by Gregory Hill
She frowned. “Maybe he didn’t put any money on the counter. I couldn’t really tell from outside.”
“Maybe he took the money I left on the counter.”
She said, “That seems likely.”
“We need to leave something.”
“Even though Vaughn’s mom’s a creep.”
I said, “Even though.”
“I ain’t got anything, Shakes. You know that.”
“Everything I had is now in D.J. Beckman’s pocket.”
“Let’s just go,” said Clarissa.
“It ain’t right.”
“You wanna see if the credit card machine’s working?”
“You think?”
She grabbed my wrist and dragged me out the door. “You got no sense of sarcasm.”
* * *
Dad was in the car with an empty beer bottle in his hand. “Where’s the party?”
I said, “Night’s over.”
Clarissa said, “The night ain’t nothin’, Shakespeare.”
“It’s not even night,” said Dad. I didn’t correct him.
“Let’s go see Vaughn Atkins,” said Clarissa. “He’s all alone.”
I said, “No.”
“You said I was dumb,” said Clarissa.
“No.”
She dragged her finger under my chin. “We’ll talk about airplanes.”
We went to Vaughn Atkins’s house.
* * *
When we got there, Vaughn was lying on his bed watching a Kirk-era Star Trek episode on the TV. No sign of the wheelchair. He was still wearing his inside-out shirt and pajama pants. No tennis shoes. His legs looked straight.
He waved at us like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t fallen down a flight of steps a few hours ago.
I said, “You doing okay?”
He said, “Fine. Why?”
If he didn’t bring it up, I wouldn’t bring it up.
He said, “How was the game?”
Dad said, “Everybody lost.”
Laughter. We settled in.
* * *
Dad fell asleep on the beanbag almost instantly.
We watched TV, talked, and drank the beers we’d stolen from Vaughn’s mom’s store. During a commercial break, Clarissa asked Vaughn, “You sure your mom isn’t gonna come home and start yelling at you?”
Vaughn shut off the TV. “Who cares? Anyway, nights like this, she never gets back before midnight.”
I said, “What’s she doing, do you think?”
“Selling beer to minors, whoring around, skinning coyotes. What do I care? She’s a grown-up. You figure out how that banker ripped your dad off yet?”
“Yeah, you figure that out yet?” asked Clarissa. “You figure out how Crutchfield ripped you off?”
I said, “I’m not really interested in the how of it. What I really want to know is why he thinks he’s gonna get away with it. I’ll get answers. He’s going to meet with me. We were supposed to get together last Saturday, but he couldn’t make it. Neal Koenig said he’ll be back this next week. When I go in there, we’ll get it all cleared up.”
Clarissa burped incredulously. “You’re a sucker. Crutchfield was at the bank on Saturday. I don’t work on Saturdays, but I know that airplane. He lands it on the road and taxis out back behind the bank. I drove by. I saw it parked there. If the airplane was there, then Crutchfield was there. If Crutchfield was there, then Neal was lying to you when he said he couldn’t make it. You got lied to.” She made a face. “You need to figure out how to tell when people are fucking with you.”
“I need someone to empty my colostomy bag,” said Vaughn.
“We’re trying to converse,” said Clarissa.
“One of you’s gotta do it.”
“It ain’t gonna be me,” said Clarissa, waving her finger and head back and forth in a sassy maneuver that could have only been picked up from daytime TV. “Let Shakespeare do it. He can’t smell.”
I said, “Don’t use my handicap as an excuse to make me do your third-world bullshit chores.”
Vaughn said, “If this bag of shit doesn’t get off me, I’m gonna catch hepatitis. And which one of us is handicapped, again?” He glared at me.
I had dragged him up the stairs and watched him fall on his face. I should probably do anything he wanted for a very long time. “Fine,” I said. “Gimme.”
Vaughn reached under his shirt. He pulled out his fist and raised his middle finger. “You, my bard, are one gullible little bastard. Colostomy bag! I shit natural.”
He and Clarissa giggled. Dad snored.
Clarissa opened two more beers, handing one to Vaughn and tipping the other into her mouth. When her gulp was finished, she wiped her mouth with her forearm and said, “I feel like we’re really connecting.”
“You’ve got that right,” said Vaughn.
Clarissa said, “I feel like we’re on the same level. Like we’re part of a kinship.” She gritted her teeth. “Like that.”
“Like a waterfall,” said Vaughn.
“You wanna know something about me?” said Clarissa. “A secret?” She had reached the confessional stage of drunkenness. I was not at that stage.
I said, “Only if it’s intended to humiliate me.”
“Why you gotta say that? This is totally, totally, totally true. I want to tell you guys, both of you, ’cause you’re my friends.”
“We’re your friends, too, Clarissa,” said Vaughn. “Say anything you want. We’re right with you.”
She took a breath. Then, solemnly, she said, “I have emetophobia.”
Vaughn and I were silent. Without opening his eyes, Dad said, “I never met a phobia I didn’t like.” He resumed snoring.
“It means I’m afraid of vomit.”
“How do you survive?” asked Vaughn. He was not connecting with Clarissa quite as much now as he had been a moment ago.
Clarissa plowed on, oblivious to Vaughn’s sarcasm. “That’s not the point. Survival doesn’t apply to this situation. The point is that the situation applies to why I’m an anorexic. That’s my confession. I am Clarissa McPhail and I suffer from anorexia nervosa.”
Vaughn was fully not connecting with Clarissa now. “With all due respect—”
“Don’t you even say it. I know what you want to say and it’s crap. Just because I’m fat, you think I can’t possibly have an eating disorder. You’re wrong. I haven’t had a bite in over a week. If I keep this up, I’ll die. You’re the only people who know. Listen to me. I wanted to be bulimic, but I couldn’t because I’m afraid of vomiting. So I’m anorexic. I’ve stopped eating.”
“You aren’t anorexic,” said Vaughn.
“Yes,” said Clarissa, “I am.”
“Why?” asked Vaughn.
“Because.” She spoke in a tiny voice. “Because sometimes I feel ugly.”
She was sitting on the edge of Vaughn’s bed with her spandex bra and tight britches, hunched over, belly fat folded, hair messed up, a frown mushing up her face. Vaughn and I exchanged glances.
Vaughn looked her over. “You aren’t ugly.”
“No, I am,” said Clarissa.
“I don’t think you’re ugly,” I said.
“I think you’re purty,” said Vaughn.
I said, “You’re downright attractive.”
“A real looker.”
“Cute.”
“Hot.”
“Sexy.”
“Beautiful.”
Clarissa was glowing. We were all connecting again. We were all on the same side.
“Hey, Vaughn,” she asked, “you got any of those famous brownies I keep hearing about?”
Vaughn reached into his pillowcase and pulled out two plastic bags f
ull of brown goop.
I said, “You sure that’s not your colostomy bag?”
Vaughn ignored me. “One bag contains hash brownies. One bag contains meth brownies.” He looked carefully at the bags. His eyes were crooked from the booze. “I can’t remember which is which. Anybody wanna play guinea pig?” He pulled a brownie out and handed it toward me.
I said, “Thanks, but kiss my ass.”
“Pussy,” said Vaughn.
Clarissa said, “Vaughn, you take one from one bag and I’ll take one from another bag. That way we’ll know which is in which.”
“Brilliant!” said Vaughn.
“You know,” I said, “you’d be just as successful if just one of you ate one brownie.”
The way they looked at me, I knew I had missed the point.
Vaughn tossed a brownie to Clarissa. It stuck in her cleavage. They both thought that was hilarious.
While they goofed around, I went upstairs to get another beer from Vaughn’s mom’s fridge. All the lights were off. I walked thru the living room, absorbing memories. The bathroom. That was the first place I ever took a shower. My family didn’t have a shower until I was twelve. Just a tub. It was a sleepover night and Vaughn and I had been playing in the mud all day. Vaughn’s mom told us to clean up for dinner. I went to the bathroom and stood in the shower stall. I didn’t know what to do, how long to stay in there, how to clean my toes. I remember I turned the hot water on full blast and stayed until it went cold. Luxury.
I heard Clarissa and Vaughn laughing downstairs. I contemplated leaving. I didn’t really want to go back down there and watch those two get messed up and stay awake all night confessing their insecurities and talking about old times and letting them make fun of me and us all just being losers in a basement. But Pa was down there.
I decided to slam a beer. That would improve my mood. I opened a bottle and started pouring it down my throat.
A car pulled into the driveway. I dropped the beer on the floor and sprinted downstairs.
“She’s home!”
“Shit!” said Vaughn.
“Who gives a fuck?” said Clarissa.
“Gimme another brownie,” said Pa.
* * *
Clarissa, Pa, and I hid in the downstairs bathroom with the lights off. We were all breathing heavy. On the other side of the door, I could hear Vaughn grinding his teeth in his bed. Footsteps on the ceiling above us.
The basement door opened. Vaughn’s mom yelled, “Whose car is that?”
Vaughn shouted, “What car?”
“That car in the driveway.”
“I didn’t know there was a car.”
“It looks like that faggot-mobile the Williams kid drives.”
“You’re drunk, Mom. Go to bed.”
A hand groped my crotch. I slapped it away.
“Sorry,” whispered Clarissa. “It’s so dark.”
“I’m over here,” whispered Pa.
I hissed at them both to shut up.
The basement door clunked shut. Safe. Footsteps upstairs. A toe struck a half-empty bottle of beer. A muffled what-the-fuck-is-this? The door to the basement opened again. “How’d this bottle get on the floor?”
I could hear Vaughn squint his eyes. He yelled up, “You probably dropped it on your way out the door.”
Vaughn’s mom was silent. Then she said, “I guess.”
Vaughn muttered, loud enough for me to hear thru the bathroom door, “Bitchosaurus.”
Vaughn’s mom said, “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Muttering again, he added, “Hitler with tits.”
Something was flung. “Don’t you ever!” Stomping down the stairs. Tripping, tumbling. Vaughn’s mom moaning in pain. Vaughn laughing.
I cracked the bathroom door. Vaughn’s mom was on her face on the carpet right where Vaughn had fallen earlier that day. Her legs were akimbo.
Vaughn cackled with glee. “The drunken toad fell down the stairs! Come on, run! Git! Before she gets up.”
Seemed reasonable. “Pa, we’re moving out!” No response. I turned on the bathroom light. He and Clarissa were in the deep embrace of— Oh, Christ. I nearly retched.
“Move it!” shouted Vaughn in evil delight. “She’s gonna get you!”
I grabbed Pa by the hand and dragged him away from Clarissa’s lips, out of the bathroom, past Vaughn’s whimpering mother, up the stairs, and out of the house. Clarissa followed, stopping to get more beers out of the fridge before she joined us in the car.
I drove us thru the country wild and fast.
CHAPTER 10
PANCAKES
I woke up in my clothes, in my bed. I looked at the clock. It was after noon. Downstairs, in the living room, someone was playing piano. “Old Rugged Cross.” It sounded just like Mom. I stayed in bed. This was what happened on Saturdays. Mom woke us up by rehearsing the songs she was gonna play at church on Sunday. “Trust and Obey.” “Ten Thousand Angels.”
I stayed in bed until the music stopped. Then I stayed in bed some more.
There was noise in the kitchen. Pots and pans. Someone was cooking breakfast, or trying to. I snuck down to the bathroom. I took a leak, splashed water on my face, and then walked thru the hallway toward the cooking noises. I felt hopeful.
Clarissa McPhail was making pancakes. She was wearing Mom’s robe and her hair was wet. Dad was sitting at the table, watching her like she was a movie star.
She saw me and said, “His mom’s not dead. She doesn’t remember anything.”
I thought about this for a moment. I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I just got off the phone with Vaughn. His mom. She’s okay. She got a rug burn on her face but that’s all. She was so drunk she doesn’t remember.”
I didn’t remember.
Clarissa said, “You don’t remember, do you?”
“What’s there to remember? We went out, got drunk, and came home.”
“Softball, lightning, Dee’s Liquor, Vaughn’s basement. Your dad.”
I looked at Dad, who shrugged. He said, “Whatever.”
“Sit down,” said Clarissa. I sat down. She set a plate of pancakes in front of me. Strawberries and whipped cream.
“I don’t much care for whipped cream,” I said.
She took the plate back.
I remembered parts of the night before. Things came back.
Clarissa said, “You like strawberries, don’t you?”
I put my hands on the table. Took deep breaths. Gradually, I began to recollect. The softball game and the quest for fire and going to Vaughn’s and then there was a panic and we were hiding in the bathroom and Vaughn’s mom fell down and we escaped and then nothing.
Clarissa put another plate of pancakes in front of me, this time without the whipped cream. She said, “I think he’s remembering.”
“Lucky him,” said Pa.
“Fun night, huh?” said Clarissa.
I squirted syrup on the pancakes. “I’d rather not talk right now.”
Clarissa shrugged.
Clarissa had kissed my pa in Vaughn’s bathroom.
I put my fork down. “Where did you sleep last night?”
“That’s none of his business, is it, Emmett?”
“None of your damn business,” said Pa.
“It’s my house,” I said.
Pa corrected me. “Not yet, it ain’t.”
I put my fork down. “I’m going to take a shower. This will take me approximately fifteen minutes. When I get out of the bathroom, I’d like you to be gone, Clarissa.”
“You gonna drive me home?” She looked out the window. “Or do I need to call a cab?”
“You’re clever. Figure something
out.”
* * *
I showered until the hot water was gone. And then I stayed in the cold water until I started shivering. Shameful. I was responsible for Pa.
After I got dressed, I went back to the kitchen. Clarissa was gone and so was Pa. So was Pa’s pickup.
Clarissa had left a stack of pancakes on the table. There was also a note:
Emmett is driving me back to my car. I’ll make sure he gets home. It’s true. Crutchfield bought the airplane for $20.
I sat at the table, listening to the clock tick.
Eventually, I ate the pancakes. They weren’t bad for an emetophobic anorexic.
* * *
As I was washing my plate, Dad pulled into the driveway. Clarissa’s little car followed. She honked and drove away. I watched from the kitchen window. Dad idled the pickup in front of the garage for a few minutes. He bent down in the cab, looking for the garage-door opener. He finally gave up and shut off the truck.
He stepped out of the pickup in a very good mood. My own father sleeping with a girl I went to school with. With an eating disorder.
I stepped outside to greet him. He asked, “You just get up?”
“I been up.”
“I’ve already gotten a whole lot of things done today.”
“Such as?”
“This and that.” He was smiling real big.
“Terrific.” I didn’t want to babysit him. I needed a babysitter for my own self. I led Pa into the house, made him brush his teeth, and then sat him in his recliner. “Watch TV. I’ll be back.”
* * *
I took the pickup to the Keaton State Bank. Dad’s airplane was parked in the grass behind the building.
I went in. Clarissa wasn’t working. The teller was Charlotte Sackett. A fifty-year-old woman with long fingernails and frosted hair. I liked her all right. She used to go to all the high school basketball games. She cheered loud and cackled insults at the referees.
“Hey, Charlotte.”
She smiled at me. “I heard you were back in town.”
