“Sugar?” Meg asked.
***
At Buck’s house, there was now no sign that Mona had ever been there. No tropical foods were being baked inside green banana leaves in the oven, no female sweater draped over the sofa, no computer, no movie magazines, and no Frankie the dog lying on a blue blanket. How could people disappear so fast? Billy thought as he walked around the small house, examining the empty spaces. He wondered now if Phoebe Perkins had done the same thing when Billy had taken his belongings and disappeared north in the white Mustang. Had she stood stunned and bewildered, realizing for the first time how painful and lonely an empty space can be?
Buck seemed as hurt over the fact that he didn’t know who owned the pickup truck that had carried Mona away as he was with her departure. Apparently, she had arrived with her sister and backed the vehicle up to Buck’s small house. She had emptied it of her things, telling him nothing more than that she no longer loved him.
“It was a Ford,” said Buck. “Probably a 2004. Silver, with white letters on the tires. Black toolbox in the back of it. It was damn near bigger than my house.”
Billy was only half listening, knowing that this interest in the truck was really in who owned it. For it was who owned it who had stolen Princess Mona from him.
“Too bad she took her snow blower,” said Billy. “That would’ve come in handy this winter.”
Buck didn’t smile at this. He had collapsed down into the sofa as if he’d never again have the energy to lift himself out of it. Billy was trying to find the right thing to say, the best words of comfort. But he was too overwhelmed with how he himself had left Phoebe. At least Buck had been there to witness Mona’s departure. He didn’t come home late from work, tired of life and a shitty job, to unlock his door and walk into an ambush. Billy stared at the two framed photographs sitting atop Buck’s TV. One was of his parents, dead now for some years. The other was of Buck himself, pale-faced and needy, the sad eyes looking out at the world as if pleading for someone to come to his rescue. Billy assumed it was taken during Buck’s last year of school, his sophomore year, before he dropped out for good. He picked up the photo and slid his finger across the loose dust on its glass. Teachers didn’t like Buck much, he’d told Billy some weeks back, because he wasn’t too smart. Buck was unlacing his purple boots with the yellow tips. He looked up at Billy.
“It’s all part of the Fennelson Curse,” said Buck. “Mona leaving me like she did.”
Billy nodded, as if agreeing. Dorrie Mullins had told him about the curse during a lunchtime at Blanche’s. Dorrie had almost married into it, as she said, but since she didn’t want to live her life with a rabbit’s foot dangling from her rearview mirror, she had broken off a high school engagement to Terrence Fennelson, who later fell off the St. Leonard water tower where he’d climbed for a closer look at the moon. According to Dorrie, the Fennelson family had for generations fallen from rooftops, trees, Ferris wheels, and horseback. They’d been hit by trucks, hail balls, horseshoes, and shotgun pellets. It seemed to Billy that meteorite was the only item missing from the list.
“Maybe this isn’t a curse at all,” said Billy. “Maybe it’s a blessing.”
Buck took a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and blew his nose. His eyes had turned red and watery.
“Ah, man, Bucko, I’m sorry,” said Billy, and he meant it.
As Buck pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket, he nodded at a manila envelope that was lying on the coffee table.
“She left that,” Buck said, “before she drove off in that silver Ford pickup with the fancy tires. I wish I knew who owned it. Whoever it is has some money to throw around if he can buy himself a fancy truck like that. It had a sunroof.”
Billy saw by the name on the manila envelope that it came from a doctor’s office in Watertown. Inside were the results for a pregnancy test for a Ms. Mona Ferguson. Positive. Twenty weeks. Name of Father: Mr. Arthur Benton Fennelson.
Buck.
Billy looked fast at Buck. He was perched on the sofa’s edge like some kind of dazed gargoyle, waiting.
“Guess I passed the test,” said Buck. He was half proud. Billy’s mind was running, trying to do some quick math. Buck had met her when, around the first of July? Billy remembered because he was a reluctant witness to the event. It was the Fourth of July celebration at Burt’s Lounge. They were sitting outside at one of the tables with an umbrella over it when Mona went sashaying past. Buck’s eyes and heart had followed her all the way to the door of the ladies room. An hour later, he asked her to dance. Two hours later, he was so in love that nothing Billy could say would snap him out of it. Four weeks after that night, Buck’s old green pickup had crossed the bridge, loaded to the gills with everything Mona could grab and carry, including the snow blower. Fourth of July. It was now the middle of October. Three and a half months. That was fourteen weeks. He looked at Buck. Should he tell him he probably flunked this test too?
“I guess we can add paternity suit to stuff the Fennelsons have been hit with,” said Billy. Instead of laughing, Buck nodded.
“Damn curse,” he said. He scratched the top of his head.
Billy had been in Mattagash long enough to know most people believed that maybe his maternal ancestors, the Fennelsons, weren’t so much jinxed by the fast hand of fate as by slow-wittedness. But he was also discovering that for every slow-witted Fennelson, there were a dozen fast-witted ones. And that was a damn good ratio. He put the envelope back on the coffee table. He had to visualize it first, a plump-faced boy, an urchin wearing Buck’s hand-me-down coat and purple boots with yellow tips, a moon-faced child who would give Horace “Owl” Hatch a run for his money. Little Buck.
“If this is true,” said Billy, “if this isn’t one of Mona’s lies, then you’re going to make one hell of a good father.”
Buck beamed instantly, as if he’d been thinking of how much fun it would be to own a small child, someone to play games with, watch cartoon marathons with, eat Cheerios with each morning.
“I figure I will too,” Buck said.
“But you got some important questions to ask Mona first,” Billy added. “You don’t need to pay child support for years if it’s not your baby.”
“I wouldn’t like that,” Buck admitted. “Especially since I can barely pay for me.”
“Exactly,” said Billy. “We’ll get you a test, Bucko. It’s called a DNA test.”
“I hate tests,” said Buck.
“I know you do,” Billy said. “But I bet you’ll pass this one with flying colors. And the next time you meet a girl you love, you’re going to keep condoms in your pocket.”
“I like tests where you can pick the answer,” Buck said. “You know, like maybe it’s A or B or C. Sometimes, it’s even D.”
“Dr. Thunder has prescribed some medicine, cousin of mine,” Billy said and stood up. He reached for Buck’s coat and tossed it over to him.
“I like it when you call me cousin,” said Buck. “You know, like family.”
Billy & Buck. The Vaudeville Show.
“And the medicine is supper at the Golden Dragon,” said Billy. What was money for but spending? “Followed by some shots of tequila at Bert’s Lounge. I can already smell the perfume on those good-looking waitresses.”
That’s when Buck’s face smiled again, a forgiving face, a face filled with enough kindness to override all the regret. Billy knew the Buck Fennelsons of the world. He’d gone to school with some of them, had seen them teased and beaten at recess, had seen them standing alone at school dances wearing pants an inch too short for their legs. He’d seen them waiting to get picked for baseball, waiting for someone to motion them over at lunchtime, waiting at the end of the line at movie theaters. Sometimes, he’d been part of the teasing, other times he’d been the rescue.
“They got little pieces of meat on sticks at the Dragon,” said Buck.
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“Yes, they do,” said Billy. “Now zip up your coat.”
***
Edna felt her artistic nature telling her she had to go somewhere. She felt as if she were living life now in the third person. Maybe she was hanging on a wall somewhere in Venice, trapped inside a painting as Italians peered into her lighted windows. She had her purse slung over her left arm and her keys in her right hand, ready to run, hand on the doorknob, and yet she hesitated. That pull of motherly and wifely instinct made her linger upstairs so that she could listen to what was taking place downstairs. Once she was certain that Roderick and the boys would be okay without her there, she would leave quietly. She had told them good-bye down in the basement room that she and Roderick had fixed up enough to call a rec room. There was a used pool table down there and an older television set that worked well enough. Feeling guilt for not having catered to them for the past few days, she had popped two bags of popcorn. “You have fun visiting Bertina,” Roderick had said. “Don’t worry none. I’ll be here babysitting. You go and express yourself all you want.” He was up to something, no doubt about it. Edna imagined Mama Sal counseling him. Pretend you’re interested in that artistic shit she’s going through, and she’ll soon forget all about it. He had never offered to babysit before, so something was stirring.
Edna tiptoed back across the living room floor, her footfalls soundless on the carpet, until she stood at the top of the stairs.
“You’re ugly,” she heard Roddy say. “Your face looks like a monkey’s ass.” This was followed by a slap.
“You’re identical twins.” Roderick’s voice. “If one of you is ugly, then you’re both ugly.”
“Everyone says we look like you, Daddy.” That was Ricky. Edna was the only one who could tell their voices apart.
“Monkey’s ass,” Roddy said again, and something hit the wall with a thump. Edna hoped it wasn’t her knitting basket, which she always left at the end of the sofa. After the thump came a crack, maybe the plastic trash can by the back door. Where was her babysitter? What was Roderick doing?
“Don’t throw stuff that’ll break,” she heard him say.
Edna had seen a painting in her art book that spoke to her soul, even though the artist didn’t seem much more skilled than she was. It was called The Scream and was painted by a man who lived in Norway. That’s how Edna felt, that she was silently screaming. She crossed the room again, but instead of heading out the door and into the chilly night, she turned toward the staircase and her own bedroom. She would crawl into bed, maybe read quietly with the two cats curled into balls at her feet. Even artistic souls must tire of the roller-coaster ride, those peaks of pure emotion often followed by valleys of despair and endless cocktail parties. Surely they seek a safe place now and then, a spot that shuts out the din of genius, not to mention family members.
Edna washed her face with Noxzema and water, and then brushed her teeth. She pulled on her flannel pajamas. She would buy a few sets of flannels for Bertina and the girls as early Christmas presents. She slid under the covers and then reached for her new art book. She flicked through pages until she came to The Scream. With the shade of her lamp tilted, she could better read. Through his powerful and haunting paintings, Edvard Munch often depicts dangerously seductive fin de siècle women, all isolated characters in barren landscapes. Edna pulled open the drawer of her nightstand and took out the tablet that held all her favorite vocabulary words. She scribbled fin de siècle on a blank page. She would look it up the next day, maybe ask Florence Walker its meaning. She wondered if she herself might be one of those isolated women in a barren landscape. After all, Mattagash wasn’t exactly Paris, France. It wasn’t even Paris, Maine.
The cats appeared and wound themselves into tight balls on the end of her bed. In no time, they were asleep. Edna knew they would wake in an hour or so, stretch, lick their paws, and then pad downstairs where one of the boys would let them out for a late-night pee. The cats, with their indifferent stares, seemed to have life figured out. If only they would share the secret, Edna thought, as she put the book away and snapped out her light. Maybe the answer lay in not expecting too much for oneself. The cats didn’t dream of mice in another town, for instance. Or a better grade of milk. The cats didn’t switch horses in midstream. They took what they saw in front of them and curled up next to it. Sometimes, they even purred.
***
Billy had driven Buck home after a night of Chinese food and a few good drinks. The evening out on the town had cheered Buck up no end. “We’ll get this all worked out with Mona,” Billy had told him. “Don’t you worry none.” Buck seemed relieved, maybe even happy again. He stood at his door and waved as Billy drove the Mustang out of the yard. They’d taken Buck’s pickup to Watertown now that it was no longer highjacked by Mona, and now Billy hoped to get the Mustang home and covered before the night brought more cold. Besides, he had an important appointment.
It was 9 p.m., as agreed upon. The Mustang was back in its place above the camper and Billy was waiting at the end of the bridge. Finally, he saw the small gray car coming slowly toward him, weaving a bit, as if the driver were nervous. Prior to a sale, most of his customers drove as if they had a sign taped to their back bumper. ARREST ME. I AM ABOUT TO BUY DRUGS. The car crossed the bridge and then pulled onto the hard gravel at the side of the road where Billy stood. He waited until the window rolled down and the hand came out. He shook the bottle and heard the blue pills rattling inside. He liked to do that, shake the pills, make a noise, let the customer know who was boss. Then, satisfied, he placed the bottle into the outstretched hand.
“Before I take any money, I have to tell you a few things about these pills,” Billy said, his voice important. “I feel it’s my responsibility.”
He heard his customer put the car in park, letting it idle. Billy nodded. He looked up the road and saw nothing coming but the night. There were no yellow headlights to be seen for half a mile. He looked to the other end of the bridge. All clear.
“It took a long time for me to find a company that sells bogus stuff,” he said. “But I did my homework and I found one. A lot of people were complaining about them online, saying their pills weren’t real. That’s because they have no sildenafil citrate in them. I know those are big words, but it’s the sildenafil citrate that makes Viagra work in the first place. You understand so far?”
Meg Craft leaned out her car window and looked up at Billy.
“Verna says they never hurt Phillip,” said Meg. “And Phil’s been taking them for two months. Gretchen Harris has no complaints. Dorrie Mullins neither. I’ve heard nothing but good reports from your customers.”
Billy nodded, pleased to hear this.
“Still,” he said, “I told the other girls what I’m telling you now. It may look real, same kind of pill, same packaging, but there are risks in buying counterfeit Viagra.” He sounded like a lecturing professor. “When this stuff is bought over the Internet, there’s no way of telling what you’re getting. It’s often made in factories in Asia with no quality control. In other words, it might even be contaminated.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Meg. “If Orville gets sick, I’ll nurse him back to health. We got good insurance, and the hospital is only thirty miles away.”
“Man,” said Billy. “Bad case, huh?” He was always sympathetic to his clients, no matter what their needs.
“You should know,” said Meg. She gave him a frosty look, then retracted it. It was her pride, or it was Orville twice a month.
“It’s not approved or regulated by the FDA,” Billy added, as if Meg were signing a contract. “And it’s illegal to sell it in the United States.”
“If I go to jail, I go to jail,” said Meg.
“The real stuff costs anywhere from eight to twelve dollars a pill,” said Billy. “I’m gonna have to charge you top dollar to make any profit. Twelve dollars for twelve pills is a hu
ndred forty-four dollars.”
“These will last six months,” said Meg. “Surely he’ll give up after that.” She handed the money out her window to Billy, who pocketed it without counting.
“Thanks,” said Billy. “I got a friend printing up an article I found in the New England Journal of Medicine, how Viagra won’t work for three out of ten men. Guess your bad luck was to marry one of those men. I’ll have it ready in a couple days. You can give it to him to read if he starts asking questions. Twenty dollars a copy.”
“Brilliant,” said Meg, and Billy could tell that despite her initial misgivings, Meg had warmed to him.
He lit a cigarette and stood in the cold to smoke it as he watched Meg’s disappearing taillights. Billy had discovered a new market in Mattagash and was thankful for it, given his Portland connections had been severed. He had found a new niche simply because most men, and certainly Mattagash men, won’t talk to doctors much less each other about private things, not like the girls do. Men don’t compare notes. Hell, if the men had pulled a trick like this on the women, it would be all over in three phone calls and two instant messages.
The half-moon rode over the river, reflecting silver and white. A chilled wind. A heaven bursting with stars. And that’s why Billy thought of his mother again. What had she always told him before the sickness carried her memory of him away? “One day, Bill, you’re gonna find your way again. One day, son, that good heart is gonna lead you home.”
The One-Way Bridge Page 16
