It’s Lucky, speaking as if to clarify something to a child. “We got rich people here, too,” Lucky adds. “Grady, wouldn’t you say so? Nearly everybody who lives across Miller Road is rich as all get out. Of course, we kick their candy asses whenever they act up . . . and they ain’t all bad. Conrad Zimmerman’s not so bad, for someone who’s rich, you know.”
“Lucky’s in love with Conrad’s sister,” Chub informs them all with an off-hand line. “That’s why he says that . . . wants to say her name. Gives him a thrill. “Cause I still get a thrill . . . saying her name,’” Chub croons, and Dale, in his knowledge of love, knows that Chub has Lucky’s number just as he had his for aping their accent like an insecure child.
“Hit’s true what Chub is saying,” Lucky drawls, his admission elevating the exchange (if only for Dale) from teasing to serious. “Chub ain’t as dumb as he looks.”
“You’re in love,” Dale remarks with a grin, wanting—heart alive with ardor—to call up the exquisite sensation within himself.
“Love’s as good as gold,” Lucky confesses into an awe of silence interrupted only by the crushing of a candy bar wrapper. “Tell you the truth: I am in love with Doreen Zimmerman. I like saying her name, like Chub says . . . for the thrill hit is giving me right now. Feels so good. ‘I still get a thrill . . . saying her name,’” Lucky croons, better than Chub’s mocking version and in a voice of such quality that their attention remains rapt and, for Dale, heart-seized. A knowledgeable discourse on love following no-look passes and fast breaks in Little Missouri? What else has been missing in his life?
“Tell me this,” Lucky is asking. “Any of you ugly rednecks was half as good-looking as me? half as tough as me? half as rough and tough and hard to bluff? and Doreen Zimmerman was in love with your ugly ass . . . wouldn’t you be in love with hers, too? Wouldn’t hit be foolish not to be?”
“Hear you talking,” Dale says, enjoying himself post-game in a way he never came close to knowing in his years with Walt Whitman teammates and their staunch fathers, not to mention Burkebutt’s platitudes and banalities.
Lucky grins at Dale’s candor. “There is a man who knows,” he says, making Dale fear again that he is as transparent as a glass of water. “What’s more,” Lucky adds. “Doreen Zimmerman is only about the best looking thang in the entire United States of America. And is more in love with me than I am with her! Which is the way it should be . . . will always be with me in any thing I ever get into with a woman.”
Unaware that he has Dale’s rapt attention, that Dale is feeling his own possessed love is also up for discussion, Lucky confides: “Women will always be more in love with me cause I know how to treat ’em! How to make ’em crawl. How to handle myself in ways that give me the upper hand every time.”
Lucky Bartell, Dale sits thinking, has to be smarter than any teenager he’s ever known. “Love feels good,” Lucky adds. “As you rednecks will find out should it ever come your way. Don’t forget it,” he notes on a pause that has Dale mystified with the Ozark teen knowing more of his blind devotion to Miss Furbish than he has known himself.
“Forget how to treat a woman for one minute, and you will be out in the cold on your stupid ass,” Lucky says. “What a man has got to be is tall even if he ain’t! And mean! Need to use a sly smile. Hit’s one reason women are so hot after my ass, ’cause I know how to make ’em feel not just good but really good! Outta their minds! What a little meanness won’t do.
“Makes me laugh, I tell ya, seeing some dope treating a pretty thang like she is queen of the ball. I look like a movie star . . . wouldn’t you say? Shoot, I know I do, so it dudn’t matter if you agree or not. That’s how I treat women. ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a rat’s ass.’ Give em some meanness, a sly smile . . . watch em come sucking up, hearts going tumpety-tump ever time you walk by ’cause they think they can get you all the while they know they can’t! Drives women crazy. Flying Wheel, word to the wise, man,” Lucky adds, turning all eyes present to Dale. “Fancy Walt Whitman girls ain’t no different. Hear what I’m sayin’? Word to the wise. ’Cause I can tell you got somethin’ goin’, man.”
Dale blushes, is suddenly incapable of responding. What a post-game critique! he’s thinking. How might he be any more needy in his love for Miss Furbish than Lucky Bartell has so clearly surmised? Out of the blue, Emmett says, “My mom had me buy flowers for Lucille Morrissey for Spring Hop . . . she really liked ’em.”
Into the sudden silence, Lucky says, “Lucille Morrissey say that?”
“Shore did.”
“You believe her?”
“Course I do.”
“Why’s she giving me hand jobs then every day in the music room?”
“She isn’t doing that!” Emmett snaps in shock and confused anger.
Upon a pause and a grin, Lucky says, “Guess you know best, Emmett. Far be it for me to sprinkle rabbit turds on your baloney sandwich.”
“She wouldn’t do that!” Emmett repeats with increased confusion.
“Course she wouldn’t,” Lucky says. He changes the subject then by way of introducing a term that will catch on and run through the rest of the season. “Flying Wheel . . . think we can beat the Mother Truckers when the time comes?”
Dale snickers, as Emmett’s humiliation is allowed to evaporate. “We’ll kill ’em!” Dale says with venom, evermore at home in a Little Ms post-game critique. How many Huck Finn sessions on life, love, and language did he miss while hearing Burkebutt or some Walt Whitman suit-and-tie father carry on about focus, fortitude, patience?
CHAPTER 4
AS NOVEMBER GIVES WAY TO DECEMBER DALE ENTERS THE main office at school, turns from the counter as if recalling something forgotten and, like a spy, scans a faculty roster posted behind glass. Heart racing, he identifies a name of which he has not been certain:
HILDA FURBISH, SOCIAL STUDIES
Hilda. Her name sets off fireworks within his secret heart, as anything about Miss Furbish seems to do. Hilda Furbish, Social Studies. His girlfriend’s name is Hilda. On this new knowledge, Dale finds himself loving her all over again. Thereupon, in Metal Shop, given his seized heart and the free time available in the fractured schedule leading to Christmas, determining its size by recalling the nearness of his fingertips on circling her petite and resistant wrist, he designs and cuts from copper a bracelet containing an outline of a heart at its center, whereupon, using a Leroy Lettering template, he engraves:
HILDA
Dipping the open copper circle into liquid chrome and racking it to dry, it reflects, on being angled to light—as he knew it would—her name within the heart. The end product is as smooth as oil and perfect. Could have been cut from the chrome bumper of a new Buick. The magical name comes alive on being angled to light. Emotion rises in Dale—as he believes it will in her—on discovering her name in this way. A homemade Christmas present for his one and only friend who happens to be, to him, both a woman and a girl.
Secreting the glossy object from metal shop, Dale has no intention of having it counted among his projects for the semester, as perfect as it may be. What would balding Mr. Plourde make of it? Would he associate a ninth-grader named Dale Wheeler with a social studies teacher, age thirty-six, whose room is at the far end of the first floor? At home, Dale wraps the gift in tissue paper and hides it in his underwear drawer, leaving it until the time is right to present it to Miss Furbish.
# # #
AS CHRISTMAS BREAK is approaching—as Dale has gained some distance on Miss Furbish (believes, at least, that she has gained some distance on him)—he contrives a plan that may get him back into her apartment and maybe back into her loving embrace . . . maybe with her blouse unbuttoned. His gift . . . and Christmas dinner. He’ll say he’s on his own while his father works second-shift. What could be more innocent than a teacher, also alone, having a pupil over for Christmas dinner? Who would think that a fourteen-year-old, visiting his teacher at such a time, had his eye on anything beyond Christmas com
pany and roast chicken?
With his scheme in mind, Dale looks for an occasion to approach Miss Furbish, to make his suggestion to her. Not a big plan, he thinks. Just playing it by ear and seeing what happens. She’ll probably close the door on his idea . . . still, nothing ventured/nothing gained. Checking her room during lunch hour, finding her occupied with students at her desk, he tries again after practice, having no expectation of encountering anything other than a darkened room and a locked door, Miss Furbish long gone to her private life for the night.
To his surprise, her lights are on and she’s working once more at her desk. Entering the room, he says, “Miss Furbish . . . how are you?”
Smiling as she looks up, not disappointed to see him, she says, “I’m fine, Dale, how are you?”
“Everything’s calmed down,” he says. “My new team is winning like mad. All that worry . . . about getting into trouble . . . that’s over. You see . . . I was trustworthy. You didn’t have to worry about me saying anything.”
“Dale, you’ve done remarkably well . . . have been mature. I’m proud of you.”
“I was wondering if we could do something sort of together . . . as friends?”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Closing one eye, she’s immediately on her guard.
“Well . . . if you trust me . . . maybe you’ll let me give you a Christmas present.”
She pauses, studying him. “Dale, that really isn’t necessary. I’m not sure I’d like you to be giving me any more presents. You should save your money,” she adds.
“Oh it didn’t cost anything. It’s just a trinket. Something I made in metal shop.”
“Is it . . . an appropriate gift?”
“I think it is.”
“Well . . . if it is. I reserve the right to decline anything that’s inappropriate.”
“It’s a small gift . . . but there’s a small catch,” he says.
She blurts laughter, saying, “I should have known there’d be a catch? What is it?”
“Well . . . I was wondering . . . if you’re going to be alone . . . if I could stop by for some Christmas dinner! I’ll be alone . . . which I thought you might be, too. Only as friends, like you said. What could be more innocent than a student—whose father is working second shift—having some Christmas dinner?”
“That’s a little brash, Dale . . . inviting yourself to your teacher’s for Christmas dinner.” She’s not angry, though, laughing on adding, “You’re too much. Trying to finagle your teacher. Let me think about it. I’m all but certain I’ll have to say no . . . but I will think about it. You’re not trying to blackmail me, are you, over what happened?” She’s joking with this line, Dale can tell, as she ponders, “Christmas dinner. I’ll have to give that some thought. I’ll probably have to decline . . . but I will think about it.”
# # #
WALKING HOME, DALE feels like a variation of Lucky Bartell. Of course he knew what she meant about blackmailing—knew it was exactly what he was doing—still, she did not say no outright and he is high on the possibility of maybe succeeding. How, though, to use a sly smile and to be a little mean . . . enough to have her as putty in his hands and crazed with desire? Rough and tough, and hard to bluff. Can’t get enough of that wonderful stuff. Should he just tell her outright that he loves her and is dying to do again what they had done before? Was there be an element of meanness in the truth?
CHAPTER 5
DALE RECALLS SEVERAL FRIDAY NIGHTS IN SIXTH GRADE THAT he spent necking, for the first time in his life, with a girl named Patty Cross, who, landing a baby-sitting job, invited him over and into the exciting experience. The trim little girl—who moved to Texas at year’s end—loved French-kissing, which she expressly taught him to do, but every time she had him over, after an hour of sensational tongue action, she made him leave so she could check the baby and return things to order before the mother returned home. Not that he thought about going all the way with her, given that the incredible sensations of French kissing had him so blinded it seemed hardly possible that deeper excitement had any need to exist.
# # #
WITH MISS FURBISH, at age fourteen, he doesn’t see why going all the way seems out of the question, while remaining reluctant to lose any ground he’s gained on being cool and biding his time. The promise of maybe necking again is enough for now. Having seen himself as one who has had to work for every bit of luck coming his way (but for being selected by Patty Cross, as he learned, because he was unsupervised at night) he finds it hard to believe he is luckier than other boys his age no matter knowing that he is . . . except, of course, for Lucky Bartell, who does whatever he wants to do, including fighting with his father on the living room floor. Not having a mother has helped him with Miss Furbish, as has having a father who works second shift and leaves him on his own. Having to pay through the nose by having his dream of winning the city taken away . . . that was what it cost to have Miss Furbish open her heart to him . . . while being denied a place on his own team is a reality that continues to hurt every time he thinks about it. The death of a dream. Who would he be as a person by now if his dream had not been taken away?
Conservation and compensation. His good fortune has been by way of the latter.
He can also see how being with Miss Furbish again may be profound (as opposed to profuse), leaving him unfulfilled, maybe, but not unhappy with such a turn in his life. Slipping from her apartment that night into fresh dark air, moving along the shadowed side of her building, loving her, aroused and wanting to be back upstairs with her, tearing her nightshirt from her shoulders if need be, entering his face upon her warm breast. It happened once; why can’t it happen again . . . if he plays it cool and is not a fool?
# # #
THE PROBLEM, ON trying to imagine being mean with her, is that he can’t find a way to make it work. Imagining being back in her apartment, imagining going so far, he also imagines her letting him know that crossing the line is out of the question!
A sly grin and mean reply (sounding, he imagines, like Lucky Bartell): “You think fondling my teacher’s boobs isn’t already crossing a line?”
The only reply he can imagine from her is, “What did you say to me?”
“You don’t let me have it, I may have to take it,” he imagines Lucky telling her.
Her response? She would laugh and say, “Dale, I assume you’re acting.”
“Do you have any idea how tough I am? How rough and tough, and hard to bluff?”
“Kindly do not talk to me like that. I think you’d better be on your way.”
“What if I make you do what I want you to do?”
“Please stop acting foolish.”
“You may be in charge in school, but not here. See my face? What you’re seeing is one mean, sly grin that isn’t about to take no for an answer.”
“Dale, I think you’d better be on your way.”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. If you won’t give me what I want, I’ll have to take it!”
In his imagination, he hears her say, “Well . . . if you insist,” though he cannot get the voice in his mind to sound like her at all.
# # #
TO HIS SURPRISE, on another day in school, she asks him to stop by her desk on the way out. Expecting her to apologize as she explains that having him visit her apartment is not something she can do, she startles his attention into his legs and feet by saying, “Christmas dinner will be fine. I’ve thought about it. According to my rules! You will show up at the appointed time of three p.m. And when I say to leave, you will do so. An innocent dinner, because that is what it will be. An occasion of friendship between a pupil and his teacher. Is it something you think you can handle?”
“I sure can!” Dale says. “I’ll be there!”
“Good,” she says, and smiles. “Proper behavior will be the basis of our friendship. A teacher who is alone, and a student who is alone, sharing a mature holiday meal. All of which we will keep between ourselves as friends. Now, on
your way.”
CHAPTER 6
DALE IS BOTH EXCITED AND TERRIFIED. MAKING HIS WAY home that night after practice, passing through streetlight illuminations, he thinks that being with Miss Furbish will be as if to sail on a magic carpet, no matter what does or does not happen. His encounter with Crazy Johnny. That’s what he’ll forget ever happened. In truth, not much did. Yes, he sort of lost his virginity, but his heart wasn’t in it, and who knows, maybe his heart will be in whatever takes place on a Christmas dinner visit to Miss Furbish’s apartment! She’s daring in her way. Has always surprised him with what she says and does, in and out of class. Whatever it might be, he’ll have to be ready for it . . . like an over-the-shoulder pass from Lucky Bartell. Will have to be cool as a tool and not a fool! Will have to work things out with his father so he can be away for several hours and not raise any suspicion about being with his teacher in her apartment!
At home some days later, he recovers what wrapping paper he can find and presses it out on the kitchen table. Removing the chrome-dipped copper bracelet from his underwear drawer, he holds it in the kitchen light and reads its lone word as it becomes visible and tells on, he knows, the depth of his adoration:
HILDA
What should he call her when they’re in her apartment on Christmas day? Well, ‘Miss Furbish,’ because anything else sounds odd to his ear. Hilda? What if he were daring enough to ask if he might call her by her name when they’re away from school? No, his ear tells him. Even a question of the kind doesn’t sound right. She calls him Dale . . . no matter that he might be identified as a ‘special student.’ Is he special enough that she might give him a nickname if she chose to? Hoopster? Romeo?
What if he invented a nickname? ‘Secret Flame?’ ‘Hello, Secret Flame.’ ‘How are you today . . . Secret Flame?’ ‘Secret Flame . . . may I unbutton your blouse?’
What would Lucky Bartell call a teacher who came on to him and let him have at her in her apartment? (‘Hey, bitch? Do what I say or you’ll have you pay?’) In any thought of the future (despite her having indicated Christmas dinner to be a one-time thing) Dale finds it hard to imagine not continuing as her special student. It was passion after all that brought them together . . . as he will say if she asks him to examine, again: lasting versus limited, permanent versus passing.
Winning the City Redux Page 15
