by Laura McNeal
“In the shower,” Mick said.
“And how are you feeling?”
“A little better, I guess, but about the same.”
“You guys just going to stay home then?”
“I don’t know. Dad said something about O’Doul’s.”
“Well, don’t overdo it. You’ve got that job interview in the morning.”
The job interview. Village Greens. Mick had forgotten all about it, and said so.
“So what do you think,” Nora asked, “are you up for it?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Take my word, kiddo. This is something the boy Maestro should do.”
“I might go if I feel okay,” Mick said, and suddenly realized how much he hated the Maestro thing. It’d always been over the top, something he didn’t deserve, but now it grated on him because it seemed connected to Nora’s bigger bogusness.
“I already called their personnel office, so they’re expecting you,” Nora said. “I can drive you if you want.”
“Sounds like you really want me out of the house this summer,” Mick said, but this merely drew a chuckle from Nora. “Trust me on this one, Maestro. I’m looking after your interests here. So should I plan on driving you?”
“It’s not that far,” Mick said. “If I go, I’ll just walk.” Then, he couldn’t help himself: “Do you think you could stop calling me Maestro?”
Nora seemed shocked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s not true. And I don’t like it.”
“Sure,” she said.
There was a long silence.
His father came into the room wet-haired and smelling of soap. He silently mouthed, Who?
“Nora,” Mick said, and handed over the phone.
“Hello, missus,” his father said in a low pleasant voice. “You staying away from the sailors?”
Whatever Nora replied at the other end of the line made his father laugh. Then in his ever-cheery voice he said, “You’d better think that through, sister.”
After his father had hung up, Mick said, “Think what through?”
His father laughed. “Guess the teachers are talking up sailing an outrigger to Polynesia.” He winked at Mick. “I’ve met those teachers. Most of them couldn’t sail their way to the deep end of a swimming pool.”
He grabbed his grungy green raincoat and said, “I’ve got to quick re-cover the leak, and then we can go. Be right back.” It was raining again—a hard, cold, wintry rain—and there was a leak in the garage roof. Until it could be fixed, his father had been covering it with heavy black plastic weighted with bricks. He left the extension ladder leaning against the roof for ready access.
“I can help,” Mick said, more out of politeness than anything else, but his father waved him off. “Not when you’re feeling lousy. Besides, it’ll just take a second.” He pulled up the hood of his raincoat before he stepped out the back door.
The coat was eight years old. Mick knew that because it was eight years ago, in the fall, that his mother had left Jemison to take the so-called temporary job in San Francisco. After the divorce papers came in the mail, Mick’s father seemed to walk around in a daze, like this was a bolt from the blue, and then there was the custody hearing. One night Mick’s father came into Mick’s room and told him he might have to go in front of a judge and say whether he’d rather be with his mother or his father, but then his father’s face had contorted like he was going to cry, something Mick had never seen his father do, and his father turned and left the room.
It had rained the day of the hearing. Before his father went into the courtroom he took off the green raincoat—new then— and had Mick hold it for him. Mick sat around outside the courtroom waiting to be called in, but he never was. After a while— not very long really—his father and his father’s attorney came out together. Mick was sitting in a chair with the raincoat laid over his lap, and they walked right past him and stopped with their backs to him maybe ten feet away. The attorney’s voice swelled with triumph, but Mick could tell from his father’s stillness and rounded shoulders that he was in a serious mood. “My God,” the attorney said, “that was an effing piece of cake. She didn’t even show. In this state, if you’re going to win a custody case, you’ve got to effing show.” That was when Mick’s father had turned around, and his eyes met Mick’s.
“Let’s talk about this later,” Mick’s father said to the attorney, but the attorney said, “You know, given the money she’s bringing in, we’re gonna get some big-time child support out of her.”
Mick’s father was still staring at Mick when he said, “No, we’re not. We don’t need her money. Not one penny.” They’d been quiet on the ride home, but after his father parked the car in the driveway, he’d said something. He didn’t look at Mick. He’d stared straight ahead, and in a low voice he’d said, “We’ll be all right, you and me. We’ll be fine.” On the console between them, there was a tube of butterscotch Life Savers, his mother’s favorites. His father peeled back the wrapper and offered Mick one, but Mick had to look away from it to keep from crying. “No, thanks,” he said, and they’d both sat in the car a long time before getting out.
Tonight, the back door opened and his father stepped inside, unzipping the old green raincoat, which was dripping wet. He grabbed his new red one from the hall tree and grinned at Mick. “O’Doul’s then?” he said, and Mick said, “Sure, Dad,” and followed him out to the car.
Mick had always figured his father’s being surprised by his mother’s leaving was because his mother had been quiet about her changing feelings or maybe even sly about them, but now Mick wondered something else. He wondered if it wasn’t because his father just hadn’t been paying attention.
Usually at O’Doul’s, Mick played foosball casually, letting his father win as many as he lost. But that was when things had been normal, and now they weren’t. Tonight something funny had come over Mick. From the beginning, he played intensely and not only won every game, but won decisively. He was trying, he realized suddenly, to get his father’s attention, to make him play harder, maybe even get a little mad, but his father never did. He smiled through every loss, and when they were done he said, “Well, I guess all it takes is a little food poisoning to turn you into a crackerjack foosball player.”
CHAPTER THREE
Older Boys
When field hockey practice ended on Friday, Lisa Doyle and Janice Bledsoe headed for the bus loop to wait for Janice’s mother, who was always late.
“I’m sick of field hockey already,” Janice said, zipping her parka. “Why do we have to practice in the off-season?”
Lisa shrugged. She was tired, too. And cold. The clouds overhead were dark and rumpled, like the sky in a landscape painting. She rubbed her arms inside her sweatshirt and wished she’d changed out of her field hockey shorts. “So how’d you know to wear a coat?” Lisa asked. “It was sunny this morning.”
“Weatherdude,” Janice said. “Very watchable weatherdude on CBS.”
A fat drop of rain spattered on the sidewalk, then another.
“Mother,” Janice said impatiently, jiggling her legs. “Where art thou?”
From the gymnasium behind them came the dull clunk of a metal door. It was a compact, muscular guy wearing baggy pants, a tight, striped T-shirt, and no coat, in spite of the weather. “I think it’s Popeye the Sailor Man,” Janice said, but Lisa recognized the approaching face.
“It’s the wrestling guy from three years ago,” she said. “His picture’s all over the trophy case.”
Lisa looked away, but Janice didn’t. She stared frankly, waited until he got within ten feet of them, and said, “Hey, are you the wrestling guy?”
He was handsome, Lisa had to admit. Buff and handsome. But older, maybe twenty or twenty-one. He stopped and, smiling, let his eyes settle first on Lisa, then Janice. He seemed to be chewing something. “I wrestled a little, yeah.”
“I never wrestled,” Janice said. She was using her zingy voice, the one Lisa knew she sa
ved for serious flirting. “Is it fun?”
The wrestling guy kept his smile and made a slow blink. “Depends who you’re wrestling with.”
This was smoothly suggestive, and while Janice laughed some emotion quickened within Lisa, but it wasn’t a pleasant one.
“What’re those?” Janice said, staring down at the stack of yellow papers he held in his hand.
“Job flyers,” he said, and peeled off two, one for each of them, and upon looking it over Janice let out a jingly laugh. “We already saw these. In fact, we’d already decided to apply. You going to be there?”
While replying to Janice he looked at Lisa. “Wouldn’t miss it.” From between his lips a small pink bubble appeared, expanded, and abruptly snapped back into his mouth. Then—it took him a while to free his eyes from Lisa—he said to Janice, “Maybe I’ll see you Saturday, then.”
The raindrops, which had been fat and scattered, now began to fall in real volume. The wrestling guy turned to walk away, had in fact taken a few steps when Janice said, “So what’s your name?”
He stopped and smiled. “Maurice.”
A strange nervous chuckle escaped from Janice. “Maurice?” she said.
Very calmly Maurice nodded. Rain streamed down his face. “That’s right. Maurice.”
Janice said, “Well, could we just call you Maury? Or maybe Mo?”
In slow succession Maurice winked, widened his smile, and said in a low, calm voice, “No.”
He walked away.
They watched him go.
He got into a customized black Honda.
“Okay,” Janice said when he’d closed the door, “that was definitely the closest I’ve ever come to a hands-off orgasm.”
“Ja-nice! Eeee-yew.” Lisa squinched her nose comically, but the truth was Janice’s blunt talk bothered her. “Besides, that guy is a yikes. A complete reptile.”
Janice turned to Lisa with what looked like genuine surprise. “Are you kidding, Leeze? Those eyes could melt butter.” Then, looking over Lisa’s shoulder toward the street, “Finally—here comes the mother ship.”
Down the block, Mrs. Bledsoe’s vast brown Electra was idling at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Raindrops merged on the pavement and started reflecting the whites and reds of head- and taillights. The Electra began to move, and swung into the far end of the bus loop.
Mrs. Bledsoe’s car smelled peculiar, as always, but it was blissfully warm. It was also a mess. To settle herself on the backseat, Lisa had to pick up a Mozart CD on which something pink had dribbled, an empty container of Frappuccino, a copy of Ms. magazine, a tape recorder, a pair of sling-back pumps, and a dry-cleaning bag.
“Excuse the detritus,” Mrs. Bledsoe said, flashing her familiar gap-toothed smile over her shoulder at Lisa and then flipping on the windshield wipers. She turned out of the bus loop and up Indian Hill Drive, where, a few blocks farther on, she pulled up at a signal alongside a low-slung black Honda. “Popeye,” Janice said over her shoulder to Lisa, and nodded toward the car.
Lisa glanced over—the rear and side windows were all tinted—and said, “Mr. Lizardo.”
“Who’re we discussing here?” Mrs. Bledsoe said.
“Guy in the Honda,” Janice said. “He used to be a wrestling jock at Jemison.”
Mrs. Bledsoe leaned forward and gave the car a quick study. “And now he expresses his vanity vehicularly.”
Lisa laughed, but Janice didn’t. She said, “And, let’s see, in the world according to Mom, that’s some kind of crime?”
The light changed. “Only if he’s capable of something more than window tinting.” As she pulled ahead of the Honda, Mrs. Bledsoe gave it a last glance. “Okay, I’m going on record here,” she said amiably. “Mr. Honda is a bad bet.”
“Says the mom who really knew how to choose,” Janice said.
Mrs. Bledsoe, who had twice been married and divorced, nodded good-naturedly. “Point to daughter,” she said.
No one said anything for a few moments, and through the back window Lisa watched the Honda slowly splash through a right turn onto a side street. What was weird was how slowly Maurice drove.
Up front, Mrs. Bledsoe said, “I have to exchange a bathrobe at the mall. You girls mind riding along?” The mall was in Syracuse, twenty minutes from Jemison. “When we get there, we’ll probably have to check in at Starbucks for hot chocolate.”
“Yum,” Lisa said.
“Hot chocolate,” Janice said matter-of-factly. “Very Mormon. Makes Lisa feel at home. Very obliging of the mother ship.”
Mrs. Bledsoe grinned and said, “The mother ship will herself partake generously of caffeine.”
“Could we look at shorts afterward?” Janice asked.
“Nyet,” her mother said. “But we could look at job apps. Dog on a Stick is hiring, I heard.”
“Have you even seen the uniforms they wear?” Janice asked, and gave Lisa a grin over her shoulder. “We’d look like a couple of doggy dipsticks! Besides, Lisa and I are on to serious job possibilities at Village Greens.”
Lisa leaned forward over the backseat to get nearer the heat vents and, trying to dispel the bad feeling about Maurice, said, “Healthy outdoor labor. We’re going to be yard girls.”
Mrs. Bledsoe studied a chipped red fingernail as they waited for a red light. “Yard girls, huh?” Her tone was definitely dubious.
Janice began to sing, “Greeeen acres is the place to be, Faaaarm livin’ is the life for me,” and Lisa jumped in with, “Land spreadin’ out so far and wide . . .”
Mrs. Bledsoe interrupted. “You two are going to mow lawns at Village Greens? Have either of you so much as touched a lawn mower before?”
“No,” Janice said. “But the boys can do that. We’ll clip and prune. Rake and sweep. Wave at the old gentlemen.”
“What boys?” Mrs. Bledsoe said.
“The yard boys,” Janice said. “Tanned, buff yard boys.” Then, mock serious, “Hardworking, college-bound boys who would never ever window tint. Which is why we need new shorts.”
“What part of nyet don’t you understand, sweetness?” Mrs. Bledsoe said, and even though her tone was friendly, Lisa could tell that she meant it, and Janice seemed to understand it, too, because she let the matter drop. Probably the issue was money— with Janice and her mom, it usually was.
The windshield wipers went ka-tick ka-tick ka-tick. For no reason she understood, Lisa found herself thinking of a boy she’d been watching lately during sacrament meeting, only he wasn’t really a boy, he was a missionary, which meant he was at least 19, or maybe 20. His name tag said only Elder Keesler—she had no idea what his first name was. Still, once or twice in the past week she’d found herself writing his last name over and over in the same place until KEESLER was impressed in the paper.
Lisa felt the heat on her face and looked out the window at downtown Syracuse. Smith Restaurant Supply. Red turrets like in a gothic movie. Gold brick, gray stone, spires here and there, old concrete, bare trees, wet streets. Elder Keesler was too old for her, Lisa knew, and he was technically off limits while he was an elder, but who else was she supposed to think about? There were no Mormon boys that she liked in Jemison, or even in Syracuse. “Just wait until you get to BYU,” her mother said, but what kind of lame idea was that? Wait until college for your first boyfriend?
“Penny loafer for your thoughts,” Janice said.
“Oh, I was just thinking about something,” Lisa said.
“Something or someone?”
“Someone,” Lisa admitted.
“Gender, please.”
Lisa didn’t really want to talk about it, but Janice was insistent. “Gender, please,” she repeated.
“You could almost say neither,” Lisa said. “He’s a Mormon missionary.”
Janice pounced on this. “Neither? So the Mormonoids neuter their poor missionaries?”
Lisa laughed, but uncomfortably, and in a mild, mock-warning voice Mrs. Bledsoe said, “Play nice, Janice.”
Then she said, “I was just reading that Mormons on average live eight to eleven years longer than your comparable standard-issue American. Why do you think that is, Lisa?”
Lisa gave what she supposed was the right answer: no smoking, no drinking, no caffeine.
“Yeah,” Mrs. Bledsoe said, “researchers chalk some of the actuarial difference up to that, and also to the interconnected-ness of their lives, but some of it they can’t explain.”
Mrs. Bledsoe’s voice trailed off, and it was clear she was lost in her own thoughts.
Lisa stared again out the wet window. No smoking, she thought. No drinking, no caffeine. No boyfriends. No fun.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jeeps
The Village Greens, according to an expensive-looking sign out front, was A RESIDENTIAL COMMUNITY FOR DISCERNING ADULTS 55 OR BETTER. The entrance was marked by elaborate rock columns and ornate black auto gates that were divided by a small, natural-seeming waterfall. Behind the waterfall was a little house right out of Snow White, but the person who stepped out of it as Mick Nichols approached on foot was no dwarf. He was a burly older man in a blue security uniform. “Howdy-ho,” he said.
Mick said, “Hi,” and hoped howdy-ho was not some kind of password.
“You here to apply for one of the maintenance positions?”
Mick said he was, and after giving his name, address, and telephone number, the man asked for some form of ID. Mick showed him his Jemison student card.
“Alrighty then,” the man said. “I’ll call ahead and let ’em know you’re coming.” He pointed off. “Proceed to Narragansett, turn left, and head for the maintenance shed. It’s got a green roof. You can’t miss it.”
Mick could miss it, of course, and did. Village Greens was enormous, with pleasant bungalows nestled among oak trees along streets that curved and meandered in all directions. Occasionally the trees and houses gave way to the wide expansive fairways of a golf course. The day had broken sunny and there were quite a few walkers on the streets, older women in jogging gear mostly, and a number of people—also old—moving quietly along in battery-powered carts. Then Mick came to a large, brown-shingled building with a green metal roof. He tried three different locked doors before the fourth door opened onto a good-sized room with maybe a dozen kids scattered out among folding chairs. A man stood up in front of the blackboard talking, but fell abruptly quiet when Mick came in and slid into the back row. The man picked up his clipboard and ran a pencil down the page. “You must be Mick Nichols,” the man said, and when he looked back at Mick all the kids turned in their seats to look, too.
