by Lewis Shiner
“He never had to.”
The jukebox played Tammy Wynette. Cole knew these songs from Midland, and from Tyler, and from hearing them on klif and kbox and kfjz mixed in with the rock and soul and easy listening. Dancing with Corrina had given him a new appreciation for country music, and it suited his present mood as perfectly as it fit the surroundings.
“What does your girlfriend think about you leaving her behind?” Susan asked. Cole heard no condescension in her voice.
“She thinks we’re somehow going to make it work, that I’ll be coming up for weekends and vacations.”
“And you don’t think so.”
“Once me and Alex get a band going, we’ll be working weekends.”
“Do you love her?”
Cole sensed an unspoken emotional investment in the question. He only wanted to steer the conversation away from Janet. “Well, there’s love,” he said, and looked at her, “and then there’s love.”
“Oh Cole. Sometimes I think you fall for your own nonsense. You’re not in love with me.” She was attempting, Cole thought, to be kind. “You’re in love with your own illusions about this family, about how wonderful and perfect we all are. And some romantic notion about how you and I are the outsiders and how that gives us an affinity. Plenty of girls will love you for being such a romantic.”
Cole’s glib tongue failed him. “You shouldn’t underestimate me,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t,” Susan said. “Only myself. Always myself.” She smiled a bright, artificial smile and said, “We need to get back to the table.”
They shared two more beers and drove to Susan’s house, where she made chicken in mole sauce, guacamole, and rice. Montoya and Alex watched tv while Susan cooked. She refused Cole’s offers of help, so he got La Pelirroja out of the trunk where it had ridden all day and played on the back porch until dinner.
Montoya, who usually revealed his emotions sparingly, showed his pleasure that night. He’d successfully moved Alex and Cole two squares forward into contested territory and now the long game was on. More was at stake than the beer concessions in Austin, Cole knew. The prize was Alex’s divided soul.
Being around so many young people had reset Montoya’s internal clock, and over dinner he regaled them with stories of his exploits as a boy in Mexico. His father worked at Cuautémoc day and night, and his mother was distracted with cooking and cleaning, leaving him free to roam the streets. His first business was shining shoes while wearing sunglasses and pretending to be blind, asking his patrons to pick out the right color of polish, acting like he was working by touch. For a while he worked for a woman who sold fruit and vegetables in the city market that her husband had “liberated” from other people’s farms the night before. From there he moved to collecting empty brand-name liquor bottles to sell to a bootlegger who would refill them with homemade imitations and seal them with a counterfeit stamp. “And,” Montoya said, “I’ve been in the alcohol business ever since.”
After dinner Cole washed the dishes while Susan dried. “Are all those stories true?” he asked.
“Probably, more or less. He doesn’t tell them that often, and they never change.”
“You knew this stuff when you were kids? And it didn’t tempt you into a life of crime?”
“The thing is, he never did anything terribly wrong. He never told people he was blind, he let them draw their own conclusions. He didn’t steal the fruit himself, he just moved it around. He did what he had to do without directly hurting anyone else.” Once again Cole suspected that reefs lurked under the surface of the conversation. As if to confirm it, she said, “Let’s sit outside. You can bring your guitar.”
The evening chill felt good after the heat of the kitchen. Cole quietly played “Cielito lindo” with his fingers. Susan lit a Kool and puffed at it nervously. “I’m thinking about getting married,” she said.
Cole stopped playing. It was like a stranger had vaulted the back fence. “Who to?”
“There’s a guy in one of my classes. His name’s Jesse. He’s older. He was in Vietnam for two years and now he’s finishing school on the gi Bill.”
“Jesus, Susan, a Vietnam vet?”
“There’s nothing wrong with serving your country.”
Cole had nothing against Vietnam veterans other than the fact that he would never willingly be one in a million years. Now that turned out to be what Susan wanted to marry. “Does your father know?”
“I haven’t told him anything yet.”
Cole hesitated, then said, “Do you love him?”
“Tit for tat, eh, Cole? To quote a friend of the family, there’s love… and there’s love.” She looked like she was about to cry.
“When?”
“Christmas. He graduates in December and he’s already got a job lined up in Oklahoma City. We’ll have the wedding in Guanajuato so he can meet all the relatives.”
“So you won’t graduate?”
“What’s the point? Daddy only sent me here to find a husband, and I’ve found one.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re at least as smart as Alex. You could do anything.”
“I was brought up to cook and run a household and raise babies. Not to go to college for four years and law school for another three and then study to pass the bar and then fight my way into a law firm.”
“Is that what you want to do? Go to law school?”
“Oh, Cole, I don’t know. I think sometimes that if there is anything I truly care about, it’s justice. That if I could, I would help other people, immigrants, maybe, or poor people. If I had the strength to push myself up that incredibly steep hill.”
“Wait for me,” Cole said, startling himself.
“What did you say?”
“You don’t love this guy. Cut him loose and finish college. In a couple of years I’ll be rich and famous and I’ll put you through law school.”
“Oh, Cole,” she said, and ruffled his hair like she would a six-year-old’s. “You’re so sweet, and so full of it.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“I’m sure. I wish I had your faith in me. I wish Daddy did.”
“Why don’t we ask him? Right now. Ask him if he’ll send you to law school. I know he’ll say yes.”
“Cole, don’t you dare. He’s not the problem, I am. I can’t ask him for something like that if I’m not a hundred percent certain I can deliver.”
“Will you think about not marrying this guy? Like, seriously think about it?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “And in the meantime, you have to promise not to say a word about any of it. Not law school, not Jesse. Not to Alex, not to my father, not to anybody. Promise me.”
Cole slumped against the porch railing. “Oh, all right. I promise.”
“Play ‘Cielito lindo’ again,” she said. “That was beautiful.”
*
Nine o’clock Saturday morning. They had already checked out of the motel, and they met the realtor at the house. Blonde, late thirties, in a blazer with a logo on the pocket. Cole resisted the temptation to bring his guitar inside to test the acoustics. No point in freaking her out. He and Alex left Montoya to get the formal tour and explored on their own.
The top floor featured three bedrooms. The one on the north front corner had a spectacular view of the Tower and the tree-lined streets around it. “How do we decide who gets it?” Alex asked. “One hand of five-card stud?”
“It’s yours,” Cole said. “I want the one in back.” He could see the old clothesline from there, and clusters of trees.
At the foot of the stairs, Cole opened a door and saw another flight leading down. “Alejo, check it out.”
The basement had the same square footage as the upstairs, with damp cinderblock walls and barely seven feet of clearance between the overhead joists and the unfinished concrete floor. “Oh man,” Alex said. “Practice room.”
“Egg cartons or blankets on the walls to deaden the sound. Except—” He p
ointed to a drain in the floor. “—that it obviously floods down here. We’ll need a sump pump.”
Minor cracks in the walls, nothing serious. A washer and dryer, in good condition, sat in one corner. “Two-twenty,” Cole said. “No one-ten.”
“Put it on the list,” Alex said.
“Boys?” Montoya’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “You ready?”
As they drove away, Montoya said, “It’s pricey, but it looks like a good investment. I need to get an inspector in there that I can trust. If he likes it, I think we can make it happen.”
“Fantastic,” Cole said.
“Here’s the deal. If you guys want to live there, it’s a business proposition. You would each have a room, and there are two more bedrooms that need to be rented out. Alex, your job would be to find responsible young men to rent the rooms and to collect the rent every month. Cole, you would be in charge of maintenance. I would expect you to fix the stuff you can, and call in a professional for the stuff you can’t, deducting the cost from the income that Alex collects. I would expect both of you to do that on top of your schoolwork, your social life, and any musical activities.”
Cole, riding shotgun, looked over the seat to see how Alex was taking it. Not well, he thought. Montoya was single-minded and relentless, and the agenda at the core of the deal was not exactly hidden. Alex made his give-me-a-break face and stared out the window. “Yeah, okay,” he said.
“Cole?”
“Sounds great,” he said. “It’s a beautiful house.”
“We’ll see,” Montoya said, pleased with himself again. “We’ll see.”
*
In April, kvil, which floated somewhere between easy listening and pop, started playing rock on its fm affiliate after the am station went off the air at sunset. Cole had bought himself a Panasonic am/fm portable the size of a kid’s lunchbox to replace his pocket transistor radio, and one night he chanced upon a cheesy Farfisa organ, distorted guitar, and nasal voice singing about “sweet Loraine.” The band turned out to be something called Country Joe and the Fish from San Francisco. The dj was Ron David McCoy and the program was called The Psychedelic Hour. McCoy followed up with another San Francisco band called the Grateful Dead, with more cheesy organ and bubbling guitar and snappy drums and nasal singing. Cole felt like he’d tuned into a transmission from another dimension. His heart was beating fast. The music was dangerous, defiantly careless, willfully atonal, and it flaunted its shanghaied blues roots. Next was The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band singing “If You Want This Love of Mine.” Cole grabbed his guitar and figured out the song as it played.
He ignored his urge to run down the hall and tell Alex about it. He wasn’t sure why. For the moment, he wanted this new music all to himself.
*
May was ap testing the first two weeks and finals the last week. The Chevelles played three and four nights a week for proms, private parties, and events like the Senior Follies Dance. Cole saw Janet for hurried sex on a Saturday afternoon while her mother was grocery shopping, or for a weeknight hamburger and a detour by White Rock Lake. Phone calls, movies, and walks in Lee Park had all fallen off the agenda.
Her frustration had started to show. “This summer is the last time we’re going to have together for who knows how long. Is this what it’s going to be like?”
“Of course not,” Cole said. As long as he kept moving, he felt invulnerable. The band sounded as good as anybody on the radio. He was acing his tests. When he got the chance to sleep, he slept deeply and didn’t remember his dreams. “It’s graduation time. Every band in town is booked solid.”
“I don’t even feel like a person when we’re together. I feel like an inflatable sex toy or something.”
“Oh, you feel much better than that,” Cole said.
“I can’t tell you,” Janet said, “how not funny that is.”
The Final Assembly was at 11 am on Memorial Day, a Tuesday, the end of the school year, other than graduation the following night. Cole had hated school since kindergarten, and he’d been waiting for this day ever since. He and Alex rode home together in the Monza, and they were both crazy with joy. The radio played “Somebody to Love” by the Jefferson Airplane and Cole reached over to turn it up. Alex grinned maniacally and turned it up some more. Cole cranked it all the way, until it was pounding inside his head, impossibly loud. They had the windows down and Cole stuck his head and shoulders out, then both arms. He turned and began to pound out the beat on the roof of the car. He and Alex screamed along in harmony, and drivers all around them pointed and laughed and Cole wondered if the rest of his life would be like this.
They were still singing along, now to “Friday on My Mind” by the Easybeats, Cole more or less back in the car and drumming on the dashboard instead of the roof, when they turned off Walnut Hill and Cole saw Janet’s vw parked in front of the Montoyas’ house. She was sitting on the hood, arms folded over her chest.
Alex turned the radio off. “Uh oh,” he said.
“Let me out here,” Cole said. “You go on inside.”
“Yell if you need reinforcements.”
Cole got out and watched Alex park behind the garage. He was suddenly conscious of his St. Mark’s uniform, the blue, short-sleeved oxford shirt and gray slacks that had finally replaced Ban-Lon and khakis. Janet had never seen him in it and he was embarrassed by it.
He walked around to the front of the vw. She wore a long, flowered dress and a hippie headband that he’d never seen before. Her face was devoid of makeup. From her expression, he knew not to reach for her. “What’s wrong?” he said.
“We need to talk.”
“Okay.” Standing in one place let his body complain about how tired he was, so he sat on the curb. “Talk to me.”
She looked off into the distance and said, “I thought I could do this and now I don’t know.”
Cole knew then that it was going to be serious. “Did something happen?” he asked.
“Kind of. I guess, yes.”
Cole shut up and waited her out. Eventually she said, “Woody called. A couple of weeks ago. At first I didn’t want to talk to him, but he convinced me he’d changed.”
Cole, who tended to jealous rage at the first mention of Woody’s name, was strangely calm. Janet said that Woody had ridden out to San Francisco on his motorcycle and dropped acid and confronted his “negative self,” which appeared to him like a color negative, all glowing oranges and blue-grays. After a long struggle, the negative Woody was banished and the positive Woody was cleansed and renewed. He’d come back to Dallas and gotten a custodial job at Timberlawn psychiatric hospital. He was going to study so that he could counsel people who’d od’d or had bad trips. Along the way he’d realized that he was in love with Janet and wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. She had, reluctantly, taken acid with Woody on Sunday night. They had made love and she had seen that, like it or not, she was karmically linked to Woody in a way she never would be to Cole.
Cole, after resisting one sarcastic comment after another, found himself at the end with nothing to say. He searched Janet’s face for the girl he had loved, at times to the point of desperation, for the last nine months. He hadn’t known her at all. This other person, so easily swept away by a little crackpot spirituality, had been there all along. He could insult her by asking if she really intended to marry a janitor, or mock her drug-induced insights, or try to shame her for cheating on him. Or, he realized, he could accept that what she had wanted was to be loved wholeheartedly for who she really was, which Cole had managed intermittently at best.
“I’m sorry,” Cole said at last. “I’m sorry I didn’t treat you better.”
“It doesn’t matter. We both did the best we could.”
Cole stood up, torn between feelings of liberation and terrible loss. Janet held out her arms and Cole lifted her down from the car. She moved in to hug him, and without Cole intending it, suddenly they were kissing, passionately, her tears running do
wn into their mouths. Cole’s emotions flipped again and he thought about the back of the hearse, only a few yards away.
Janet suddenly broke away and Cole let her go. She was smiling, a smile that Cole knew well. “Okay,” she said. “Point taken.” Then she was crying again. “This is hard,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”
Cole took a step toward her and she held out her hands to stop him. She got in the car, backed up, and swerved around him as she drove away.
Eventually Cole went to the cabana and changed into swim trunks and began swimming laps. At some point he saw Alex standing by the shallow end and he stood up.
“What was that about?” Alex said.
“Woody’s back,” Cole said.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. She picked that loser over you?” Alex was genuinely affronted.
“It’s better this way,” Cole said.
They looked at each other. They were nearly men now. Questions that they didn’t know to ask as boys were now off-limits. Alex was close to the line when he asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m free now,” Cole said. He lowered himself into the water and began to swim again.
*
They were in dinner jackets, seated in folding chairs on risers on the Memorial Auditorium stage, where the Beatles had played in September of 1964. The lights were in their eyes, preventing them from seeing the audience. Cole knew the Montoya family was out there, including Susan and Jimmy, and he knew this was important for Alex’s father, so he tried to maintain his bearing when he felt the urge to jeer at the valedictory promises of how he would look back on his St. Mark’s years as the best of his life.
He and Alex had shared a joint and then each had brought his own car downtown. Alex was going to a party at Brad Potter’s house afterward, where The Chevelles had played their first gig and he’d kissed Janet for the first time. Cole had remained mysterious about his own plans.
The ceremony finally dragged itself to the end. Clutching their leather-bound diplomas, they began to file offstage in alphabetical order, one column down each of the two carpeted aisles, walking to the slow cadence of “Pomp and Circumstance” as it blared over the sound system.
