by Laura McNeal
Mick blurted, “No! That’s not right! The truth is the truth.”
His sudden vehemence surprised him and seemed to surprise Nora, too. She looked at her hands for a few seconds, then looked up at Mick. Softly she said, “Is there something wrong, Mick?”
He let a few seconds pass, until he was sure he had his flat voice back. “Not that I know of,” he said. “Why? Am I missing something?” He kept his eyes sullen.
Nora remained on the third step. She stood perfectly still for perhaps ten seconds, staring evenly at Mick, then without a word she turned and went up the stairs. Mick listened as she went first to her room, then to the bathroom. The water pipes made a shuddering sound when she turned on the shower.
Ten minutes later she came back downstairs. She was barefoot, her hair was wet, and she was wearing beige denims and a loose blue top. She went into the kitchen without saying a word to Mick.
Mick wasn’t sure why he did what he did next. It was just something he couldn’t keep himself from doing. He went upstairs to the bathroom and quietly closed the door after him. It was an old door, and locked with an old-fashioned long-stemmed key. Mick locked it. Then he opened the wicker hamper where dirty clothes were tossed. Nora’s underwear was on top.
Over the years and without really meaning to, Mick had learned the basic patterns of Nora’s underwear use. Normally she wore white cotton briefs and plain back-closure bras, but she had a few sets of fancier underwear she seemed to save for special occasions. What she’d worn today was some of the special-occasion underwear, a black bra with matching brief. Each had fancy lacy scallops at the edges, and when Mick held the bra in his hand he could see right through it.
He stared at the underwear a long time before dropping it back on top and closing the hamper. Then he made appropriate sound effects—flushing the toilet, running water at the wash-basin—before coming downstairs. He phoned Reece from the kitchen, where Nora was slicing carrots to go with the pork chops. “I’m taking Foolish to the park now,” he told Reece.
“Which park?” Reece said.
“Thornden,” Mick said.
He grabbed his jacket from the sofa and headed for the backyard to leash Foolish.
“Dinner’s at six,” Nora called after him.
Mick pretended not to hear.
Mick had been tossing Frisbees to Foolish for about ten minutes before Reece ambled up. He was a big kid who gave a general impression of looseness. His Nikes were untied, his flannel shirt was untucked, and he’d made slow walking part of his personal code of conduct. “You walk fast, and citizens might erroneously believe you’ve bought into the system,” he once told Mick.
Today he sat on a tabletop with his feet on the bench and said, “So our own Mick Nichols is gainfully employed.”
Mick grinned and waited for Foolish to set the Frisbee at his feet.
Reece said, “You know what you are now? Part of the working class. One more lump folded into the buttery batter.”
Mick gave a little laugh and tossed the Frisbee in a long slicing arc that ended with Foolish snatching it from the sky. It was hot in the sun. Mick shed his leather jacket and laid it on the table beside Reece.
A few tosses later, Reece said, “What’s this?”
Mick turned. Reece was holding the green floppy disk, turning it over in his hand. Mick’s first impulse was to say, “None of your business, put it back,” but he knew that would only feed Reece’s interest. He tried to sound matter-of-fact. “It’s the second draft of my muckraker essay,” he lied, “which I can’t lose, because I already lost it once.”
As Mick spoke, Reece studied him closely. “Then why didn’t you label it?”
Mick gave the Frisbee a casual toss. “Because I know what it is.” Then he turned to his friend. “Also where it is, so if you wouldn’t mind zipping it back into the pocket . . .”
Reece was still regarding the disk when something beyond Mick caught his eye. Reece sat transfixed, staring. Finally he said in a low voice, “Okay. Incoming at three o’clock. Two females. Really, really excellent bazongas.”
Mick gave the girls a quick glance—they carried heavy textbooks, wore long SU T-shirts over cutoff denim shorts, and were spreading out a blanket in the sun. Mick turned back around. “College girls,” he said.
Reece was undeterred. He kept staring. A half minute passed, and then he said, “I urge you to take another look, Mickman.”
Mick did. The girls had pulled off their shirts and were sitting now in denim cutoffs and bikini tops. They were putting on sunscreen. Reece said, “Throw the Frisbee over there.”
Mick said, “That would be impressive.”
Reece stared at the girls fixedly. “Okay. Let’s go talk to them.”
Mick had to laugh. “They’re five years older than us, Reece. And this is not to mention the fact that you and I don’t go up and talk to girls of that caliber, ever.”
Reece gave it some thought and said, “I read in one of Mr. Reece’s psychology books that lots of women secretly crave younger men.” Mr. and Mrs. Reece were Reece’s joke terms for his parents.
Mick laughed again. “You’re not a man, kiddo. You’re a Reececake.”
Reece said nothing but kept staring. Finally he said, “Okay, I’ll go alone.”
“You, Winston Reece, are going to go over there and talk to them alone?”
“That’s right,” Reece said. “In fact, I’m already gone,” and he was. He shambled directly toward the girls until he got within perhaps twenty yards of them and then veered abruptly toward the water fountain, where he took a quick drink before returning to the picnic table. Mick was grinning hugely. “How’d that go?” he said.
“You know who that is?” Reece said.
“Lorena Bobbitt?”
“That’s rich,” Reece said without smiling.
Mick, still grinning, said, “Okay. Who?”
“Myra Vidal and Pam Crozier.”
This was news. Myra Vidal and Pam Crozier had graduated from Jemison High two years earlier and had gotten a lot of publicity as “the brainy beauty queens.” The brainy part came from their 4.0s, but the beauty part got them the press. In her senior year Myra had won the Miss Jemison Beauty Contest, but wouldn’t accept the position unless she could share it with Pam, who’d been runner-up. The contest people, sensing good publicity, acceded, and both Mick and Reece had watched mesmerized as Pam and Myra had stood in minimal swimsuits waving easily from the City of Commerce float in the Jemison Fourth of July parade.
Mick flung the Frisbee, its long hanging trail of doggy saliva reflected in the sunlight. He said, “So Pam and Myra’s major-babe reputation was too much for the Reececake.”
Reece smiled. “That’s correct. Froze him solid. Popsicle City.”
Mick watched Foolish trotting back with his Frisbee. Foolish’s life was simple. He ate, he slept, he fetched Frisbees. He never read other people’s e-mails. He never judged people on the basis of their secret sex lives. He never worried what people thought of him. Mick said, “What would it pay if I went over and talked to those girls?”
Reece gave him a look. “Depends. Zippo, if you’re just going to go over there and ask what time it is.” Mick had done that once before to collect this kind of bet.
“No. I mean, what would it pay if I go actually talk to them.”
Reece narrowed his gaze. “We’d be talking a five-minute minimum.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Reece began to get interested. “And what’s our A.O.? We’ve got to have an attainable objective.”
Mick laughed. “Getting Myra Vidal and Pam Crozier to give plebes like us five minutes of their time is the objective.”
But Reece was shaking his head. “Negative on that. Our A.O. is a phone number. You need to go over there and get one of their telephone numbers.”
Mick chuckled. “Reece, dudester and good buddy, I hate to be the one to tell you, but this is a reality-based show.”
Reece was unfaze
d. He said, “Here’s the deal. Five bucks for a minimum five-minute conversation. Twenty for a phone number.” He grinned at Mick. “Okay?”
Mick knew the one thing he shouldn’t do was think about this too much. “Okay,” he said.
“But you pay me five for a failure-to-approach. Okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyeing the girls at the far side of the field, “okay. Five bucks for an F.T.A.”
He swung his jacket over his shoulder and headed over in the direction of Pam Crozier and Myra Vidal, with Foolish and Reece close behind. “What’re you going to say?” Reece said.
Mick didn’t answer. He had no idea what he was going to say.
From behind, Reece said, “I mean, aren’t you supposed to have . . . you know . . . like an opening line?”
The who-cares-anyway attitude that Mick had set out with was quickly slipping away from him. He began to feel more like himself, and the one thing he knew he wasn’t was the kind of person who strolls up to beautiful girls to strike up casual conversations.
His heart began to pound wildly.
Mick’s father had a saying for putting problems into perspective. “It ain’t my wife and it ain’t my life.”
It’s not Lisa Doyle, Mick thought. It’s not Lisa Doyle.
This helped only a little.
He was closer now, within thirty feet, entering the no-turnaround zone. At any moment Pam Crozier and Myra Vidal would sense his presence and look up.
It’s not Lisa Doyle, it’s not Lisa Doyle.
They looked up.
Mick tried to smile. Sweat seemed all at once to pop from every pore of his body. He opened his mouth and tried to say, “Hi,” but his throat had tightened and it came out more like a croak.
Myra Vidal and Pam Crozier stared at the croaking boy. They didn’t speak or smile.
Mick was having a hard time breathing. He turned to the one with dark hair and olive skin and said, “You’re Myra Vidal, right?”
She nodded. She waited. So did everybody else. Mick could feel it. Suddenly he said, “Do you know Alexander Selkirk?”
Myra Vidal cocked her head quizzically. “Who?”
“Alexander Selkirk.”
“Alexander Selkirk,” Myra said. She said it slowly, as if searching it for a taste.
Mick said, “The reason I ask is he says he knows you.”
Myra said, “Who’s Alexander Selkirk?”
“This older guy who says he knows you.”
“How much older?”
Mick took a deep breath. It felt good to take a deep breath. It was as if for the past minute or two he hadn’t been breathing at all. He said, “Well, he’s about my stepmother’s age and she’s thirty-one.”
“And he says he knows me?”
Suddenly, in spite of—maybe even because of—Myra’s confusion, Mick began to feel better, almost calm, in fact. “That’s right. Alexander Selkirk said he knows you intimately.”
Myra stared in disbelief, but Pam Crozier broke into a laugh. “Sister woman! You’ve been holding out on me! Have you got a cute little old-timer tucked away in a cupboard?”
Mick could see Myra’s face moving from disbelief to anger. He himself felt weirdly composed. In a matter-of-fact voice he said, “The reason I came over to talk to you is because when I heard Alexander Selkirk say that he knew you intimately, I had a feeling he was lying. I remembered how nice you seemed and he’s kind of a donkey.”
Myra’s face relaxed. It was a dazzlingly pretty face. “You were right,” she said. “He was lying.”
Pam Crozier said, “But Myra’s not as nice as she seems.”
Demurely Myra said, “As a matter of fact, I am. Possibly nicer.”
Mick wasn’t sure what he was going to say next, but Myra saved him. She said, “Can I throw the Frisbee for your dog?”
Pam evidently didn’t like this idea. “My-ra,” she said in a low mock whine. “What are you doing?”
“Throwing a dog a Frisbee is what. Making some doggy happiness.”
When Myra reached for the Frisbee, Mick glimpsed between her breasts all the way to her flat stomach. “Frisbee’s kind of mungy,” he said.
“I don’t mind mung,” Myra said.
She threw the Frisbee in a long graceful arc that Foolish caught up with at the shady end of the field. “Wow,” Myra said quietly.
While Myra kept throwing Frisbees, Pam lay on the blanket reading from her textbook—The Economics of Child Labor in the Industrial Age—and Mick and Reece stood there not knowing what to do with themselves. Reece kept sneaking glances at one or another set of breasts. Mick tried to focus his attention on Foolish. Finally Pam said, “I guess you guys can sit down if you want.”
Mick and Reece both nodded and sat. Myra threw another Frisbee, and Pam turned toward Mick and Reece. She’d shifted onto her side, which had a plumpening effect on her breasts. “So do you guys live around here, or what?”
They both nodded. Mick kept his eyes fixed on hers, but he sensed Reece’s eyes were wandering.
“You go to Melville or Jemison?” she said.
“Sophomores at Jemison,” Mick said, but he was thinking, Melville? We look like middle schoolers?
Myra sat back down, and Foolish lay down nearby, panting. To Pam she said, “So, what’d you find out about these individuals?”
Pam shrugged. “Sophomores. Carless and clueless.”
Myra said, “Oh, I don’t know. I adored sophomore year. And eighth grade was even better.”
Pam flicked a glance at Mick. “For Myra, eighth grade was a twofer. She had a hot boyfriend and developed mammillation.”
Mick made a mental note to look up mammillation.
“We walked everywhere,” Myra said. “When you walk, you talk. It was kind of nice.” She scanned her smile from Mick to Reece. “So what’re your names?”
“Mick Nichols.”
Reece pried his eyes from Pam Crozier, who’d resumed reading. “Reece,” he said. “Winston Reece.”
“Winston?” Myra said.
“After that Churchill guy. My mother thinks Churchill was a big deal.”
Pam looked up from her book and said, “Yeah, well, she’s right. When the BBC, the London Times, and Neville Chamberlain all said, ‘Appease Mr. Hitler,’ Churchill said, ‘Resist.’ ” She suddenly fixed her eyes on Reece. “You were named after the possibly greatest man of the twentieth century,” she said, “but that still doesn’t give you the right to keep staring at my mammary glands.”
A laugh burst from Myra, then from Mick and finally Reece. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that—”
“You’re just a hungry boy at the smorgasbord?” Pam said quickly, which drew more laughs at Reece’s expense. As the laughter dimmed, a faint partial melody sounded.
Reece’s cell phone was ringing, but it wasn’t a ring. It was the first few bars of “Strangers in the Night,” which, when he’d selected it, had seemed hilarious. Now it didn’t so much, and Reece was trying to pretend it didn’t exist. From one of his baggy front pant pockets the muted dooby-dooby-do notes kept sounding, again and again. Finally Pam said, “Is that your cell phone, or do you have a tiny orchestra where your penis should be?”
Mick couldn’t help laughing. Reece’s cheeks flamed red for a moment, but then he was laughing, too, and reaching for the phone.
“Yeah,” he answered, and when he turned away from the group, Mick knew it was his mother checking up on him. “The park,” he said. “With Mick.” Long silences followed with Reece now and then murmuring, “Okay.” Just before hanging up, he said, “Oh-kay, I’ll tell him.”
“Tell who what?” Pam said, grinning.
Reece looked sheepish. “Tell Mick he’s invited to dinner.”
“A dinner invitation!” Pam said. She turned to Mick. “Winston wants to take you home to meet his mother! Do you accept?”
Mick played along. “Depends. What are they serving?”
Pam turned quickly to Reece. “What are they
serving?”
“Polish sausage and other stuff.”
To Mick, Pam said, “Polish sausage and other stuff.”
“Sure,” Mick said. “Why not?”
“Good! That’s settled. Now, what about us? Are Myra and I invited?”
Reece gave her a brightening look of real surprise. “Sure. Do you want to come?”
Pam grinned. “No. But it was polite of you to ask.”
They laughed and then there was a lull, but it didn’t feel like an awkward lull. Clouds that had been massing to the east were now directly overhead, and when one of them passed in front of the sun, Mick shivered and wondered if he could put his jacket back on. Myra, evidently following his gaze, pointed to it. “So here’s what I want to know. Whose jacket is that, where’d you get it, and what’d it cost?”
Mick said, “Mine, Plan B, and eighty bucks.”
“Can I try it on?”
She slipped it on and left it unbuttoned. Mick and Reece sat imprinting the image in their memories. Pam said, “God, Myra, you look like this year’s Harley calendar.”
Myra smiled and began to take it off.
Mick said quietly, “If you want it, you can have it.”
Myra looked at him. She didn’t speak, but her look said, You mean it?
He nodded. He meant it. He said, “Looks a lot better on you than me.” This was true, it did look pretty great on her, but it wasn’t just that. If she took the coat, she’d take the green disk, too, and maybe he could just forget it ever existed.
But Myra was shrugging out of the coat. “Nope,” she said, and for the first time gave him such a thorough look that Mick thought he could feel it going through him. Then she said, “It’s incredibly sweet of you to offer, but nope.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Finally Mick said, “Well, it was nice of you guys to talk to us.” They didn’t say anything, so he said, “I guess we’d better go now.”
He stood, and Foolish and Reece stood, too. They’d started to move away when Pam said, “You know, just so you could start getting in the habit of it, you should’ve asked us for our phone numbers.”
They turned. Mick said, “Okay. Would you give us your phone numbers?”
“No,” Pam said, “but it was definitely worth a try.”
