and leaped ahead of the car in front, laughing and cursing. Kyle held tight to his seat, applying an imaginary brake. He’d never been so excited or so scared in his life.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Hiram shouted over the horns blowing and radios booming in the quiet night. “Didn’t I tell you it’d be a blast? Bet you don’t have this much fun in L.A.!”
8
KYLE WOKE the next morning when his father came home. The room was whirling, and his head felt twice its normal size. “Oh, god!” he groaned, rushing to the bathroom to throw up. He swore he’d never touch beer again.
“Rough night?” His father came to the doorway, smoking a cigarette.
Kyle waved him off. The smoke made him even more queasy. “Go away. Please!”
“What you need is some black coffee,” his father announced. “Come in the kitchen when you’re up to it.”
All Kyle wanted was to crawl back into bed, curl up in a ball, and die.
A few minutes later his father was back, carrying a cup of steaming coffee. “Come on, sit up, son. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” He sat on the edge of the bed and helped Kyle rise. “Must have been some night!”
Eyes closed, Kyle nodded, focused on the dizziness. He sipped the hot black liquid slowly, burning his lip. But it did help. With each swallow the room settled down and his queasiness eased.
“What time did you get in?”
Kyle took a deep breath. “Three-ish . . .”
“Three o’clock’s pretty late to be out, don’t you think?” his father asked. “Your mother wouldn’t approve.”
“Ummm,” Kyle groaned. With Hiram driving, did he have a choice?
“Earl tells me his boy’s got a hollow leg. Can drink a grown man under the table. True?”
“Ummm . . . ,” Kyle moaned.
“I’m glad you’re making friends, but don’t let others decide what’s best for you. March to your own beat, understand?”
“Ummm.” He burped, not really listening.
His father patted Kyle’s stubble. “I kind of miss that curly head of hair, but I guess you’ll be cooler this way.” He stood up. “Come to the kitchen when you’re able.”
When his dad left the room, Kyle lay back and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake until after noon. He staggered into the kitchen and found two slices of hard dry toast and a pot of coffee waiting for him. Propped against the sugar bowl was a note. “Call your mother. I’ll be back by four. Stick around—I’m going to need you. And stay away from the liquor cabinet. Ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha,” Kyle said aloud. And then he wondered why his mom wanted him to phone again.
As his mind cleared he thought about the night before. Small-town life wasn’t all that much different from the big city after all. At the parties he went to at home, guys and girls drank, too. Some even smoked pot. They made out in corners of the living room or in bedrooms, rather than in the bushes. They didn’t race their cars with the lights off like last night, because in L.A. you’d never get away with it. So they cruised instead. The big difference between L.A. and here, he decided, were the guns. Here, everyone seemed to own one, not just the bad guys. You’d think that where there was practically no crime they wouldn’t need them.
Kyle dialed home as soon as he felt himself again. “Hi, Mom. What’s up? How’s everything?”
“Hi, honey!” His mother sounded breathless and happy. “Everything’s fine, very fine! I called because we wanted you to be the first to know. Brian and I are getting married! We’ve set a wedding date. December fifteenth!”
“Bully for you.” Kyle felt a pain, like a knife stab, in his chest.
“Don’t be that way, Kyle! Be happy for me. And for you, too. Brian really likes you. He’ll try to be a good father.”
“I don’t need a good father. I have one, Mom, and he’s pretty terrific! I don’t know what you’ve got against him!”
His mother didn’t answer. Brian was probably standing nearby, ready to take the phone and hear the congratulations. Well, tough.
“How has your week been?” his mother asked, all her enthusiasm gone.
“Great. I’ve made some friends. Dad bought me a bike until I learn how to drive a stick shift. He’s got a dog and a horse and—” He paused, uncertain if he should tell about the guns. Why not? Let Brian squirm a little. Big Shot liked to talk about police routine and cases that made him look like a hero. Let him know that he, Kyle, had not only held a gun, but was also a pretty good shot.
“Let me speak with your father!” his mother said as soon as he told her.
“He’s not here, Mom, and anyway, it won’t matter what you say.”
“Oh yes, it will! I am your mother. I have primary custody.”
“Cool it, Mom. It’s no big deal, honest.” He began to worry. Maybe he’d been a little too cocky, but she’d made him want to hurt her because of her news about Brian. He should have guessed her reaction, though. She always
said, “There’d be a whole lot less crime if there were fewer people who owned guns.”
“Congratulations, about Brian.” He forced the words out in the silence that followed. “I guess he’s okay. I hope he makes you happy.”
“Thanks, darling. Do you want to say hello to him?”
“Sure.” It was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Hi, Kyle. How’s it going? What’s this I hear about you learning to shoot?”
So, he had been listening! Well, he’d rub it in a bit then. “Yeah. I got to shoot a Remington .22 and Dad’s teaching me all about guns.”
“That’s great,” Brian said. “When you get back maybe we can go to a firing range. Practice together.”
“Really?”
Sure.
“Cool!”
“And listen, Kyle. If you want an ear, for any reason at all, I’m here.”
He grimaced at the phone. Why would he need Brian when he had his dad? “Thanks,” he said, “and congratulations. I hope you and Mom will be very happy.”
He washed his breakfast dishes, gazing out the window toward the small woods and stream out back. What a place to live, he thought. No smog. No smell of car exhaust. No noise of traffic passing. Just a pretty view, sweet-smelling air, and birds peeping in the tree near the picnic table. He wiped his hands and thought of Mom and Brian. Things would be very different when he went home. Brian would always be there, between him and his mother. Maybe he should think more about staying here with Dad. Last night showed him he could have a lot of friends.
Prince began barking. He put down the dish towel and went outside. “Quiet, Prince!” he ordered, grabbing the dog’s collar. He looked down the road to see who was coming. A girl—on a bike. Verity? he thought with a stir of excitement. No. Marta! The girl from last night, the one Hiram said all the guys had had a “go at.” He began to sweat.
“Phew!” Marta slid to a stop, straddled her bike, wiped her forehead with a white bandanna, and grinned. “You sure live far out!”
In daylight she looked older than she had last night. Sixteen, maybe, and prettier than he remembered. She had green eyes and long brown hair that clung to her damp face. She wore white cutoffs and a halter top that showed a lot of smooth tanned skin. “How’d you know where I live?” he asked, realizing immediately what a dumb question it was.
“Everyone knows where Ed Klinger lives,” she said. “Your dad is pretty famous around here.”
“Yeah?”
“I figured—since you couldn’t take your eyes off me last night—I’d come see if you’re anything like your pa.” She smiled coyly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Give a girl a cold drink or something?” She dropped her bike and came toward him.
Flustered, he stepped back, then led the way inside. Wasn’t it the other way around, that she’d eyed him all night? Man, she was brazen. He guessed why she’d come and the thought sent shudders through his body. What should he do? Would she make the moves?
“Wow!” she exclaimed, looking around the big main room. “I knew your dad was a great shot, but wow, just look at this place!” She gazed in awe at the animal trophies and guns, fanning herself with her bandanna.
“Yeah,” Kyle said, seeing the room again as he had the first day. “Dad’s gonna take me out hunting soon.” He turned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “What’ll you have? Water, cola, or beer?”
“Beer.” She came up behind him and rested her cheek against his back, arms encircling his waist. “Mmmm. Nice.”
Kyle swung around, a beer can in one hand and a cola in the other. He cleared his throat. “Let’s go outside.”
“Let’s not. It’s cooler inside.” She dropped onto the leather couch, patting the seat beside her.
Kyle felt a heat switch go on in his body. He handed the beer to Marta and opened the cola for himself. Then he sat down. “So, what’s this about my dad being famous?” His voice cracked.
Marta swung her bare legs over his, cocked her head in a saucy invitation, and said, “You look so like your dad. Are you like him?”
Kyle nearly choked on his cola. “What do you mean?” He stared at her legs, wondering if he dare touch them.
“Come on. Don’t tease me. The guys around here are all farmers. Hiram, Mac, the others . . . They’ve never been farther from home than Grand Rapids! All they ever talk about is guns and the weather. All they ever want to do is screw. You’re not like that.”
“No?” He gazed into her green eyes. Was she teasing him?
“Of course not. I can read people. I knew you weren’t like the other guys soon as I saw you. You’re like your dad. Strong. Charis . . . charis . . . matic. Know what that means?”
“Uh-huh.” She’d mispronounced the word, but what did that matter? He put one hand on her knee.
“That’s your dad!” she went on, not seeming to notice his hand. “Everyone respects him and people’ll do whatever he says. He’s a real charis . . . matic leader!”
“Yeah?” He moved his hand slowly up and then down her leg, watching her face. She didn’t seem to notice.
“And you? Are you like that?” She smiled and wiggled onto his lap, turning to face him. With one finger she traced his lips.
“Marta . . .” He cleared his throat, not sure what he intended to say. “Marta . . .”
“Sssh!” She twisted around to sit astride him, cupped his head with her hands, and bent close to kiss him.
How long they made out he had no idea, but suddenly he heard someone bellow, “Kyle!”
Marta jumped off his lap and straightened her halter.
Kyle leaped off the couch, as guilty as if he’d been caught stealing. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t heard his father’s truck.
“Well?” His father stood at the door, loaded with bags of groceries, glaring.
“We were just . . . We just . . .”
Marta giggled. “Hello, Mr. Klinger!” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Marta Knauss. A friend of your son’s. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time!”
9
“BYE!” MARTA WAVED from her bike, grinning. She didn’t seem one bit embarrassed. “See you around!”
Kyle waved back but he could hardly wait for her to be gone. His heart pounded with shame and anger. As soon as Marta was out of sight he stalked back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. What right did his dad have to yell at him like he was a little kid? And in front of Marta! He’d only done what any other fourteen-year-old would do, given the chance.
“Kyle? Come in here and help me unload these groceries,” his father called from the kitchen.
Kyle froze, halfway to his room. “I’ve got something to do,” he called back, continuing on.
“It’ll wait! Get in here now. On the double!”
Kyle trudged back to the kitchen. His father was bent into the refrigerator, arranging space for the new food. “Hand me the tomatoes and that bag of peaches,” he said, back turned.
Kyle passed the tomatoes and peaches to his dad’s outstretched hand, avoiding his eyes, then turned to the bags of groceries on the counter. He began unloading cheeses and cold cuts, breakfast cereals and bread. “You shouldn’t have done that, Dad!” he said. “You embarrassed me in front of Marta.”
“Hand me the six-pack,” his father replied.
“She came here. I didn’t invite her.”
“That kind of girl doesn’t need an invitation.”
“So what?”
His father closed the refrigerator, a can of beer in hand. “You get going with a girl like that and you can’t stop. And she won’t stop you, either. Did you have a rubber?”
Kyle felt his face burn. He turned away. “I wouldn’t have gone that far.”
“No? Listen, son. I realize you’re feeling your oats now that you’re out from under your mother’s thumb. I realize you might go a little crazy now that you’ve got more leash. But you’re at the age where your hormones are raging and you could make som
e very bad mistakes. So—as long as you’re under my roof, I expect you to follow my rules. I don’t want you making out in this house! Got it?”
Kyle nodded, eyes on the floor.
“Good.” His father patted his head as he walked by, into the living room. “Now, let’s talk about something else—like what we have to do this afternoon.”
Kyle put the last of the groceries into the cabinets and went to join his father.
“What’s in these?” he asked, puffing. For the last half hour he’d been helping his dad move heavy boxes, stored under a tarpaulin in the barn, to his father’s pickup, also in the barn.
“Rifles.”
“And these other crates? The ones with the numbers?”
“Guns. Ammunition. Other equipment.”
“Wow. Looks like there’s enough stuff here to outfit an army,” Kyle joked nervously, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirt.
“Not quite.”
“Where are you taking it?”
“Swap meet.”
“Swap meet?” Kyle pictured the swap meet in Pasadena, which he sometimes went to with his mother. He once bought a neat pair of patched jeans there for only three dollars. People set up tables to sell all kinds of junk, from used dishes to old postcards. But guns? No.
“We’ve got a surplus of these, Kyle, so tomorrow we’ll set up a booth and get rid of it. With the proceeds I can buy some heavier equipment. Stuff we may need.”
“Who’s we?” Kyle couldn’t imagine himself needing anything heavier than a rifle.
“We. The gun club.”
“Oh.”
“Tomorrow you’ll meet some of the club members. I think you’ll like them.” His father threw a big tarpaulin over the boxes and began tying it down. “Pull that tighter,” he directed from the opposite side of the truck. “That should do it. Good work.” He came around to the back of the truck, put an arm around Kyle’s shoulders, and walked him out of the barn. “It’s good having you here, son. Never did get to know my own dad. He died in Vietnam. Dumb war. We should have gone in there to win. Hit them with everything!”
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