Skinny Dipping Season

by Cynthia Tennent

  As I leaned over to give the last man his beer, I felt an arm snake around my waist from behind and a gritty voice whisper in my ear, “You piece of garbage—since when is my money not good enough?”

  I raised my elbow to jab Dylan Schraeder in the gut and was stunned when my elbow met thin air. I turned around just as J. D. launched him into the air by his collar.

  “Hey, get off me!” he croaked.

  “Then keep your hands off her!”

  Dylan raised his arms in surrender and J. D. slowly lowered him. Stepping away, he turned toward me.

  But Dylan wasn’t finished. “I wouldn’t waste my time with a slut like that anyway.” He pushed me so hard that I landed across the lap of one of the men in the booth.

  Before I knew what was happening, J. D. pulled Dylan up and slammed him down on the table beside me. One of the waitresses screamed. I found my feet and jumped away along with the men who had been sitting in the booth. Beer and food baskets flew. Everything warped into slow motion as Dylan Schraeder slid to the ground in a heap of fries and tortilla chips.

  Dylan’s eyes rolled back into place and focused again. He curled his lip. “What’s the matter, Junior Delinquent? Don’t like sharing her? Your daddy didn’t have any trouble sharing your mama.”

  J. D. launched himself at Dylan, but this time Dylan was ready for him. He brought his leg up and aimed a kick at J. D.’s groin. He missed and got his thigh instead. I tried to intervene, but a crowd of men was already closing me out. They shouted and groaned with every kick. Frustrated that I couldn’t see anything, I stood on a chair. Both men were on their feet now. But two of Dylan’s friends had grabbed J. D. from behind. They locked his arms behind his back as Schraeder took advantage of the maneuver and landed punch after punch in J. D.’s gut and face.

  With every strike, Schraeder insulted J. D. “Rumor is your real name is John Doe, you loser! Your mama had a real sense of humor!”

  “No!” I couldn’t hear myself scream over the protest that went up from the room. The crowd groaned, but no one seemed willing to intervene.

  I jumped down from the chair and pushed my way into the fray with all my weight, finally drawing close enough to reach out and grab the men who were holding J. D. I pinched and clawed and eventually they released him. He slumped forward and I tried to hold him up with one arm.

  “Stay away from him!” I cried.

  “Are you letting your girlfriend fight for you now, Hardy?” Dylan moved toward me with a bitter laugh. To their credit, his friends backed away. And a couple of men even moved forward to help me.

  I held up my hand. “He’s done nothing to you or anyone else in this town. Leave him alone!”

  Dylan grabbed my hand and started to twist it. Before I knew it, J. D. had burst forward. His face was bloody from the pummeling and I was sure he was going to have a black eye. But there was plenty of fight left in him. He towered over Schraeder, with a murderous gleam in his eye.

  “It’s time for you to leave, Schraeder!”

  “You tell him, J. D.,” someone called. More voices chimed in.

  Dylan dropped my hand and took several unbalanced steps backward toward the bar. Only a couple of men in the crowd called out their support now. The tide in the room had shifted.

  J. D. kicked chairs out of his way so he could have a clear path to Schraeder, who continued nervously backing up. Dylan dodged behind the last table in his backward path to the bar. Turning it over on its side, he scattered more drinks and food across the floor. He crouched low behind the table, emboldened by his new shield.

  “Hey J. D., it’s just like old times, you shit! Maybe we can drag you behind the back of my pickup truck like we did in high school. I would love to watch your ass get road rash all the way to Gaylord!”

  “Jesus, I forgot about that day!” someone nearby gasped.

  Two men tried to grab Schraeder. I almost launched myself over J. D. to tackle the creep myself. But a hand seized me from behind.

  I turned my head and it took me a moment to realize who it was. This was the last place I ever thought I would see him.

  “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  His face was grim. “I spent the last hour asking around for you. Let’s go.”

  I didn’t have time to talk. “No. I have to help J. D.” I pulled away.

  J. D. continued to advance on Schraeder until Dylan panicked and pushed the table facedown toward J. D. I almost fell backwards along with the crowd to avoid getting smashed.

  J. D. dodged the upturned table legs and in a flash he had Schraeder. One hand gripped the collar of his shirt and the other hand grasped his belt. With the energy of a superhero, he lifted Schraeder in the air and catapulted him onto the bar. The bartender deftly reached out and rescued two pitchers.

  With a thud, Dylan Schraeder’s body skated to a stop. His head cocked up sideways against a post. His eyes rolled back in his head like a cornered animal; he swore and raised his foot in a weak kick. But he missed and ended up knocking over Bootie’s prized cigar store Indian statue.

  The crowd moaned and prepared for the next onslaught. But it didn’t come.

  A stream of soda water squirted Schraeder in a torrent of liquid that drenched his face and shirt.

  Bootie and his bartender had pulled out the bar-gun nozzles on their soda dispensers like a couple of fire hoses. The crowd cheered. Bootie climbed over the bar and pushed himself between the two men, straightening his arms to keep them separated.

  J. D. shook his head and slowly became aware of the room around him. He ran a hand over his face, blinking at the damage. Broken, overturned tables and chairs lay scattered in his wake, along with baskets of chili fries and tortilla chips.

  In the distance, sirens approached.

  “Aww. Who called the police?” the bartender groaned.

  The flashing lights pulled into the parking lot, reflecting off the heads of a crowd standing outside peering in the windows. I recognized a large woman with pink-rimmed glasses and a youth with unnaturally dark hair among the group outside. Marva and Elliot.

  “Thank God, they did call the police. We made it just in time,” my dad said in a low voice.

  More than a few men ran out the back door.

  “My God!” someone said.

  I turned back to J. D., who blinked as if he’d just woken up from a nightmare. His pupils were dilated and his face was red. He leaned his elbows against the bar and sunk his head in his hands.

  A buzz grew around me as the room began recapping the whole fight. Bootie rolled Schraeder off the bar and into a chair. He stood in front of him with a swizzle stick, just in case he should decide to goad J. D. into another round.

  Within seconds, several deputies burst through the door, followed by an imposing man with a badge: Sheriff Howe. Bootie made the bartender stand watch over Dylan and met the sheriff at the door. The two men spoke in low tones and the sheriff frowned when Bootie nodded at Dylan Schraeder. Then he said something and pointed his thumb toward the bar. The sheriff’s head shot up and he looked toward J. D.

  J. D. was slumped over a bar stool with his back to the room. Together, the sheriff and a deputy, Bob Kettelhut, moved toward J. D. Flanking him on both sides, the men spoke in low voices.

  “He’s been harassing you for years, J. D. Why didn’t you just walk away?” I heard Bob murmur.

  “I just couldn’t do that this time,” came J. D.’s ragged response.

  A lump rose in my throat. J. D. would never have reacted the way he did if Dylan Schraeder hadn’t used me as bait. I wrapped my arms around myself. An overwhelming feeling of regret, mixed up with other messy emotions, made my whole body shake.

  Dylan Schraeder was handcuffed and led out to one of the state trooper’s vehicles. Sheriff Howe looked around the room and raised his voice. “Show’s over, folks. If we need to find you to get a statement, we will. Otherwise, go home. There’s nothing else going on here.”

  “I’m taking you home now,�
�� my father said, grasping my elbow.

  I wasn’t listening. I pulled away and rushed to Sheriff Howe’s side. “It was my fault. You need to understand that. All of this was because of me.”

  He looked down. “You wouldn’t happen to be that girl from Ohio, would you?”

  I had no idea how he’d heard about me, but from the way he raised his eyebrows, my reputation must have preceded me. “I’m the one you should be handcuffing along with Dylan Schraeder.”

  “Did you hit him first?”

  “Well, no. But—”

  “Did you hit J. D. first?”

  “No—”

  “Then I don’t need to talk to you. You can leave,” he said tersely.

  “No. I have to—I have to talk to J. D.” I ignored Dad’s angry face and moved closer to J. D. He still stood by the bar, staring at the back wall.

  When I approached, he looked away from me. “Jesus, Elizabeth. Get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I put my hand on his back.

  He jerked away. “Just—just go. Okay? Just . . . leave . . . now.”

  “Elizabeth! Let’s go,” my father said more harshly.

  “But—”

  “I’ve had enough of this town. You’re coming back with me to Toledo,” Dad said. He kept his voice low.

  “But I have to talk—”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to you right now. Can you blame him? Come on, let’s get out of here.” Dad kept his head low as if he was worried someone would recognize him.

  I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I could make my own decisions. But Dad’s words opened up the possibility that maybe it would be better if I left J. D. alone. I had ruined things enough for him.

  I let my father lead me into the parking lot. A crowd of people stood together under the parking-lot floodlight. Marva was in the process of shrugging out of her cardigan. She wrapped it around Josie, who was talking animatedly with her hands. I looked down at the cement. I couldn’t imagine what the ladies of Truhart would think of me after what just happened.

  I swiped at a tear that had reached my chin and let out a long, ragged breath. A pale hand touched my face and wiped away another tear. I followed a dragon tattoo up to Elliot’s beautiful eyes. He opened his arms and pulled me close.

  My forehead rested on my little brother’s shoulder and I was struck by the fact that my nose reached his collarbone. He was taller than me. And right now, he was stronger than me too.

  Since when had our roles switched?

  The glow of the flashing red lights from the patrol cars reminded me of the night in March that had started everything. My memory flashed back to visions of the backseat of my parents’ Lincoln. Something Alexa said today about Colin’s car breaking down, and a truth I had been ignoring all summer, suddenly became clear.

  I raised my head and gazed at Elliot’s baby-blue eyes. “Elliot?”

  “That’s me, but you look like Cat Queen of the Vampire Slayers. Jeez, sis!”

  I touched his cheek. “I just figured something out.”

  He stared at me.

  “The drugs weren’t yours,” I said.

  He sighed. “Never had a toke. Well, once, but I didn’t inhale . . . They weren’t yours either, were they?”

  “No.”

  How had we both been so wrong?

  The door to Booties opened, and J. D. and the sheriff walked out. At least J. D. wasn’t handcuffed. I didn’t think I could stand to see that. But it must have been mortifying for J. D. to be the center of the crowd’s attention this way.

  I looked down at my feet, covered in ketchup and tortilla crumbs and drying beer.

  “We’ll get you more therapy when we get home,” Dad said, misunderstanding my distress.

  Dad had no idea. Messy feet and dirty hands were the least of my problems.

  He couldn’t possibly understand how incredible this summer had been for me. I had been exposed to more than just dirty feet and a tiny house with peeling paint. I had fallen asleep to the hum of tree frogs and water lapping against an old rowboat. I had worn high-heeled shoes and swung from a pole. I had sipped wine while my bare feet hung off an old dock in the middle of the lake.

  And I had fallen in love.

  My eyes met J. D.’s. “This summer was my therapy, Dad.”

  Something flickered in J. D.’s eyes. I tucked my wild hair behind my ears and grasped Elliot’s hand.

  Time to take a big risk.

  “Let’s go clean up this mess together, Elliot.”

  Chapter 20

  “Is it true that J. D. tore a hole in Booties and sent a dozen guys to the hospital?” asked Ellie. A week had passed since the barroom brawl at Booties. Nestor and two very curious young girls had dropped by.

  Nestor was in the process of teaching Cherry and Ellie the finer points of euchre at Grandma’s dining-room table.

  I stood up to get a pitcher of lemonade. “No, that’s not quite what happened. And it’s over, so we aren’t talking about it.”

  “Too bad. It would have been cool if it had happened like that.”

  “No it wouldn’t have.” I poured everyone lemonade, then lifted the hair away from my neck. It was a muggy day and the air was close.

  “Is it at least true he got in a fight at Booties and you were there too?” Cherry pried.

  Nestor watched me over the tip of his cards and I couldn’t miss the way his mouth turned down.

  “It’s true there was a fight, and it’s true I was there,” I said. “But I should never have been there.”

  I wasn’t in the best of moods. Right after the incident at Booties, J. D. had sent me a text telling me he still cared about me, and he was going away for a short time. After that, he stopped answering his phone. I went to the Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Howe looked at me with kind brown eyes and said not to worry. I thought he must have hated me after all that had happened. But he was actually very nice. Even so, he wouldn’t tell me where J. D. was. He just reassured me that J. D. was fine.

  So much had happened that I wanted to tell J. D. about. I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. The terrible night at Booties kept haunting me. Last night I’d had nightmares of drowning in a sea of chili fries while red leopards waded toward me.

  We played euchre for another half hour, then Sandy called the girls home for dinner. She didn’t seem to know where J. D. was either.

  “One more week until the Timberfest! I can’t wait,” said Ellie as she waved good-bye.

  After the girls left on their bicycles, Nestor peered at me from above his hooked nose and cleared his throat. With the exception of going to the Sheriff’s Department, I was avoiding town. I was too embarrassed.

  Nestor hadn’t said a word to me about the barroom brawl. But it hung in the air. He looked down his hooked nose and finally said, “Unlike the rest of the town, I don’t go peering into bars. And I don’t like gossip much. So perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened?”

  I debated giving him an edited version of events, but it just didn’t seem right to hold back. I ended up spilling my guts. I told him everything, starting with my arrest in Toledo and ending with the fight at Booties. The only thing I left out was the embarrassing leopard-print bra.

  When I was finished, he shook his head. “Elizabeth Lively! What would your grandmother think?”

  I was taken aback by his stern tone of voice. “I know, I know. I did a really stupid thing.”

  I stood to refill his glass of lemonade, but he pulled it back and tilted his head at me. His long gray eyebrows drew together and he pursed his lips. I sat back down. For someone who’d never had children, he was doing an excellent fatherly impersonation. I felt like I was about to be sent to bed without dinner.

  “There is no excuse for my behavior except that I wanted to go for shock value, Nestor. All my life I thought I was in control. I was a good girl and did everything I was supposed to do and tried to make my family proud. But when it fell apart no one stood
up for me and that really hurt.”

  Nestor pounded his glass on the table. “I don’t know what kind of warped world your fool of a mother raised you in, but you are just as bad as your mom if you think you suddenly need to prove to the world you’re different from where you grew up. Don’t you know it’s not where you’re from, or what you look like that matters? It’s who you are inside. Most six-year-olds learn that in kindergarten.”

  I’d never seen him mad at anything before. He was always a lovable, good-natured old friend. A vein on the side of his neck pulsed visibly, alarming me.

  I reached over and grabbed his hand. “I know. You’re right, Nestor. You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”

  “I know that too.”

  He rose to leave with a weary shake of his head. When he reached the front door, he turned to look at the box he had brought me last week. It still sat by the fake fern. Untouched.

  “I thought you teachers were smarter than most people,” Nestor mumbled and walked out the door, refusing the ride I offered him.

  I stared at his hunched figure as he walked down the road and wondered if I was doomed to disappoint people. I tried to leave a message on J. D.’s cell phone again, but his voice mail was full. I texted him instead. It would take him awhile to read all the messages that I had already sent. As the late-afternoon light shifted, I sat for a long time, trying to imagine how I might have done things differently.

  A breeze from the back window swept through the room and lifted several cards off the table. They landed in the fake fern. I picked them out of the plastic leaves, then stopped. Moving the fern aside, I dragged the box to the middle of the living-room floor and sat down.

  The box was bent in one corner and partially caved in. It was undoubtedly full of mold or mildew. But I was mildly curious. I pulled up the flaps that had been tucked inside each other and rummaged through the old newspaper wrapping. The first thing I pulled out was a faded framed photograph of a woman in front of a brick building with her arm around a younger girl. The woman was dressed in a polyester suit from the 1970s. She was slender and dark-haired. And beautiful.