The Stake

by Richard Laymon

  “If you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lane said calmly, “you ought to keep your mouth shut. Besides, it’s disgusting me.”

  He opened his mouth wide and shook his head at her.

  “Real cute. God, you can be so juvenile sometimes. To think I’ve actually kissed you.”

  “And will again, no doubt.” He closed his mouth and commenced chewing with a blissful smile on his face.

  Why do I even bother with him? Lane wondered. She took another bite of her sandwich, looked at the cafeteria clock and wished sixth period would hurry up and come.

  * * *

  In her fifth-period physiology class, Lane had to scribble notes furiously to keep up with the lecture. The time sped by. When the bell rang, it took her by surprise.

  She hurried into the hall and ducked into the smoky rest room. There, she leaned close to a mirror and checked her teeth for remnants of her lunch. They looked fine. She brushed her hair, then opened her denim skirt and tucked in her blouse so that it slanted down, smooth and taut, from her breasts to her waist. The straps and lacy pattern of her bra cups showed faintly through the blouse’s white fabric. She fastened her skirt, turned around once to make sure of every angle, then left the rest room and headed for class.

  You’d think you were going out with him, she thought, feeling a little foolish. He’s just a teacher. He’s not interested in a kid.

  So? It doesn’t hurt to look nice.

  Lane entered the classroom by its front door. Mr. Kramer wasn’t there yet. She sat at her front-row desk, put away the books she wouldn’t be needing, and waited.

  Just before the bell rang, Riley Benson and Jessica came in. Jessica’s left arm was still in a cast, but her right arm was around Benson. She glanced at Lane as she sauntered by. Her face looked better: though she still wore bandages on her chin and left eyebrow, the swelling had gone down; her lips no longer bulged; her bruises had faded to a sickly greenish yellow; some of her scabs had come off, leaving patches of shiny pink flesh.

  She stepped to the other side of her desk. Benson rubbed her rear end, then ambled down the aisle. Jessica sat down.

  “How are you doing?” Lane asked.

  The girl sneered at her. “What do you think?”

  “Just asking. Sorry.”

  “Blow it out your ass,” she said, and turned away.

  Whoops, Lane thought. Obviously, Benson had told her about the quarrel. Why’d she wait a whole week to sound off about it?

  Bitch, she thought. Never should’ve bothered trying to be nice to her.

  “Keep outa my way and keep your fuckin‘ nose outa my business,” Jessica suddenly added, “or I’ll let Riley go ahead and ream you out.”

  “Okay. Jeez!”

  Lane slumped in her seat and stared straight ahead.

  She imagined herself telling Jessica to take a flying leap, but realized she’d better keep quiet. It wouldn’t take much, she thought, to set the girl off. Jessica, alone, could probably take her apart. Not to mention what her scumbag boyfriend might do.

  Mr. Kramer entered the room.

  Lane sat up fast, pulling in her legs and swinging her knees together. She straightened her back. She folded her hands on the desktop.

  Kramer took off his sport coat. He draped it over the back of his chair and began rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he stepped to his usual position at the front of the table. His forearms were tanned under thick, black hair. He sat on the edge of the table.

  Lane smiled when he met her eyes.

  He acted as if he didn’t see it, picked up his roll book and gave the classroom a quick scan. “Mr. Billings is apparently having himself another holiday,” he said, and marked the student absent.

  “Okay. This week’s spelling words. Who’ll volunteer to write them on the board?”

  Lane raised her hand. He chose Heidi.

  No big deal, Lane told herself. But she couldn’t help feeling a small letdown. First, he hadn’t returned her smile. Now he’d called on someone else to go to the board. Was he ignoring her?

  Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. I’m not the only kid in the room.

  But as the class went on, Kramer continued to ignore her. He rarely gave her a glance. He called on other students to read from the poetry book, to answer questions about rhythm and meter, to offer interpretations.

  Lane’s uneasiness grew.

  Is he mad at me, or something? What did I do? Maybe he thinks I took advantage of him at the library. But hell, I didn’t askhim to check out the book. That was his idea.

  She began wondering whether he still wanted her to stay after class.

  Go on, get out of here.

  He wouldn’t say that.

  Lane imagined herself sitting alone in the room, humiliated. “But you asked me to stay and help you.”

  “I don’t care. Leave me alone.”

  Maybe I should go ahead and leave when the bell rings, she thought. But I saidI’d stay. I can’t just walk out. He’d think I’m nuts.

  “Lane?”

  Startled, she looked up at Kramer.

  “Would you like to read the next stanza?”

  “Uh...” She felt herself shriveling inside. “I’m afraid I’ve lost the place.”

  A few sniggers came from the back of the room.

  Kramer shook his head slightly. He looked amused. “You shouldtry to follow along in the book.”

  “Yes sir.” She lowered her eyes to the page.

  “Aaron, will you read the next stanza?”

  Aaron began to read. Lane hunched over her book, shielded her eyes with one hand and studied the page.

  Where the hell are we?

  Shit!

  She couldn’t find the stanza.

  Dipstick, you wantedhim to call on you. And he did. He sure did.

  Why don’t I just die now, and make it easy on myself?

  Aaron finished.

  A hand appeared beneath Lane’s face. Kramer’s hand. It turned the page for her, pointed to a middle stanza, and went away.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  Everyone else in the classroom seemed to find this quite amusing.

  Lane kept her head down.

  “Would you care to favor us with a rendition?” Kramer asked.

  She nodded against her sheltering hand and began to read aloud.

  She was halfway through the stanza when the bell rang.

  “That’ll be fine,” Kramer said. Raising his voice, he announced, “Don’t forget your spelling sentences for tomorrow. In ink, please. Class dismissed.”

  Lane shut her book and stared at it. Kids walked past her. Someone rubbed the top of her head. She looked up. Benson grinned down at her. “You gotta pay attention, babe.”

  She sneered at him.

  He sauntered out with Jessica, a hand on her rump.

  Soon the room was empty except for Lane and Kramer.

  Lane forced her head up. Kramer stood behind his table, busy stuffing books and folders into his briefcase. He seemed unaware of her presence.

  I should’ve left with the rest of them, she thought. God, how did I get into this?

  Dad and his yearbook. Thanks a bunch, Dad.

  She wondered if she should say something.

  “Do you have a red pen?” Kramer asked, and finally looked at her.

  The tension spilled out of her. “Uh... no. I don’t think so.”

  “No problem. Let me get you one.” He stepped over to his desk and opened the top drawer. He found a pen, shut the drawer, and searched through a stack of folders on the corner of his desk. “Here we go. I’ll give you first period. How does that sound?”

  “Fine.”

  He came toward her. “If you get done with these and want some more, I’ve got plenty. Don’t want to keep you all afternoon, though.”

  Lane nodded.

  I don’t believe this, she thought. He’s acting as if nothing happened.

  What do you want, a lecture?

 
; She cleared her desk. Kramer set the folder and pen in front of her. “It’s five points a word,” he said. “But I guess you know that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any questions, just ask.”

  “All right.”

  He turned away.

  “Mr. Kramer?”

  He turned to her again, a pleasant smile spreading across his face.

  “I’m sorry about losing my place.”

  “Daydreaming?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, no harm in that. I hope you weren’t too embarrassed.”

  “I was pretty embarrassed.”

  “You’re the best student in the class, Lane. Don’t let one little lapse of attention throw you. Happens to everyone.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Of course, I had to give you an F for the day.”

  “Oh.”

  Laughing softly, he squeezed Lane’s shoulder. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Oh.”

  His hand stayed there. Lane felt as if its warmth were spreading down through her. He rubbed her shoulder gently, then let go.

  “I really appreciate your staying after to help like this. It takes some of the pressure off.”

  “Glad to help.” She could still feel where his hand had been.

  “Teaching ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes, I feel like I’m being consumed by paperwork. All I seem to have time for is grading papers, preparing lessons.” He shook his head. “A real drag.”

  “If you’d like me to, I’ll stay more often and help you out.”

  Her heart thudded. She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

  He’ll think I’ve got the hots for him.

  Kramer’s head tilted slightly to one side. He pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I sure appreciate the offer. You must have better things to do with your time, though.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. Really.”

  “It’s up to you. I’d certainly be glad to have the help.” Smiling, he knuckled the folder on her desk. “Now, get cracking. Talk’s cheap, and time’s a-wasting.”

  Lane laughed. “You’re a real slave driver.”

  “Start correcting those papers, or I’ll give you a taste of the lash.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He turned and headed for his desk. Lane’s eyes stayed on him.

  His sport shirt tapered down from his broad shoulders to his slim waist. The tail, just a bit untucked, puffed out over his belt. His wallet made a bulge over his left buttock. There seemed to be nothing in his right rear pocket. That side of his slacks was smooth against his rump, and Lane watched the way it moved as he walked.

  Twenty-one

  Jean, peeling potatoes at the sink, looked around at Larry as he entered the kitchen. “Quitting a little early, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He glanced at the clock. Almost four. He usually worked until four-thirty.

  “I finished the damn corrections,” he said. He took a beer from the refrigerator. “Too late to get started on anything else.” He twisted the cap off the bottle. “Where’s Lane?”

  “Not home yet.”

  “I know that. Did she have some kind of plans for after school?”

  “Not that she mentioned. Maybe she stopped over at Betty’s, or something.”

  “Yeah.” He poured the beer into a stein, sucked off the head of white froth, and emptied the bottle. “What’re you going to do with the potatoes?”

  “French fries.”

  “All right!” He dropped the bottle into the trash. It landed with a thunk.

  He carried his beer into the living room, sank into his easy chair and started thumbing through the new issue of Mystery Scenethat had arrived in the day’s mail. Jean had probably already looked it over. She would’ve told him if she’d found any mention of him. So he went straight to Brian Garfield’s “Letter from Hollywood.”

  He tried to read it.

  But the day was mild. The air conditioner was off, the windows open. Each time Larry heard a car on the street, his eyes shifted to the window.

  Where is she?

  Patience, he told himself.

  They might not even havethe ‘68 yearbook.

  They’ve got to.

  He wished he’d asked Lane to phone him from school. Then he wouldn’t have spent the whole day worrying. But he didn’t want her to think it was any big deal.

  “Try for the ‘sixty-eight,” he’d told her. “That’s the year I’ll be working on. If they don’t have it, though, ’sixty-seven or ‘sixty-six will be okay. Even ’sixty-five. In fact, if you could get the annuals for each of those years...”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Lane had said. “I’ll be lucky if Swanson let’s me check out anyof them, much less four.”

  “Just go for ‘sixty-eight, then, okay?”

  He heard another approaching car. He knew the Mustang’s sound — a low grumble — and this wasn’t it. He looked out the window anyway. A station wagon swept by.

  He drank some beer, finished the Garfield piece, and looked for Warren Murphy’s “Curmudgeon’s Corner.” This issue didn’t seem to have one.

  He muttered, “Shit.”

  Probably a story behind its absence. Have to ask Ed next time we talk.

  At least de Lint’s horror reviews weren’t missing. Larry scanned the columns. Half the books were by writers he couldn’t stand. But he spotted reviews of new books by Daniel Ransom, Joe Lansdale, and Chet Williamson. He’d already read the three books under discussion. Good. That way, the reviews couldn’t spoil anything for him.

  He took a drink of beer.

  Started to read.

  Heard the Mustang.

  About time!

  The shiny red car appeared on the street, slowed down, swung into the driveway and vanished from sight. The engine went silent. A door thumped shut. When he heard Lane’s boots scraping on the walkway, he tossed the magazine aside and hurried to the door.

  “Hi ho,” he said, opening the door. Lane had her keys in one hand. Her other hand was empty. “How was your day?”

  “Terrific.”

  Must’ve been, Larry thought. She looked even more chipper than usual.

  He stepped out of her way and shut the door. Lane slung her book bag off her shoulders. Trying to keep his voice calm, Larry said, “So, did you have any luck with the yearbook?”

  “Swanson didn’t want to check it out to me. You really lucked out, though. Mr. Kramer was there, and she let him have it.”

  “But you’ve got it?”

  “But of course.” She dropped her denim bag on the sofa, unstrapped its top and slipped out a tall, thin volume. “It has to be returned tomorrow morning.”

  “No problem.” Larry reached for it.

  Lane clutched it to her chest and shook her head. “You owe me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, that’s open to negotiation. I’ve had to make considerable sacrifices on your behalf. In particular, I’m obliged to help Mr. Kramer grade papers after school every day this week to pay him back for the favor.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wouldn’t kid you.”

  “He shouldn’t make you do that.”

  “Well, I kind of made the offer, and he didn’t refuse.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s different.”

  “It’s still because of this,” she said and, grinning, rapped her knuckles against the back of the yearbook.

  “Okay. What do you want?”

  Her eyes rolled upward. “Let me think. My services don’t come cheap, you understand.”

  “They never have.”

  “Daaad!”

  “Laaane.”

  “You make me sound absolutely mercenary.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “Of course not. However, I just happened to notice an absolutely radical pair of denim boots a while back.”

  “And you didn’t buy them?”
r />   “I didn’t think I should. I’d already made a few purchases that day.”

  “If you’re talking about the day your mother and I went on our last outing with Pete and Barbara, I remember it well.”

  “I reallywanted those boots. But I held back. For your sake.”

  “I’m touched. Truly.”

  “So, can I have them?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Oh, Dad, you’re great!” She thrust the book at him. As Larry took it, she threw herself against him and gave him a quick kiss. Then she hurried toward the kitchen.

  Larry retrieved his beer.

  He heard Lane call out, “Yo! Mom! What’ve we got to eat around here? I’m dying.”

  Larry shut the door to his office. He placed his beer on the coaster beside his word processor. He leaned back in his chair and rested the bottom of the book against his stomach. The blue cover was embossed with gold lettering that read, BUFORD MEMORIES ‘68.

  This is it, he thought. My God, this is it.

  His heart was racing. His stomach felt tight and shaky.

  He opened the book. A quick riffle revealed glossy pages of black and white photographs. At the back was an index. The final page of the index listed students with S names. Larry slid his eyes down the column:

  Sakai, Joan

  Samilson, Pamela

  Sanders, Timothy

  Satmary, Maureen

  Schaefer, Ronald

  No Saxon, Bonnie.

  Come on! Larry thought. She hasto be in here.

  Despairing, he flipped pages toward the front of the index. And spotted a subheading: FRESHMEN.

  “Thank God,” he muttered.

  In 1968, Bonnie was a senior, not a freshman.

  He thumbed the pages over, passing the lists of sophomores and juniors. Just above the heading JUNIORS was the name Zimmerman, Rhonda. Tail end of the senior class. He lifted his eyes to the left-hand corner. A senior named Simpson, Kenneth.

  Simpson. An S!

  Larry clamped his lower lip between his teeth. He turned the page and worked his way up from the bottom:

  Simmons, Dan

  Seigel, Susan

  Sefridge, John

  Sclar, Toni

  Schultz, Fred

  Just another name in the index. Saxon, Bonnie. Not printed in red. Not in bold lettering or italics. But it seemed to explode off the page and slam through Larry’s head.