by P. E. Ryan
“Derrick Harding,” Charlie repeated, trying to place the name. “Graduated last year? Kicked out of student government?”
“The very same,” one of the twins said. “We should give you his number.”
And they did. Charlie never hung out with the twins again after that night. He never wanted to. But a week later he called the number they’d given him. Derrick remembered him from high school. He invited Charlie over to his apartment, got him stoned, sent him home with a sandwich Baggie of pot. Derrick was as friendly as could be. He was funny and easy to be around and generous: He always sent Charlie home with a bag, which he told Charlie not to worry about paying for. “Later,” was his famous line. “You can pay me later.”
A year had passed like smoke in a breeze. Suddenly, later was now.
When Charlie got home from the grocery store, his father was at the kitchen table with the newspaper spilled out in front of him, several pieces of it on the floor next to his feet. Without looking up, he said, “There’s Charlie.”
A glass of weak-looking orange juice sat next to his elbow.
“Hi, Dad.” Charlie set the grocery bags on the counter. “I picked up some food on the way home.”
“Oh—thank you.”
As he unpacked the bags, Charlie listened to the newspaper pages turning, as slowly and regularly as sedated breathing. His father reached the end of the section, then turned the paper over and started paging through it again. He was dressed in pajama pants and a white T-shirt, but he had on his bedroom slippers. Sometimes he spent entire days in his pajamas.
“I started reglazing the windows of the Danforth house today,” Charlie said. “It’s pretty cool, because I’m replacing all the cracked windowpanes, too, and the only way to get them out is to smash them with a hammer.”
His father didn’t look up from the paper. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word Charlie had said. Charlie raised his voice a notch and asked, “What did you do today, Dad?” He already knew the answer.
“Me? I kept pretty busy.” His father cleared his throat and squinted at an article.
“Did you go anywhere?”
“Why do you always ask me that?”
Charlie shrugged. “Just curious.”
“I went downtown to the office, took a look at some new listings.”
“How was that?”
His father cleared his throat again. “Not a lot going on this time of year. Fall’s better. Less rental action, more buying.”
Charlie didn’t believe him. In fact, he didn’t think his father had left the house in days. “Did you eat lunch out?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Me?” Who else? “No. I ate here.”
Charlie didn’t believe this, either. There hadn’t been anything to eat in the house, except maybe cornflakes. “You need to eat, Dad.”
“I ate,” he said to the paper. “Don’t harass me, son.”
“Well, I’ve got to get cleaned up. Then I’ll make us some spaghetti, okay?”
There was such a long stretch of silence, Charlie started to wonder if he’d been heard. Then, as if he didn’t even know what they were talking about, his father said, “Okay, Charlie.”
He showered, spending a long time under the spray with his eyes closed, the warm water batting against his forehead. I wish, I wish, I wish, he thought. I wish Mom was here. She’d put Dad back on track. Though that didn’t really make any sense, because his father wouldn’t be in the shape he was in if his mother hadn’t died. I wish I’d spent more time on the court this summer. I wish I’d never laid eyes on Derrick Harding. Why in the hell did I ever get involved with that guy?
Of course he knew why. Despite his ability to play a pretty good game, he didn’t fit in with the jocks—at least, not with those guys who talked about nothing but sports and walked around like they held the deed to the school in their hand. And since his mother had died, he wasn’t exactly in the mood to meet new people. He had a—what was the word? He’d learned it in English this past year. Dearth. He had a dearth of friends. Guys just to hang out with. Not that he wanted an entourage. In fact, one good friend—a best friend, someone he could really talk to—would probably have been enough to keep him from sucking up to a creep like Derrick Harding.
Someone like Sam Findley.
But that friendship was over. Charlie didn’t even know why. He and Sam had been best friends since they were nine, and then one day their friendship had just…stopped. Sam was the one who had ended it, and he’d never explained why. They both lived in the same neighborhood, they went to the same school, but for over a year now, since before Charlie’s mother first got sick, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other.
Charlie finished showering and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. As he stood in the kitchen boiling the spaghetti, he thought about going down to the court at the end of their neighborhood and shooting some baskets. But his father went back to vodka and orange juice before they started eating, and by the time Charlie was loading the dishwasher, he’d downed at least three. He started making little remarks to the news program on TV (“You think so?” “I doubt it!” “Oh, come on, where’s the hard evidence for that?”), and Charlie got so irritated that he lost his energy and just retreated to his room.
He’d earned a little unwinding time, hadn’t he? He’d worked for eight hours, dealt with Wade, brought home the bacon—more than enough crap for one day. He had his unwinding routine perfected: He cranked open his window, set the little gray fan on the sill, then dug his pipe and lighter and film container of pot from the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Crouching in front of the fan, he lit up and puffed, exhaling smoke that was immediately sucked outside.
Not long after that, he was lying flat on his bed, listening to music and thinking about the girl he’d seen coming out of Gatorland. He rolled over onto his hand.
Then he remembered Kate: He was supposed to have called her an hour ago. He scrambled for the phone on his nightstand and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” he said. “It’s me.”
“I thought you were going to call earlier than this.”
“Sorry. My dad made me do all this stuff around the house as soon as I got home.” He’d never told Kate about how his father had started drinking again since his mom died (not that she knew he’d had a problem in the first place). “I just completely lost track of time. What are you up to?”
“I had this enormous fight with my mom. She doesn’t want me borrowing the car anymore because, get this, she says I got it too dirty the last time I used it. Remember that big rainstorm a couple of weeks ago? She said I splashed mud all over the fenders. I said, hey, did I make the storm? Blame God. Well, that really got her mad. You would have thought I’d torn a page out of the Bible.”
Kate was a force of nature. She was strong willed, and spoke her mind, and didn’t put up with any bull from anyone. It was what had first attracted Charlie to her back when they’d had sociology class together and she’d spoken up so freely about stereotypes and “looks-ism” (Charlie still wasn’t sure what “looks-ism” was, but he liked hearing Kate rail against it). And she wasn’t only smart, she was the hottest girl in the school, as far as he was concerned. Mellowing into the thought of her, he said simply, “You’re great.”
“For what, fighting with my mom?”
“I mean it. You’re really just…great.”
“Um, thanks. You sound kind of out of it. You’re not high, are you?”
“No,” he lied. She knew he’d smoked pot in the past, and she didn’t like it. In fact, they’d argued about it just a few weeks ago. She had this whole philosophy about how a person who took mind-altering drugs was basically just an escape artist who was dodging the real issues in his life. In a way, Charlie agreed with her. But didn’t people need to dodge stuff now and then? In the end, he’d decided it was easier to lie to her than to argue; she was much more articulate than he was, and he could never keep up. “I’m
just beat. I worked on the Danforth house all day. They don’t even have the power turned on, so I can’t use the AC. It wipes me out.”
“Charlie Horse is tired,” she said.
He felt relieved. She only called him Charlie Horse when she was feeling affectionate. “Not too tired to pick up where we left off last Saturday,” he said, grinning.
“I’ll bet.”
“You were pretty amazing.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself. Hey, do you want to go to the beach this week? During the daytime, like regular people?”
“You got it. I’m flexible with my work hours. The Danforths haven’t even moved into the place yet. When do you want to go?”
“How about Thursday?”
“I’m aallll yours.”
“Good. You really sound out of it. You should go to sleep.”
“I’m going to,” he said. “I’m giving you a big, long good-night kiss.”
“Yeah, yeah, smooch,” she said. “Go to sleep, and call me tomorrow. If I can’t use my mom’s car, I may need you to drive me to the mall after dinner.”
“I am your chariot,” he said.
“You’re my Charlie Horse.”
“I’m your stud.”
“Go to bed.”
After they hung up, he rolled over onto his hand again. But instead of feeling charged up about his conversation with Kate, he only felt tired, and before long he dozed off.
4.
(We don’t say that word.)
Teddy was standing on the sofa with his shoes on, hefting a power drill. “Chowderhead!” he said loudly when he saw Sam emerge from the back of the house. “Where’ve you been?”
“Trying to sleep. Until a laundry basket crashed into my door.”
“You should have seen Big’un here fly!”
Chowderhead. Big’un. Teddy had a knack for getting on Sam’s nerves. He was slightly pear shaped, and his weight was stabbing his shoes down into the sofa cushions. Sam’s mom would have had a fit if she saw Sam or Hannah doing that. But chunky, clunky, loudmouthed Teddy walked on water.
“You and Crabcake going to help me hang some wall sconces?”
Hannah giggled, which only irritated Sam more. “Her name’s Hannah,” he said. “And I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Sam,” his mother called out sharply. She was in the kitchen, leaning back from the sink to put Sam in her sight line. “What have I told you about being rude?”
“Sorry,” Sam said, looking away from both his mom and Teddy, glancing at Hannah, who was perched on the arm of the sofa.
“I’m going to give you stuff to do if you don’t straighten up, young man.”
“I said sorry.”
Teddy either didn’t notice or didn’t care when Sam got smart with him. He raised the drill and squeezed the trigger, tearing into the wall.
Sam poured himself a glass of juice. He took the scrambled egg his mom had cooked him and made a sandwich with toast and a few pieces of bacon. Jasbo watched him. Sam tossed out a sliver of egg, and the dachshund caught it in midair. His mother was loading the dishwasher. Her blond hair, the exact same shade as Sam’s and Hannah’s, was pulled back into a ponytail. She’d started wearing it that way when Teddy came into the picture. That was also about the time she’d decided that the entire look of the house had to change, as if leaving it the way it was when his father had lived here was unthinkable. What did they need with wall sconces? She glanced at him, then folded her arms over her stomach and nodded toward his plate. “Put that in the dishwasher when you’re through eating.”
“Affirmative, captain.”
“Tell me something, because I really want to know. I’m going to mark it on my calendar. When are you going to snap out of this attitude?” she asked.
Sam shrugged and said through a mouthful, “What are you talking about? I’m just standing here eating an egg.”
“The boy needs his protein!” Teddy called from the living room, over the shriek of the drill. “Got to put some meat on those bones. He’s going to need ’em to wax that new shed to keep it from rusting.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” his mother said softly, so that only Sam could hear. “I don’t want to see you roll your eyes or hear that sarcastic tone in your voice. We’ve talked about this.”
Sam swallowed, then reached for the juice glass. “Affirmative. No more eye rolling.”
“Darn it!” Teddy announced to the wall. “Brenda, do you have any screw anchors?”
“I don’t think so. What are they?”
“Those little plastic jobbers that hold the screws into the drywall. I’ll bet the guy who invented those is a millionaire. Probably a Japanese.”
“I don’t think we have any.”
“Darn it. Who wants to go to the hardware store?”
“Me!” Hannah shouted.
What a pushover, Sam thought. You’d think the hardware store was Disney World.
Teddy blew drywall dust off the drill bit and said, “Sam?”
“I’m going running,” Sam said. “Thanks, though.” He set his plate down, leaned forward, and kissed his mom’s cheek. “See?” he whispered. “I’m a model of politeness.”
This time she was the one who rolled her eyes. Sam headed off toward his room.
His ancient Discman wasn’t working. He put new batteries in it, but it was still dead. That’s what he got for buying a cheap model he’d never heard of. He wanted to get away from the house before Teddy and Hannah came out to leave for the hardware store, so he didn’t stretch for nearly as long as he normally would have. For the first ten minutes, he suffered. But eventually the muscles in his legs started to heat up and feel as if they were moving on their own. He left the neighborhood and made his way out to San Marco Avenue, where he ran against traffic. He passed the neon signs for the Fountain of Youth and the Ripley Museum. (It was hard to believe people actually paid to see that stuff. Why didn’t they just throw their money into the street? He pictured the Believe It or Not headline for the story: St. Augustine tourists throw dollars into the street for amusement— AND LOCAL BOY RUNS AWAY WITH THEIR MONEY! )
San Marco Avenue took him down to the Bridge of Lions. The water was choppy and dotted with bobbing fishing boats, and the wind, once he was out on the bridge, was crazy. But Sam liked the feel of it: shoving into his chest, like a giant hand, then not there at all, then smacking into his back and driving him forward. He crossed over onto Anastasia Island. From there, he left the main road and followed a path through the palmetto scrub, out to the beach at the island’s northern tip. Damp sand—a few feet away from the tide line—was his favorite running surface. Just enough cushion. Just enough resistance. He was flying now, kicking chunks of sand up behind him and sending gangs of seagulls flapping out over the water. He was drenched in sweat, his mind engaged only with his speed, his form, and dodging the occasional beached jellyfish.
But soon his shins started to feel like burning sticks of wood. He turned around, finally, and headed back, but he was far from home when he had to slow down and eventually surrender to walking.
When he got back to his house, Teddy’s car was gone. He opened the front door and felt the air conditioning seal onto his damp skin.
The phone rang and his mom answered it.
“Hello?…Oh, hi, Melissa! Are you ready for the new school year?…Mm-hmm…And what about colleges, have you started looking into those?…That’s good…. It’s never too early to start…. Okay…Yes, I think I just heard him come in. Sam, is that you?”
He stepped into the living room, still breathing heavily, and nodded.
“Here he is, Melissa. Say hi to your mother for me, all right?” She handed the phone over.
“Hey, Melissa-monster. What’s up?”
“I’m so depressed!” Melissa said into his ear. “I can’t even tell you.”
“Tell me,” he said, waving his mom away. She winked at him and returned to the sofa, where s
he’d been leafing through a book of wallpaper samples.
“Oh, you know. Why get out of bed, have they blown the world up yet, I’m a cow. The usual. What’s going on with you?”
“Just got back from running.”
“You really ought to give that one up. You’re a journalist, not a jock.”
“Screw you,” Sam said, and mimed a remorseful face when his mother looked up at him.
“Not in this lifetime. Do you want to go with me to the Pistol Museum tomorrow?”
“Why do you want to go there?”
“I talked to the curator on the phone today. He’s going to let me take some pictures.”
“And what are you going to do with them? Decorate your room?”
“Very funny. I want to do a series of photos about handgun legislation for the fall art fair. The curator doesn’t know that, but I don’t think he’d care; he sounded about a hundred years old. Anyway, I want to do a kind of eerie gun montage, then get some shots of the jail, and maybe ride out to the Old Spanish Cemetery.”
“Sounds like an uplifting afternoon. I can’t go, though. I’m working straight through Sunday.”
“Yuck,” Melissa said. “How much frozen yogurt can people eat?”
“More than you want to know. Somebody’s got to staff the counter. Shapiro—that whiny jerk who usually works weekends? I’m covering for him. Can we do it on Sunday?”
“It’s got to be tomorrow afternoon, because they’re closing the museum to have the carpets steamed, and the old guy said I could come in before they start.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, you’re still coming over on Monday to watch The Poseidon Adventure, right?”
“Absolutely. It’s a date,” he said—and was immediately sorry he’d chosen the word date. His mom raised her head again and smiled at him.
“Okay, I’d better go. I have a yoga class. I’m going to slash if I don’t center myself.”
