by Lewis Shiner
“I’m sorry,” Cole said. “It got a little crazy there, but it’s under control now. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“We had a contract,” his father said. “The purpose of the contract was to make sure that things didn’t get ‘a little crazy’ or ‘out of control.’ And it seems to me that they’ve gotten a lot out of control.”
“I’m sorry,” Cole said again. “Really. And I promise—”
“I’m sorry too. But we had a deal, and now it’s up to me to make sure it won’t happen again. Therefore as of now, tonight, this minute, you are out of the band. The guitar goes back to the pawn shop. You are grounded through the end of the year, meaning no dates, no spending the night with your Mexican friend, home here every night and all day on weekends.”
“We’ve got gigs booked. You can’t—”
“What?” his father said. The smile was still there, his tone mild, as if he couldn’t possibly have heard what he thought he heard. “What did you say to me?”
“Nothing,” Cole said.
“Do I make myself clear? Do you understand everything I’ve said?”
“Yes,” Cole said. “I understand.”
“You may go to your room. Your mother will have dinner ready in a few minutes.”
Cole went to his room and locked the door. His hands trembled as much with excitement as with fear. The worst thing, he realized, would have been getting caught in some painful compromise or long, pitched battle. This, he thought, this was not even a choice.
He looked in his closet. A couple of plastic dry-cleaning bags on hangers, two good sized cardboard boxes full of old toys and books and letters. He put the contents of the boxes onto the shelves, then sealed the hanger holes in the bags with Scotch tape.
Nobody spoke during dinner. In the news, polio vaccination was now mandatory in Belgium. Mao’s Little Red Book was being readied for international release, including in the US. The war in Vietnam was going badly, but General Westmoreland was still confident of victory by the end of 1967. Cole’s father watched it all with an air of calm satisfaction, as if the new order in his own home had temporarily eased his anger with the growing chaos everywhere else.
Dinner was green bell peppers stuffed with ground beef and rice, a baked potato, a chunk of iceberg lettuce for salad. Cole, to his surprise, was able to eat. His body seemed to recognize that it needed fuel for a long night ahead.
After dinner he took the phone into the closet. He heard his parents discussing it as he dialed, his mother saying, “Let him at least have that much.”
He got hold of Alex and said, “Is that offer still open? For political asylum?”
“I can barely hear you.”
“I can’t talk. Can you be waiting for me at the curb at midnight? Just sit there and wait.”
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
“I’m not injured. Just be there, okay?”
“I’ll be there.”
Back in his room, the question was what to take and what to leave behind. The guitar had to come, obviously. Enough clothes for school and performing. Toothbrush, deodorant, razor. He didn’t think he’d ever be back, so that meant the record player, which folded up into a suitcase-sized package, and his albums. Schoolbooks. A few other books he didn’t want to leave behind, the Matt Helms and Joe Galls.
His father went to bed at 10:00, as always. Cole had the bags of clothes and the boxes of books and records lined up inside his closet. At 10:15 he heard a light tapping at his bedroom door. He opened it a crack and saw his mother in her chenille robe.
“Can I come in?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“I’m so sorry about this,” she said. “I’m going to work on him. I think I can talk him into letting you keep the guitar, at least, as long as you only play it at home.”
He nodded stiffly.
“He does love you, you know. We both do. We want what’s best for you, and school is so important—”
“What’s all that whispering?” his father bellowed. The closed door of his parents’ bedroom was directly across the hall. “I’m trying to go to sleep in here.”
Cole’s mother smiled sadly, kissed her fingers, and reached through the narrow opening to press them to Cole’s cheek. Rocked by his sudden feelings of love for her, Cole held her fingers there and closed his eyes. “I’ll be all right,” he told her.
“Good night.”
“Good night,” Cole said. He closed the door as she turned away.
At 11:40 he couldn’t wait any longer. He took the screen off the casement window above his desk and cranked it open. Freezing air gusted in. He knelt on top of the desk and passed his guitar case through, then leaned out and eased it to the flower bed outside. Next came the practice amp, then the stereo and the boxes and bags.
He closed the window, put the screen back in place, and took a quick look around by the light of the streetlight outside. He couldn’t think of anything he’d missed. He put on his long black topcoat with the zipped in lining and his black high-topped tennis shoes. His cowboy boots were in one of the bags outside.
Ten minutes to midnight.
He opened his bedroom door and went to the bathroom. When he was done, he washed his hands and face. Still not too late to change your mind, he said to his reflection. But of course it was.
He heard his father snoring as he crept down the carpeted hallway. He went out the front door and eased it closed and locked it. The temperature outside was below freezing. He put gloves on and carried the bags and boxes to the curb. As he returned for the last load, he saw headlights in the distance. He ran to the house and crouched in the shadows until he saw Alex’s Monza coast in to the curb. Then he grabbed the guitar and stereo and jogged down to the street.
Alex, in perfect secret agent style, was wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. He left the Monza idling and his door ajar as he ran to the front of the car and opened the trunk. He stowed the bags and boxes as Cole quietly opened the passenger door and put his gear in the back seat. Then they were both inside, holding their doors lightly in place as Alex eased down the street and around the block, then slamming them shut and accelerating toward Webb’s Chapel Road.
Cole was giddy as he ran down the events of the evening for Alex. He kept looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. Like a convict in an old black-and-white movie, he’d made his break and he wasn’t going to let them take him alive.
Alex was suitably appalled by Cole’s father, yet at the end of the story, Cole saw he had something else on his mind. “Is there a problem with me staying at your place?” Cole asked.
“No, man, it’s not that at all.”
“Then what is it?”
“I didn’t want to tell you tonight, with everything that’s happened.”
“Tell me what?”
Alex sighed. “I called Johnny Hornet tonight to see why they stopped playing the record.”
“Uh oh.”
“He said McLendon pulled it off the air. He said because Jack was involved it was a conflict of interest.”
“But Jack isn’t making any money off of it.”
“That’s what Jack told him. And McLendon said, ‘That’s why you’ve still got your job.’”
“What about the other stations?”
“Jack called up Mark Stevens over at kfjz and asked him as a personal favor to play it. Stevens tried and management told him they weren’t, quote, in the business of helping klif, end quote.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Sail them into White Rock Lake?”
“Jack said he got a ton of calls on it. We can sell it at our gigs. Speaking of which, the airplay we got was enough for Sid to get us into the Studio Club at the end of January.”
Cole sank deeper into the seat.
“Hey,” Alex said. “You’ve got those other songs you’re working on. We can try again. My dad would back us, if it came to that.”
“klif will never touch us now. If we can’t get on klif, we c
an’t break nationally.”
“Okay, so we don’t break nationally. Look how far we’ve come already. From our first gig to the Studio Club in five months. If it wasn’t for the band, you never would have gotten together with Janet—”
“Yeah, and look how that turned out.”
“She still loves you, man, I know it.”
Cole shook his head and stared out the window.
Alex’s father was waiting up for them. He hugged Cole and said, “Are you okay physically?”
It was all Cole could do not to cry. “Yes, sir, I’m okay. He didn’t hit me or starve me or anything like that.”
“Good. Now, you’re not seventeen yet, are you?”
“I will be on the twenty-third. In three weeks.”
“Close enough. I checked with my lawyer, and once you’re seventeen your father won’t have any legal recourse. Did you leave a note?” Cole shook his head. “Good, that’s probably best. I’ll go see your father tomorrow and explain the situation.”
Cole looked at him in wonder. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I flatter myself that I understand your father, maybe better than he understands me. I look forward to putting that theory to the test.” He looked at his watch. “You and I also have a lot to talk about, which I’d rather not do tonight. I would like both you and Alex to go to school tomorrow. Is that possible?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you need anything? Food or clothes or a toothbrush or anything at all?”
Cole would have loved a couple of beers but didn’t want to push his luck. “No, sir, I think I’ve got everything. I’ve done a lot of packing in my life.”
“You go on to bed, then. The guest room is made up for you.” He squeezed Cole’s shoulder. “You’re home now, son. For as long as you need to be here.”
Cole was able to get upstairs before the tears came.
*
Steve Cole heard Betty knock on the kid’s door like she did every morning. Except today he didn’t answer, and Steve felt the first tug of unease. He finished putting his clothes on and was knotting his tie when she came back and knocked again. He heard her try the kid’s door and heard it open. Then she gasped, and he had a heart-pounding moment of fear that made him grab the edge of the closet door.
“Steve!”
The little bastard cannot have killed himself, Steve thought. It’s simply not possible.
When he saw the neatly-made bed, the gaps in the bookshelf, the missing clothes, he was more relieved than anything else. Then Betty turned on him, with a look on her face he had only seen a handful of times since he’d known her. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” she said, her voice barely audible, and very hard. “I hope you’re just really, really pleased with yourself.”
She pushed past him and Steve followed her into the living room. “He’s at the Mexican kid’s house, isn’t he? Is that what you two were whispering about last night?”
“First of all,” Betty said, “‘the Mexican kid’ has a name and you damned well know it. Secondly, unless you want to end up completely alone in this house, you will apologize to me right now for even thinking that I knew anything about this.”
He was, in fact, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Betty. This is a shock for me too.”
“Leave me alone for a minute. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
Steve went to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. He felt strange and lightheaded. His stomach hurt and he thought maybe he should eat something. He wondered if he should go into work. What did people do in this type of situation? Should he call the police?
Sweat ran into his eyes and he saw damp spots darken his shirt. “Betty!” he yelled. He didn’t hear her respond and so a few seconds later he called again. He couldn’t get his breath.
She appeared in the doorway, looking put-upon. “What?”
“Can you get me something to eat? Maybe a banana and a glass of milk?”
She hesitated, like she was going to tell him to do it himself, then she went away and when she came back she had what he’d asked for. While she stood there, holding the milk, he tried to peel the half banana. His hands shook. He took a bite that didn’t want to go down his throat.
Betty turned on the bedside light. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Had a really sharp hunger pain.”
“You don’t look right. I’m calling the doctor.”
“I don’t need a goddamned doctor.”
She ignored him, and he heard her in the hallway, getting out the address book, dialing the number. “Can I speak to Dr. Gregory? I think it’s an emergency… Yes, he’s pale and sweating and he’s got a pain in his stomach… Yes, as a matter of fact, why?… What do you… oh. Oh, I see… Should I do anything while we’re waiting?… Okay. Yes, we’ll see you there. Thank you.”
She was standing in the doorway again. “Dr. Gregory thinks you might be having a heart attack. There’s an ambulance on the way and he’ll meet us at Parkland.”
“If I were having a heart attack, do you think I would just be sitting here talking to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “You always were stubborn.”
She was still in her housecoat. He watched her gather up her underwear and a pair of slacks and a sweater and take them into the bathroom. She looked and acted normal, even as tears ran down her face.
He tried to take his pulse, first in his wrist, then in his neck, and couldn’t find it. That was ridiculous. If he didn’t have a pulse he’d be dead.
He noticed he still had the banana in his hand, but the idea of eating repelled him. He put the unfinished piece on his nightstand.
By the time Betty came out of the bathroom, he heard a siren in the distance. Why did they have to do that? It just made people nervous and afraid. In no time at all it was in the driveway, where all the neighbors could see, and Betty had let in two kids who looked like they should still be in high school. They insisted on putting him on a stretcher, and when he tried to argue, one of them gave him a shot that made him woozy. They put an oxygen mask over his face, and it was clear they were trying to scare him for some reason. He kept remembering Betty standing in the hall and saying, “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
In the back of the ambulance, he turned to the kid that was watching him and said, “Where’s Betty?”
“Is that your wife? She’s following us in your car.”
At the hospital, lying on a gurney in a curtained-off section of the er, they took an ekg. Curtains, Steve thought. Not a happy choice of décor. Was it going to be curtains for him? Betty arrived as they were peeling off the sensors and took his hand, for which he was as grateful as a child. When Dr. Gregory showed up fifteen minutes later, he said they were going to do bypass surgery.
“When?” Steve asked.
“Now,” Gregory said. “Fortunately, you are a pretty tough buzzard. The cardiologist was a little surprised to see you still alive, given the looks of your ekg. I wasn’t, but this operation is a different matter. It might take four to six hours, and there’s a very real chance that you might not make it.”
Steve’s first thought was that this was the kid’s fault. If he hadn’t run away, this would never have happened. Then, ashamed, he looked at Betty as if she might have overheard. Her expression was unreadable.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Gregory said. He shook Steve’s hand. “Good luck. If I know you at all, you’ll pull through.”
When they were alone, Betty stood over him and said, “I love you, Steve. I’ve stuck with you through bilharzia and dysentery and Midland, Texas. But if you die now, with things as they are…” She left the threat unfinished.
“I’m not going to die,” he said.
Then the orderlies came and he only had time to whisper goodbye and feel her dry lips brush his cheek.
*
Cole woke up tired and oddly peaceful on Wednesday morning. His possessions were piled on both sides of
the bed in the Montoyas’ guest room, where he’d finally managed to fall asleep after two am.
At school, he apologized to Mr. Batchelor and offered to write a paper for extra credit. Batchelor, who had a taste for the grotesque, suggested he discuss how Ivan the Terrible had changed history by murdering his own son. Cole appreciated the unintended irony.
In pe, where he’d been exiled after his injury, he found a second wind that got him through the calisthenics, rope climbing, and laps. For once he was able to run past the tennis courts without the sound of rackets hitting balls causing him too much regret.
They drove home and walked in the door and Cole saw the look on Alex’s mother’s face. He listened numbly as she told him about the heart attack, the successful bypass surgery, the long recuperation ahead. “I can take you to the hospital. Frederica can finish dinner without me.” She didn’t seem to consider the possibility of Cole refusing, so he got in the blue Impala with her.
As she backed out of the driveway she asked, in Spanish, «Is it okay if we speak Spanish? I hardly ever get to around the house and I’m afraid I’m going to lose it.»
«Of course. Why is it you never speak it at home?»
«Adalberto thinks it’s rude to speak Spanish in the US, that it makes people uncomfortable, so we shouldn’t get in the habit. And when we’re in Mexico, we don’t speak any English. If it wasn’t for that, he might not have let the kids learn Spanish at all. Bueno, I shouldn’t be babbling on like this. I’m really sorry about your father.»
Cole noticed the way she’d turned the subject away from Mexico. Alex’s father had mentioned the Guanajuato trip over breakfast, and Cole had said that he really wanted to go. Now they would take it for granted that he would stay in Dallas to be with his father.
He didn’t know what to say to Alex’s mother. Sorrow was not among the emotions ricocheting through him. Anger, pity, confusion, nasty slivers of triumph and guilt. He followed her lead and changed the subject again. «How did you meet your husband?»
«Adalberto, you mean?»
«Don’t tell me you’re not married.»
