She raised her drink and gave me a solemn nod. “Nosdrovia,” she said. Pressing the glass to her lips, she snapped her head back and downed the shot in one neat gulp.
I raised my glass, gave a cheer and, following suit, slammed my drink back. It raged going down, and when the fiery liquid hit my gut, my shoulders shot upward and my whole body quaked. But the second shot was smoother, and by the third I was really looking forward to getting plastered on the porch with my wonderful, drinking-age-oblivious neighbor on what was proving to be a truly glorious day. I felt myself relax inside my feather nest of a coat and, settling in, I accidentally kicked my backpack, forgotten beside my feet, a couple steps down. The backpack toppled down the stairs in an awkward but amusing sort of way. I was fuzzily contemplating picking it up when Mrs. Bernoffski wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and wrapped her thick fingers around my knee.
“So,” she said, turning to look straight at me. The sharp smell of alcohol wafted from the pocket of commingled breath hanging between us. Her deep-set eyes were wet and glassy in their dark hollows. She gave my knee a squeeze and for a second I kind of tensed up, fearing the boy-fondled-by-drunken-depressed-widow worst. Turns out she only wanted to chat.
“You have some troubles, no?”
I nodded at her, but to be honest I wasn’t sure which one of my problems she might be referring to, so I kept quiet. I figured if anyone was unaware of my prophetic talents it was Mrs. Bernoffski, given that she wasn’t the most plugged-in personality in Stokum. I mean, her husband had died the day after Stan, so she’d probably missed my whole WDFD coming-out party. And unless she had Pastor Ted–type powers, she couldn’t be asking about Astelle or Fang or the bevy of other folks I had difficulty dealing with, so I just kept my head bobbing and my mouth shut.
“You have da funny feelings?” I had no idea where she was heading, but sitting on that spring-drenched front porch I was suddenly roasting inside my winter jacket.
Mrs. Bernoffski squeezed my knee firmly again, and by this point I couldn’t even keep up the nodding. But after a bit of a wandering start, she finally headed straight for the point.
“You think you kill my Johnny.” She waggled a plump finger at me. “Dat’s why you shovel my snow.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks, so they burned hot as the vodka racing inside me. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Luckily, the liquor-lubed Mrs. Bernoffski was in a talkative mood.
“Listen,” she said, “I know ’bout you. Johnny, he phone me dat day and he tell me how Doug’s boy come and is all crazy to cut da grazz, cut da grazz. Den Johnny die. Cutting da grazz.” She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back a little, and gave me a shrewd look. “And your friend, da boy on the wheely. I know about dat too.”
I was managing to maintain eye contact, but I knew my mouth was hanging wide and my face was all stricken and shit. Mrs. Bernoffski gave me a firm poke, leaving a tiny divot in my downfilled chest. She held my eyes with hers, and it was probably just the booze, but as I looked into those old-world orbs, the spin of the new world seemed to slow. The wind dropped and the sun narrowed to a single beam, bright enough to light just one small front porch in one small town.
“What you think?” Mrs. Bernoffski said, her voice quiet. “You think I don’t know things? I’m Polish, not stupid. I know things. One thing I know, we all have funny feelings. And we all die. Nothing no one can do. Another thing I know, it’s God who decide when we die, not da little boy up the street.”
I had to look away when she said that. I clenched my jaw and hung my head. I could feel the tears pooling. Beside me I heard a couple clinks and the slide of liquid from a bottle. Mrs. Bernoffski nudged a shot glass into my hand then plucked the other one from my lap. We both stared out at the peacefulness of our street, and she gave my hand a solid squeeze.
“My husband, he is a stubborn man. He let no one cut his grazz. When he die under his tractor, he die a happy man.” She lifted her drink and gave me a nudge. I held my glass high. Inside, the liquor flashed silver.
“To Johnny,” she said. “Nosdrovia.”
WHEN MY MOM CAME IN and plopped down on my bed, I was digging through boxes of T-shirts. I was still a bit wasted from the after-school drinking binge with the widow, but if my mom noticed, she didn’t mention it. She plucked a stray shirt off the floor and, holding it by the shoulders, flipped it front to back a couple times. Trying not to appear eager, I rooted through the box I was kneeling beside, pretending to check sizes, but covertly I kept an eye on my mom.
“Wow.” She was frowning in a surprised but impressed sort of way. “They look great. Nice drum.”
I cocked my head. “You like it?”
“Yes. It’s really good. You’re very talented.”
“Thanks.” I laughed off the compliment, but I had to admit the shirts did look pretty awesome. “They’re fifteen bucks if you’re interested.”
“I’ll take one for me and one for your dad.” She folded the T into a neat square and set it on the bed. “Too bad we can’t go.”
My parents were big fans of One Drum, and as far as I knew they’d never missed a festival. For the past couple years I’d gone with my friends, and last spring I’d sold shirts there with Stan, but before that One Drum had always been a fresh-cut-fields-andcandy-floss sort of family affair. Although I never remembered much about any of the bands, I always remembered coming back from Rolland with my parents. The drives home were kind of surreal. No one ever said much, but it was always a good, peaceful kind of quiet invading the car. After a day’s worth of music, I’d be feeling tired and happy and cushioned from the world outside the windows by the ringing in my ears. I think my parents were too, and for a couple days afterwards the happy beat would hold. We’d smile easy smiles as we passed, humming, in the halls, until we all eased back into the harder rhythms of life.
This year, however, my mom and dad would be cancanning it around Paris instead of listening to the bang of our American drums. They were taking the red-eye to France the next day, the Saturday before the festival, which was always on a Sunday (Sunday, April 27, to be exact, if the info crisscrossing the back of the shirts was accurate). My mom had arranged for Ms. Banks to pick me and my shirts up early on the morning of the festival, seeing how my regular drivers were going to be way, way out of town.
My mom reached over and gave the peak of my baseball cap a tap. “I’m sorry you’re not coming with us.”
“It’s okay. Besides, I’ve got the T-shirt thing happening.” I didn’t mention anything about using the house for sex.
“Remember how much fun we had in Barcelona?”
Oh yeah, I remembered that. My mom was no doubt referring to all the tapas bars we’d visited, all the Gaudí-inspired sightseeing we’d done, which had been cool. But when I thought about fun in Barcelona, what sprang to mind were my clandestine evening encounters with Nuria, the Spanish chick who’d staked her claim on me the second night of our trip, when I’d opted for a stroll along the beach rather than a night at the newly refurbished Opera with Mom and Dad.
Nuria wasn’t all that gorgeous or anything, and she could barely speak English, but her long skirt had swayed pretty enticingly when she’d headed my way across the soft sand. And man, when she opened her full lips and said, “Hola,” I was glad I was already seated. Her voice was magic, like a lilting silver flute or something. Yeah, Nuria and her vocals were definitely worth a lie and a nightly sprint to the beach. And on my last night in Barcelona, Nuria kept running her hands through my hair and kissing me and whispering that I was so big and blond and beautiful and that she was going to miss me, and when she pulled a condom out of her pocket I’d been quick, very quick, with my big “Si, Si.”
I got a letter from her about a month after getting home to sexless Stokum, and unfortunately the Spanglish that had spilled so musically from her mouth lay flat as stones on the page. I never even bothered writing back. Still, I had her letter in my desk drawer in case I ever needed
proof a girl had actually dug me. And despite the grammatical errors and the fact she’d misspelled my name, I was particularly fond of the PS, which went something— okay, exactly—like this: “PS. Luk, I love fuck you on the sand.”
I gave my mom a big smile. “There’s no way Paris could live up to Barcelona, anyway. No way.” I paused and took a quick peek at my mom. She was still dressed in her work clothes, a white blouse and dark dress pants, but she looked pretty chilled, and I decided to risk the next line. “Besides, everything’s not about me, right?”
My mom leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry about that. But it’s important that your father and I get away on our own right now. I could have been a little gentler with you, but I haven’t been in the gentlest of moods lately.”
“Really?” I feigned surprise.
“Really,” my mom said flatly. “Still, it’s true. Not everything is about you. Or anyone else for that matter. That’s something you learn growing up.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the heads-up.”
“Luke, could you cut the sarcasm? It gets annoying.” She took a minute to slip off her shoes, then flopped over on the bed and curled up, one hand between her knees, the other slipped under the pillow. “So, how are you, really?”
“Pretty good,” I said. “Pretty tired.” My mom looked so comfortable lying there on the bed, I had to get horizontal. I stretched out on the floor, balled up a One Drum shirt and stuck it under my head. I closed my eyes. I knew my mom was watch- ing, but it didn’t bother me. The lingering effects of the booze and a general exhaustion pressed me into the carpet.
“That’s how you look. Happy. But tired. Your dad and I both think so.”
“I’m sleeping like crap.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Fang called last night. He sounded awful. When I asked, he said he hasn’t been sleeping. So you two have something in common.”
“Not much.” I knew I sounded snotty, but like the first notes of a country-and-western tune, these days the mere mention of Fang gave me an uncomfortable twang. I tried to change the topic, but when my mom had a problem child on her mind she was hard to distract. She reminded me how Fang and I had known each other for ages, how important it was to “be there” for your friends, how he was the closest thing I had to a brother, etc., etc. Only after I promised to return the loser’s call did she get back to more important things.
“So,” she said, “you’re having trouble sleeping?”
“Yeah. Nightmares. Wicked nightmares.” I closed my eyes again.
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
“Not really. They’re bad. About bad stuff.”
It was sort of weird, but it seemed the looser things got with Faith, the tighter they got with Astelle. Ever since the Red Carpet In_, Astelle had been a dream-cast regular, but for the last little while she’d turned into a total dominatrix. She showed up every night and she’d pulled the pink sweatshirt from her mouth and pushed the fat guy off of her and she’d started screaming, clutching at her mangled arm and her twisted clothes, her head was flopped to one side, dangling from her busted neck, and she was screaming at me to do something, do something, why didn’t I do something? Obviously, dream girl didn’t know that doing nothing was way more my style.
“Are you dreaming about Stan?”
“NO. No. Just forget it, okay? I’ll get over it.”
“Do you think it would help to talk to someone?”
“Talk to someone? Like who?” The vodka vapors had started to evaporate.
“Like a psychologist.”
I gave that motherly suggestion a quick thumbs-down. I couldn’t even imagine delving into my “issues” with some shrink. Besides, I’d already had that super-effective session with the principal, Mr. Tanner, and I’d started writing shit down in the journal Mrs. Hayward had given me, was listening to Johnny Cash on a fairly regular basis. I figured that was all the therapy this boy needed.
My mom, however, was not going to be put off. “You know Kate? Ms. Banks? Well, she volunteers at the hospice in Rolland and she suggested talking to one of the grief counselors there. So I called. The man I spoke with was very nice and he said it’s often about six months after a death that people really start having trouble dealing with things. And it’s not unusual to be preoccupied with death. Or to feel especially vulnerable.”
I jerked my head off the floor to stare at my mother. “You called the hospice? You talked to a grief counselor? Jesus. Don’t you have the lake to worry about?”
“Luke …” My mother sounded frustrated. She pushed herself upright and gave the pillow a few soothing pats. “It’s something you should think about.”
I didn’t say anything, hoping she’d figure out the conversation was over, but she stayed where she was, perched on the edge of the bed, watching me intently. She’d definitely lost her relaxed-but-intouch vibe, was now shooting out gamma rays of straight worry, the kind that aren’t easy to deflect. I had to remind her several times that it was Friday and, oh look, it was already quarter past five and, seeing how we were both heading out for the evening, it was probably a good idea for her to get going on dinner.
“Your father’s bringing home pizza.”
Well then, didn’t she have some packing to do or something?
She admitted that yes, she did have to pack, which she added was something she hated. Then she sighed and, stretching out her leg, poked me gently in the ribs. “Luke?” I looked over. She gave me a quick smile, but her eyes screamed anxious motherly love. Her foot was resting lightly on my chest, rocking just enough so I could feel the slide of skin over bone. “Can we talk more about this when we get back?”
“Mom, I’m fine.”
She wasn’t buying it. I had to promise I’d think about what she’d said while they were away, had to promise we’d talk again when she got back from France. Only then did my mother take her foot off my chest, slip her shoes back on and exit my room.
TWENTY-THREE
Despite talk of me needing mental rehab, I was feeling pretty light and airy as I headed out of the house that Friday night. The bottle of bubbly I’d lifted from my dad’s special reserve and choked down in my room after my mom left probably had something to do with it. But as I stepped out into the big bright world outside my front door, I knew that what I was feeling was more than just some cheap wine buzz, because the crazy mood had been building over the last couple weeks. Somewhere, somehow, sometime during those weeks, without even realizing it, I’d started thinking there was more to the madness than just everyone was going to die. And somewhere, somehow, sometime during those same weeks, I’d started to realize the premonitions were fading out. Since convenience-store Howie hit back at the end of December, I’d only had a couple dead men flicker through, and they’d been pale, tame, barely-even-there affairs. I mean, I didn’t want to get too excited, didn’t want to even think about it too much, in case I screwed things up. But honestly? I knew the threat of future attacks had dropped to a low, lemony yellow.
And man, as I headed to Jefferson that night, I was feeling good, so good it felt like someone had cranked the volume of life up to eleven. Maybe even twelve. The trees beat their budding branches at me, the new grass screamed green, the robins howled. Shit, even Erie looked good, hanging at the end of every street like some promising navy seduction. And when I passed other people on the street? Behind every face I heard the beat. Yeah, if I remember correctly, on that springiest of Friday nights, the roar was deafening.
Not even Dwight Slater could get me down. He was doing business in the back parking lot at school, eyes red, lids heavy, lost in a cloud of sweet smoke. As I glided by Slater and his cloud, it kind of hit me that my favorite trucker might have been right when he’d said even a curse could start looking pretty shiny if you just paid attention long enough. I mean, suddenly the last seven months of my life didn’t look so grim, because I could see how far a few doses of life and death had taken me from all th
ings Dwight, from the Luke of last fall. Shit, I could even see how the big why had kind of worked itself around. I mean, why not me? I wasn’t so goddamn bad.
Inside the gym, I climbed the bleachers and took a seat near the top. The place looked like it had been made over by some love-stricken fool who didn’t know Valentine’s Day was way over. The basketball court bobbed under a ceiling of pink and white balloons, twisted streamers and blood-red hearts. The dancers shaking their booties on the floor flashed white light as the obligatory mirror ball spun overhead. If the music hadn’t been so completely MTV verging on VH1 pseudo porn-star pop smarm, I wouldn’t have been able to hide the smile trying to glue itself to my face.
Most of the chicks were all decked out for the evening, poured into hip-hugger jeans and strappy T-shirts with their navel rings and thong underwear proudly on display. The guys were hanging, trying hard for cool in their crotch-to-the-knees jeans and Eminem-inspired undershirts. Couples were grinding away on the floor, but there were also some big groups doing a kind of free-forall, rave parade sort of thing. I imagined joining one, introducing myself as the new kid in town, cracking a few jokes, starting to groove. It might have been nice, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen for the misfit in the stands no matter how good I was feeling. So I stayed put and watched from afar.
When Mr. Switzer, the science guy, entered the gym, he was pretty hard to miss. He was sporting the same ugly brown suit and thick brown glasses he’d been born in, but he’d spruced up the ensemble with a pair of yellow, industrial-strength ear protectors, the kind the jackhammer guys wear. The ear protectors served a dual purpose, because not only did they look pretty natty, they also kept Switzer’s slick comb-over in place. The science enthusiasts quickly gathered round, trying to get a peek at the heavylooking metal box he was holding—his notorious decibel counter. Between songs Mr. Switzer competed with the DJ for attention, calling out noise level readings and the probability of sustaining permanent hearing loss from the evening’s festivities.
Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet Page 19
