by Nick Arvin
The shades, however, were closed, and they could see nothing. They collapsed to the ground and crawled away. Ralph shrugged. He said he had seen it before. Sometimes they forgot the curtains.
On Sunday afternoon Billy was alone in the house, lying on his back in front of the television. He was throwing a golf ball in the air, trying to get as close to the ceiling as possible without hitting. Hearing Uncle Lewis’s muffled voice, Billy dropped the golf ball and charged toward the front door, only to realize it came from the stereo. “Three Trees Mall …”
Later, during a stretch of silence in the drive home, Uncle Lewis said, “Billy, never turn your back on a woman.” He tapped the steering wheel significantly.
For days afterward Billy tried to always be facing toward his mother, until one afternoon when she was moving between the bedrooms, taking out dirty laundry and putting away clean, and Billy was tracking her movements with the precision of a robot. She stopped suddenly and yelled, “Will you stop that!” He did.
One day at Dad’s shop a man dressed as a giant golf ball was doing jumping jacks beside the road. Black holes for eyes were cut in the huge, white, dimpled sphere of him. He jumped and waved underneath a banner that said, A Free Bucket of Range Balls with Every Purchase! The parking lot was almost full, and they left the Mercedes in a far corner.
In the shop people hefted clubs, peered inside golf bags, fingered knickers. Dad saw Billy and Uncle Lewis and started toward them. Someone shouted from across the store, and Dad yelled back, “Wait a minute!” He said hello, rubbed Billy’s head, and punched Uncle Lewis on the arm. “Was my ex-wife hitting on you again today?”
“Me?” Uncle Lewis shrugged, shook his head slightly.
Dad looked at Billy. Billy picked up a divot repair tool. Dad said, “She was, wasn’t she?”
Uncle Lewis said, “I’m just the driver.” He lifted a driver from a nearby rack of clubs and waggled it.
“Krazy Lefty’s burgers: the licking-est good burgers around. And, they’re always cheaper than Mickey D’s, guaranteed.”
Every Tuesday, Billy received an allowance of six dollars and fifty cents. Every Tuesday evening Mom took him to the mall, and Billy bought three or four Movie Heroes action figures. Then they went to Krazy Lefty’s and ate burgers. When he had finished his burger, Billy licked the wrapper.
Billy ate Pizza Joe’s anytime he could, he encouraged Mom to use Pride laundry detergent, and he wished he could buy diamonds and Stray Tooth Beer.
One weekend he took all the Movie Heroes he had collected to Dad’s, forty-seven figures altogether. He arranged them into a panorama of gunfights and close quarters fisticuffs that sprawled across the living room from sofa to television.
When Ralph showed up, Billy brought him inside to see. Ralph picked up one of the figures and laughed. “These suck!” He kicked over several. They fought, but only briefly—Billy was quickly pinned and sobbing under Ralph. Movie Heroes lay scattered around like the corpses of a slaughter, and Ralph stalked away, stiff with disgust.
Billy rebuilt the panorama. Just wait, he thought. Wait until Ralph sees the Galactic Star Fighter in my hands.
The following weekend Uncle Lewis arrived late to pick up Billy. He apologized and asked Mom, with the familiarity now of an old joke, “To make it up to you, how about we do that studio tour this weekend?”
Mom said, “Sure, why not?”
Everyone looked surprised. Mom touched her hair.
It made Billy nervous too, and excited. He felt all his cells winding and compressing, like millions and millions of tiny watch springs tightening, preparing for something.
In the Mercedes, Uncle Lewis said, “Your mother is a pretty woman, isn’t she?”
Billy pressed back in his seat and tried to consider this. Prettiness and his mother were difficult concepts to hold in relation to one another.
Uncle Lewis glanced over and said, “But then, you already know that, don’t you?”
Billy, relieved that the answer had been provided for him, shrugged, said, “Sure.”
They rode without speaking for a time. A commercial came on in Uncle Lewis’s voice. “Three Trees …” Uncle Lewis muttered something as he came up behind another car. Billy reclined his seat and gripped the armrests and tried to feel again like he had entered into another world.
“Billy, does your mother ever have any other men visit?”
“Um,” said Billy. “No.”
The next weekend, and for several weeks after, Uncle Lewis was silent in their rides together. They arrived at the golf shop and Dad slapped Uncle Lewis across the back, and Uncle Lewis shrugged and smiled and left.
When Uncle Lewis brought Billy back to Mom’s, he left Billy in the drive and he waved as he backed out. Mom smiled. She brought Billy inside with the usual questions: How was it? Did you get dinner? Did you get to see Dad at all?
Billy stood on the putt-putt course with Dad, considering his shot into the mouth of the huge, sad-eyed dog that lay panting over the twenty-second hole. Its tongue lolled up and down, and the idea was to putt the ball through while the tongue was up. Dad said, “Do you ever see Uncle Lewis over at Mom’s place? Aside from when he’s there to pick you up?”
“No.”
“Does he ever call on the phone during the week?”
“No.”
Billy bounced his ball three times off the dog’s tongue before getting it to go through, and once he did get it through, he had to tap it again into the cup. Dad’s first putt went under the tongue, spiraled around the dog’s curled tail, and dropped cleanly into the hole.
The next Friday when they arrived at the golf shop, Dad asked Uncle Lewis if he would keep Billy for the rest of the day. Uncle Lewis frowned. He said, “The ladies will be calling.”
Dad laughed.
Uncle Lewis glanced at Billy. “Really,” he said, “the ladies—”
“Lewis, I’ve had one employee quit today and a girl who called sick. We’ve got this huge sale going on, and I can’t leave. Billy would just be in the way here, and he’d love to hang out with you.”
Uncle Lewis looked again at Billy. Dad put in, “To top it all off, the ball-gathering machine for the driving range has broken down. Come on, Lewie.”
When Uncle Lewis shrugged his resignation, Dad was already moving away, calling thanks as he went. Uncle Lewis took Billy by the shoulder and led him outside. “Your father,” he said, “is a very successful businessman.”
In the median by the road, the giant golf ball energetically flapped his arms.
As he drove, Uncle Lewis wondered aloud, “What does one do with children?”
Billy slouched.
Uncle Lewis answered himself, “One wears them out so that they will sleep.”
They tacked down a series of streets until they came to a park with a scattering of picnic tables, a swing set with rusty chains, a crooked merry-go-round, and two small, dented iron elephants mounted on coil springs. It overlooked a dark pond ruffled with a crisscross of waves. Uncle Lewis got out and ambled to the nearest picnic table. Billy followed.
Uncle Lewis gestured toward the swings. “Don’t you want to play?”
“Not really,” Billy said, disappointed that Uncle Lewis had even asked.
Uncle Lewis watched him for a moment, then turned toward the lake. “I guess, really, I’m not very good with children.”
“That’s OK,” said Billy.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
Back in the car, rolling into town, Billy felt it again, the sense that he was not in the ordinary world but in some rarified realm, traversing the earth in the chariot, tickled by the fingers of the wind. Uncle Lewis sat godlike behind the wheel. The road hummed, the radio sprinkled notes around, the mundane world outside the car was blurry, and he had a feeling of moving at tremendous velocity.
At a stoplight a commercial come on: “Pizza Joe’s exclusive eight-cheese, nine-meat, ten-vegetable pizza …”
The voice was electrifying, deep, full of gravel. Uncle Lewis seemed to not hear it. He sat with his hand on the gear shift, watching the light. Ahead was a Pizza Joe’s storefront, a small, glass-fronted building with customers visible inside. A sign on the roof said Pizza Joe’s, with the o in the shape of a pepperoni pizza. Billy pointed. “We could eat there.”
“No.”
They came to Uncle Lewis’s house, a small structure located on a narrow lot surrounded on three sides by towering white pines. They were like the biggest Christmas trees ever. Across the road were cornfields.
“This is the love nest,” Uncle Lewis said, flipping on lights. Billy had never seen such an empty house. The walls were blank. The living room had two chairs facing a TV that rested on the seat of a third chair. The kitchen had a small table and two plastic chairs. They watched the television, and Uncle Lewis ordered Chinese food.
Billy had mentioned a few things about Mom and Uncle Lewis to Ralph. Ralph grinned. “I’ll bet they’re doing it together.”
“No,” said Billy. But he had already thought of this himself.
They were out in the street, picking pieces of asphalt out of the crumbling edge of the road and hurling them into the air. When the asphalt came down it exploded impressively, skittering fragments everywhere. Ralph threw one more, said, “That’s what you do when you’re an adult.” He made the finger gesture.
Billy began explaining to Ralph who exactly Uncle Lewis was—an awesome voice, the voice of Three Trees Mall, of Joe’s Pizza, of Krazy Lefty’s.
“Oh yeah?” Ralph picked up a big, two-handed piece of asphalt. “So the hell what?” He considered the asphalt’s heft, then dropped it so it broke into three smaller pieces.
“He’s cool.” Billy took a breath. He looked at the broken asphalt. “He’s famous.”
Ralph took the three pieces and one by one threw them up high, higher than Billy could throw. They jumped back and hid their eyes as shrapnel exploded around them.
Ralph turned to Billy. “That doesn’t mean anything. He’s just some guy.”
“He’s on the radio! He drives a Mercedes!”
Ralph shrugged. “Calm down, Willy.” He started off down the street, and after a minute Billy followed. They began poking sticks at the Cullers’ Dalmatian.
Dad dumped Billy on Uncle Lewis for another Friday night. This time they skipped the park and went straight to Uncle Lewis’s house.
Uncle Lewis rummaged in the refrigerator. “Tap water here tastes terrible,” he said. “Do you drink beer?”
Billy remembered the missed opportunity to drive a car. “Yes.”
Uncle Lewis swiveled. “You do?”
Billy nodded.
Uncle Lewis shrugged. “Guess one can’t hurt.” He bent again into the light of the refrigerator. “Are you a Heineken or a Miller man?”
No Stray Tooth. Billy peered over, hoping for some clue. “Miller?”
“Very good. Miller.” Uncle Lewis tossed a can over and directed Billy to the chairs in the other room. “Hang out while I find us some food.”
The previous winter Billy had touched a shed door latch with his tongue, and beer reminded him of that latch—metallic and cold and bitter and painful—but he forced it down his throat and followed it with another sip and then another before he could think too much and gag. After he had gotten a few swallows down, it didn’t seem quite so bad. In the kitchen he heard Uncle Lewis rattling in the drawers and cupboards. Billy stared around the living room, but there was nothing to look at. A car went by. Beyond were rows of corn and, in the distance, some high-voltage power lines strung between large, multiarmed steel frameworks.
A blue van came up from the left, slowed, and turned into the drive. Billy sipped his beer. The van parked behind Uncle Lewis’s convertible, and a woman got out. She was short and thin with long, brown hair and eyes that bulged as if they were about to burst out. She strode toward the house in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that stuck to her. Billy said, raising his voice, “One of your ladies is here.”
“What?”
“Someone is here. One of your ladies.” She was a very pale person.
“One of my ladies. Of course.” Uncle Lewis came out of the kitchen with a beer and a saucepan. The woman was at the door, ringing the bell. Uncle Lewis looked at the van in the drive. “Oh, God!” The bell stopped and a fist hit the door.
Uncle Lewis pulled the door open. The woman stood with arms akimbo and an expression like a bulldog’s. “Lewis!” She held up a cassette tape. “You gave me the wrong tape!”
“You drove all the way back?” He stepped away, and she barreled inside.
“After driving two hundred miles out there, I had to apologize to everyone, reschedule the studio for tomorrow, and then drive two hundred miles back here.” She gestured at her arm. “My A/C gave out on the way and I’ve been roasting my arm in the sun for four hundred miles. Look at it!” Her arm was lobster red. Her voice was interesting to Billy. It was husky, full, rhythmic and powerful, and it seemed familiar. It was, Billy realized, after a moment, a radio voice.
Uncle Lewis put his hand out as if to touch her arm, but then stopped. “Josie, that looks bad.”
“Listen, you. We’re going to the basement, we’re going to find the right tape, and we’re going to know it’s the right tape because you’re going to play it for me, and then I’m going to drive straight back out of here.” She looked at the tape in her hand, then threw it down at Uncle Lewis’s feet. “You can do what you want with that.” Uncle Lewis knelt to retrieve the tape. She glanced at the sofa. “Who are you?”
“Billy.”
“What are you drinking?”
Billy held up the can of beer. “Hey!” She walked over and seized it from Billy. “Lewis, did you give this to him?”
“What?”
“Man’s an idiot.” She stomped into the kitchen, taking the can with her. “I’ll get you something decent to drink.”
Uncle Lewis and Billy followed her. Assessing the cans of soup on the counter, she asked Uncle Lewis if he planned to eat these for supper, then she scoffed. After a glance in the refrigerator, she grabbed the phone and ordered sodas and two with everything from Pizza Joe’s. Then she went down into the basement with Uncle Lewis. After a moment she called for Billy to follow.
Whereas the living room and kitchen were nearly empty, the basement was filled with open boxes, strewn books and papers, several chairs, and an entire wall of recording equipment—speakers, microphones, amplifiers, cabinets and consoles, knobs and switches of mysterious purposes, and also tapes—racks and racks of cassette tapes.
Uncle Lewis played one tape after another, dozens of them, and he could not find the one Josie needed. She sat beside him and tsked and sometimes delivered a slap to the back of his head. The tapes contained practice takes and retakes of commercials that Uncle Lewis had done—the same commercials were repeated over and over with slight variations of voice. Billy was taken aback, then fascinated. This was a library of gods’ voices. When Uncle Lewis finally found the one Josie needed, all that was on the tape was Uncle Lewis saying, curiously, “Oh, yeah?”
Then Uncle Lewis began pulling cassettes from a different rack, and the sounds were of passing cars or jackhammers or ringing doorbells or bird songs or someone with the sniffles. Josie explained that Uncle Lewis kept these tapes of random sounds that he found. It was his only charming feature, she said. Uncle Lewis blushed.
When the pizza came, they ate it on the patio behind the house where towering pines surrounded them on three sides. Uncle Lewis and Josie sat in lawn chairs and leaned to whisper to each other. Billy lay on a reclining deck chair with his hands behind his head. Josie mentioned the missing tape again, but teasingly. Suddenly Uncle Lewis called for silence. “Listen,” he said, “listen.” Josie giggled, then fell quiet. From his deck chair, Billy looked straight up the long trunks of the trees. As the wind pushed and released, they swayed slightly and creaked, popped, groaned, in an eddying
rhythm, a rain of crisp, wooden sounds.
Uncle Lewis ran inside, and a moment later he came out with a reel-to-reel recording machine. He set this down, pressed a button, and the reels began to turn. He carried a microphone into the trees, as far as its cord would allow. Tape vanished slowly off one reel and materialized on the other. Billy closed his eyes and felt the noises of the trees drift down and land on him like a fine dust. Uncle Lewis and Josie began whispering again, and their voices ran underneath the other sounds in a steady current. Perfect, it all seemed just then, these sounds of nature at dusk and the mythic voices and, somewhere in it, Billy’s own breathing, all of it immortalized on a tape machine in the trees.
The next day, Ralph introduced Billy to the phone book. They looked up the numbers of neighbors, then they called and breathed heavily, or waited in silence to see how many curse words a person would use before hanging up. They called bowling alleys to ask if they had eight-pound balls. But Ralph became bored, so they went outside and threw gravel at the sparrows.
A couple of weeks later, while at home with his mom, Billy looked up Uncle Lewis’s number and called, hoping to hear his voice. But Josie answered. Billy breathed heavily, hung up, and laughed.
The red pickup was in the driveway next door. Ralph came over and frowned at Billy. “We’re moving,” he said. “We’re moving into the boyfriend’s place.”
They watched TV. Billy said, “Well, maybe it will be OK.”
“I hate him,” Ralph said. “I hate him. Let’s go slash his tires.”
But Billy did not move and neither did Ralph. They sat in front of the TV through the afternoon, then Ralph stood and said he had to go. They did not say good-bye. Through the window, Billy watched Ralph walk away, watched how Ralph’s crewcut glowed in a fuzzy, sunlit blur.
Billy and Uncle Lewis were waiting for Dad amid long ranks of golf bags that smelled like lawn chemicals. Uncle Lewis was unzipping the pockets of the bags, feeling inside with one hand, closing the zippers. Billy maneuvered a pair of Movie Heroes figures against each other on a shelf. “What are those?” Uncle Lewis asked.
