Fiddleback 2

by Jeff Vrolyks

  Chapter Eleven

  It had started to rain at dusk despite the forecast. There was a reported zero chance of rain tonight, a thirty-percent chance tomorrow. Timothy was watching a Sacramento Kings game on the little TV in his bedroom, heard the rain drumming on the roof during gaps between game and commercial. His cellphone rang. He got off the bed and went to the dresser, saw it was Eddie. As he answered there was a knock at his bedroom door.

  “Just a second,” he said into the phone and opened the door.

  It was Phyllis, having recently changed into her night gown and robe. “Maybe you ought to go to the barn and be sure the roof isn’t leaking on Edgar’s apartment.”

  “Okay, Grandma.”

  “How’s that dear getting along? His needs met?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s liking it here, I’m pretty sure. I let him borrow my car earlier to go shopping. I have a feeling he’ll stick around.”

  She smiled. “Good to hear. I have a good feeling about that boy. Do me a favor and be sure all his needs are met, the best we can. If he needs something within reason, help him out. If it requires money—and not too much of it—come see me or your grandfather and we’ll help out.”

  “I will, Grandma.”

  She stepped to Timothy and kissed his forehead. “You’re a sweet boy, Timothy. Phillip and I are blessed to have you.”

  “It’s me who’s blessed.”

  She caressed his cheek before walking away. Timothy closed the door and put the phone to his ear, hoping none of his conversation with his grandma had made it to the small speaker of the phone which had been pressed against his stomach.

  “What’s up, Eddie?”

  “Evening, bro. How about the rain, huh? It came down all at once, like someone cut open the clouds.”

  “Is it coming down that hard? Are you in the barn?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are there any leaks up there? Grandma wanted me to check.”

  “No, it’s all good up here. Doing anything?”

  “Watching the King’s game, why?”

  “Want to watch it over here? I could use the company.”

  “Yeah, sure. The rabbit ears work okay, huh? You get the game clear?”

  “Do you guys have some mugs?” Eddie asked, disregarding the question. “Like ones you drink beer in?”

  “Yeah we have some of those. Want me to bring some over? You don’t have beer, do you?”

  “Bring four over if you got them. No, no beer. Come on over.”

  Timothy grabbed his yellow rubber rain jacket and left his bedroom, walked through the living room where his grandparents were sitting side-by-side on the couch, watching the evening news and sipping hot tea. He heard a newscaster mention the SacTown Slayer. He stopped and looked at the TV.

  “Another murder?” Timothy wondered.

  “No, thank heavens,” Phillip said. “They’re talking about that poor gentleman who got it the other day. That Scott fellow.” He sipped his tea with an almost imperceptible shaking of the head, dark brooding eyes.

  “Oh. Thank God.”

  Timothy wished his grandparents weren’t so emotionally vested in the serial killer. It was hard not to be, being that the slayings weren’t just on the national news and local news, but were occurring so near that Timothy could lace up his New Balance walking shoes and visit all nine murder scenes on foot, and be back before midnight. He preferred not to think about the killer. Thinking and worrying wouldn’t capture the killer, so what good was it? Grandpa, being a religious man in spite of the fact that he hadn’t been to church in many years (there was a scandal at his church involving a pastor stealing tithings, and hasn’t since found another church; maybe didn’t want to find another church). Grandpa sometimes quoted scriptures that he had committed to memory back in the days when he looked forward to waking up Sunday mornings and listening to the local pastor preach the gospel. One such verse was something like, “Worry not about the day; let the day worry for itself,” or something like that. Not a lot of bible verses connected with Timothy on a spiritual level, many he didn’t understand, but that one made a lot of sense to him and he leaned on it during times such as these. He did however pray for the serial killer to be caught. Every night in his pajamas before sliding under the comforter and sheets, he’d kneel before his bed and fold his hands together like some Norman Rockwell painting, and give thanks to the Lord for all his blessings, which were many. He’d pray for the families of the recently slain, and finish his prayer by urging God to put an end to the madness that was the SacTown Slayer, if it was His will; but if the killer simply had to kill more people, don’t let it be good people like his grandparents but instead rotten people like Reynold and Max and the old fart who was interviewed on CNN who actually had the nerve to say that it was Sacramento’s fault for the serial killer killing all those people, and found a clever way to build a case for the citizens deserving it. He later retracted the statement, but still…

  He headed toward the kitchen saying, “I’m going to visit Eddie for a while. I’m taking some mugs, if you don’t mind.”

  “Have fun,” Phyllis said mindlessly, her attention on the newscast. “Remember what I said, make him feel at home. Let him want for nothing within reason.”

  “Will do.”

  In the kitchen he could hear the rain coming down, the pattering of raindrops slapping against the bay-window behind the sink. He opened the cupboard and saw only two glass mugs, then remembered there were some in the freezer. Grandpa liked to run water over them and stick them in the freezer to get a nice thick layer of frost over them, then pour lemonade in them when the fancy struck him (Grandpa’s word, not Timothy’s). He put on his rubber coat, hood and all, took the two dry mugs and two frosty mugs and went to Eddie’s.

  It was twilight, but dense rain clouds made it night. The dirt between the walkway and barn was mud already. Grandpa had been saying for years that they were going to pave the area someday, from the barn to the house, a driveway from the garage to the front gate. They simply couldn’t afford it right now.

  He hurried to avoid getting soaked (from the waist down, at least), rain pelting his face along the way. In the north a bolt of lightning split and scarred the twilight sky; two seconds later the ground shook. It sounded like a wooden ship being crushed into splinters in the hand of the Almighty. He awkwardly managed to open the door, careful not to drop a mug, and stepped inside, shuffled his feet across the industrial rubber-studded floor mat, streaking thick coats of brown slop on it. Outside it brightened for a second, followed by more thunder. It was dark in the lower barn, cozy yellow light in the loft.

  “Need a hand?” Eddie said from the loft.

  “I got it. You know there’s a light switch by the barn door, right? Want me to turn it on?”

  “Nah. Let it be dark down there.”

  Eddie met him at the bottom of the step-ladder anyway, took two of the mugs and went back up.

  The game was on the modest 19” TV, the picture a little fuzzy. Timothy didn’t mind: it would be fun watching it with his new friend, a title he wasn’t soon to tire of. Eddie put the mugs in his mini-fridge while offering his wet companion some chips or jerky. Timothy wormed out of his rubber coat, slung it over the rail, turned one of the two chairs to more directly face the TV and said he was fine.

  Eddie checked his watch: 7:10 P.M. “Thanks for the mugs. We’re having company over in about twenty minutes or so. I want to be a good host.”

  Timothy gaped at him. “C-company? Who?”

  “A couple girls I met at the mall this afternoon. Nichole and Jennifer. They’re really nice, you’ll like ‘em. And pretty.”

  “Girls? You inv-vited girls over?” His eyes were round and fearful, a worrisome crease splitting his forehead.

  Eddie stepped to the other chair, turned it around and sat backwards in it facing Timothy, folded his arms on the high back. “You said you trust me. Was that a lie?”

  “N-no. I do. I trust you. I’m
just a little surp…prised is all.”

  “You need a friend like me, dude. You’re shy and at this rate you’ll never have a girlfriend. I just so happen to know how to talk to the ladies, and this talent—if you want to call it that—is going to benefit you. Don’t worry about them, just be yourself.”

  Timothy looked away from him, suddenly felt hot in this temperate room, felt blood piling up high in his cheeks. He wanted to tell Eddie to cancel the get-together, to call them and say something came up. There was little chance Eddie would do that for him, he surmised, friends or not. And besides, since there were two girls, he probably had ideas for one of them—or both of them. To turn them down was to deny Eddie a chance at getting a girlfriend, or whatever it was he wanted from them. So he said nothing.

  Eddie with his pale blue eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky, eyes that projected intelligence and something else that Timothy couldn’t quite determine (cunning, perhaps), grinned the slightest bit when Timothy had nothing more to say on the matter. He had anticipated an attempt by Timothy to call off the get-together, probably would have rebutted a rebuttal and won the argument. Eddie fished his cell out of his pocket and tapped a quick text to Jennifer: On your way?

  Less than a minute later Jennifer returned the text: running a little late. Be there soon.

  It was a quarter till eight when they heard the engine purring up the mud driveway to just outside the barn, as they had been instructed to do.

  “How’d they g-get inside?” Timothy asked. “Did you g-give them the gate-code?”

  Eddie nodded at his overtly nervous friend. “Dude, relax. You’re going to have fun, I swear. This will be a very memorable evening, one you won’t forget. Lighten up. Put your faith in me, I know what I’m doing.”

  Timothy wanted to believe that, chose to believe that.

  Eddie went to the mini-fridge and withdrew all four mugs, then four bottles of St. Pauli’s N.A. and poured them into the mugs.

  Timothy got out of his chair and stared pie-eyed at what his friend was doing. “You s-said you didn’t have beer.”

  “It’s not beer. It’s non-alcoholic beer. It’s all the guy would sell me, being that I’m not twenty-one. Don’t tell the girls it’s N.A. beer, okay? They won’t know the difference.”

  He dropped the bottles in the little trashcan, handed Timothy a non-frosted mug of beer. He accepted it and stared down undecidedly at the foamy head.

  Eddie went to the railing of the loft with his beer, waited for the girls to come through the open barn door. Once they did, he said, “Up here, ladies!”

  The girls stepped inside, both wearing colorful nylon rain jackets with hoods covering their black hair.

  “It’s raining so hard!” Said one.

  They crossed the barn, spoke in an undertone to one-another and giggled, mounted the ladder. Timothy paced around, heart thudding in his chest like a war drum. Eddie met them at the landing, offered a hand to bring them up safely. Once arrived, the girls surveyed the little apartment with grins while removing their jackets.

  To the girl with the purple long-sleeved tunic Eddie said, “Nichole, right?” To the girl wearing a thin yellow faux-cashmere sweater he said, “Jennifer, this is my bud Timothy.”

  Timothy shook her hand, then Nichole’s, stammered out a hello.

  Eddie took their coats and draped them over the railing beside the yellow rubber coat, removed the two frosty mugs of beer from the mini-fridge, handed them to the girls. “Glad you two could make it.”

  Nichole took a sip from her beer, eyes peering over the rim at the nervous boy. She lowered the glass and wiped the suds off her upper lip with the back of her hand. “Eddie said you were shy,” she said, “and he wasn’t kidding! You’re shaking.”

  Timothy was shivering and said he was just cold is all. He gazed curiously at Eddie and wondered why the girls were black. Not that he minded (he didn’t mind at all) but it was a little strange, he thought. Maybe his friend truly was colorblind in that aspect, and if that was the case how wonderful Eddie was. He’d revere him all the more.

  Jennifer grimaced after sipping her beer. She dribbled a little of it onto her yellow sweater, rubbed her upper-chest where a little wet-spot remained. Yellow beer, yellow sweater: no harm, no foul. “Is this Dutch beer or something?” she asked Eddie. “It’s skunky.”

  “It’s St. Pauli’s, German beer.”

  “You just got to Cali and already found someone to sell beer illegally, huh?” Jennifer said impressively. “Why am I not surprised by that?”

  Nichole giggled at her friend and said, “I’d probably sell him beer if he wanted it, wouldn’t you?”

  Eddie winked at Timothy and said to the girls, “Nah, it was Timothy who got it. He knows a guy. So you can thank him.”

  “Really?” Nichole said and stepped closer to Timothy with a genuine smile. “What school do you go to?”

  Being that Nichole was the first to engage Timothy, Eddie decided that he’d work on the other, and said, “I want to show you something, Jennifer. Be right back, guys.”

  With beer in hand he backed down the ladder with the girl in yellow right above him. He led her to one of several dark stalls, her free hand in his and stopped.

  Feeling that they were on the precipice of doing something mischievous, and sensing his intent, Jennifer bit her lip and stepped into him, smelling faintly his sour beer-breath. He kissed her shortly, then more passionately.

  In the loft Nichole had taken a seat at the edge of the bed, was sipping her beer and smiling her eyes at the unequivocally shy boy who was pacing around. He was kind of cute, she thought, in a strange kind of way, and had always had a thing for shy boys. In truth she thought Eddie was sexy and would rather it be him she was alone with, but evidently he preferred Jennifer. Typically the boys went for Nichole over Jennifer, but not always. Eddie had said to make Timothy feel special, or something like that. He was presumably a virgin, probably never even kissed a girl, never even held a girl’s hand. She could be wrong, but didn’t think so. Maybe she’d allow herself to be his first kiss. He’d remember her forever because of it, and that’s a neat kind of thing.

  “Cool place you have,” she said and patted the spot beside her for him to sit.

  “Thanks,” Timothy replied, “but it’s Eddie’s. I live in the house.” He sat at the edge of the bed and inquired into how she met his friend.

  She sipped her N.A. drink looking at his nearest hand. She grimaced at the intense skunkiness of the beer and set the mug down on the floor saying, “In the food court at the mall today.” She put his hand in hers and felt the calluses on the pads of his hand. “You work hard,” she murmured and leaned closer to him, “don’t you?”

  Timothy was gawking at his hand in hers, swallowed a dry lump in his throat. “Y-yes, I s-suppose.”

  She smiled at him, amused that he stuttered, and wasn’t surprised in the least. He looked like a stutterer, if there is such a look. His eyes finally met hers, his mouth open.

  “Don’t be shy,” she said gently, “I won’t hurt you.” She almost said what her mother would have said, ‘Close your mouth before the flies come in,’ but didn’t. He was timid enough without teasing him.

  Kiss her, a voice urged in Timothy’s head. Timothy laughed internally at that. Yeah right. She’ll let you kiss her, so do it! The voice demanded. But would she? Timothy wondered. He guessed she would, but even the remotest chance of rejection would be catastrophic to his self-confidence, which was dismal to begin with. She looked like she wanted him to kiss her, and the idea was enough to make his heart palpitate; he was getting dizzy and sweating like a pig. She likes you! Kiss her, man! Have some faith, dude. His subconscious sounded an awful lot like Eddie, and that wasn’t so surprising. He wanted to be like Eddie, so why not take the first step in that direction by impersonating him, if only in his mind. He stared at her full lips, then her pretty brown eyes with long lush lashes. She was a pretty girl, too pretty to like an ordinary guy like
him. Wasn’t she? No way, man. She’s pretty, yeah, but she’s wanting it, dude! What are you waiting for, a written invitation? Because she’s already given you the green light! Do it!

  Eddie wouldn’t hesitate to kiss this girl. That’s the thought that cemented his resolve to kiss her just then. Eddie would kiss her, and so must Timothy. He leaned to her just a little, stopped when his nerves prevailed over his desire to be like Eddie, and backed away from her mouth angry at himself. She took it upon herself to kiss him, and darted her mouth at his, a short kiss. Then a longer kiss, one that Timothy actually participated in. Breathing rapidly, he closed his eyes and allowed their mouths to do things new and exciting, their tongues to meet and boy did it feel wonderfully peculiar.

  The moment that would live in Timothy’s memory forever, revisited frequently and wistfully, found a graceful end. They opened their eyes together; his looked away bashfully.

  “You’re the first white boy I’ve ever kissed,” she said regretfully. “You’re good at it.”

  “Nah, you’re just being nice.”

  “Yeah, I’m just being nice. You’re awful at it.” She giggled, elbowed him gently with an expression that Timothy found charming. He imagined her as his girlfriend, liked the idea. Liked it a lot.

  They heard someone climbing the fixed ladder. It was Jennifer, lipstick smudged around her mouth, long straight hair a little disheveled at a side where Eddie’s hand had been. She took a seat beside Timothy, putting him between the two girls.

  From down below Eddie said, “Be right back, guys. I have something to discuss with Phillip real quick.”