Unreasonable didn’t begin to describe it, Blondie thought.
“I don’t care, Betty,” his father said, “I don’t think we can trust Blondie. He’s been suspended from school. He stays out until all hours doing who knows what with that gang of his. He wrecked our car!”
Christ, why was he dragging all that stuff up again? Anyway, how could he seriously expect him to hang out with him and his mom all summer? The boredom would be deadly. On the other hand, having the house to himself all summer … now that had possibilities.
Blondie waited for an opportune moment and stomped off to his room as if upset. He figured his mom could handle his part of the argument. Indeed, after a fractious row, she came up to his room and told him his father had agreed he could remain in Fenton. His mom always won.
Blondie couldn’t sleep that night. Over and over, he heard the ball hitting the top of the pin and saw his last putt spin out of the cup. It was unbearable. He had twice the ability of that geek-necked runt he’d been playing. But talent didn’t seem to count if one couldn’t produce under pressure, he conceded. And he couldn’t deny it. He was a choker.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Friday was a bad day. Feller came up to him first thing in the morning to offer his condolences on the golf match.
“Sorry you fucked up,” he said.
Then Miss Darlington expressed some reservations about his article on the match — “Ugly Hole Ruins Day.” She suggested he change the title and run it without the two paragraphs detailing the “awful stroke of misfortune” that caused “ace ball-stroker Reimer” to double-bogey the last hole.
He knew she was trying to do the right thing by journalism, but she didn’t understand. He couldn’t “let the facts stand for themselves.” The facts said he’d blown the match. Tammy would read all about it.
But that was just the warm-up. That evening, he received a phone call.
“Hi, it’s me,” Flossie said. She sounded far away. “Why haven’t you called?”
“It’s only been a week. I think we need more time apart.”
“I have something I need to tell you.”
Don’t tell me you love me, Blondie thought. I couldn’t handle the pressure.
“What is it, dear?”
That was a good touch. Show some caring. Blondie smiled in appreciation of his magnanimity.
“I’m pregnant,” Flossie said.
The room began to spin. Thoughts rushed his mind in such a multitude his brain locked up. He couldn’t speak.
“Now I guess we’ll get married, huh?” Flossie said.
Her voice sounded different — soft as always, but more forceful. And her She suddenly seemed fearsome to him.
“It better be pretty soon,” Flossie continued. “We wouldn’t want people to think we had to.”
Emotions coursed through his body, tripping muscles willy-nilly. His jaw popped. An eyelid twitched. A foot spasmed. He was coming undone. “You’re not saying anything, Blondie.”
“I’m thinking,” he finally uttered hoarsely.
“You mean about how we’ll tell our parents and all that?”
Why was she pressing him so? He was fighting to gain control and she kept launching new horrors his way, each a more frightening extension of the initial one — Flossie was pregnant. And he was responsible.
Visions of fatherhood nuked Blondie’s mind. He’d never get a college degree or a decent job. He could see the future now — trapped in poverty in a tacky little bungalow with a loving, but unimaginative, wife and a kid who’d slobber, snot, and shit all over him.
He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. That was all there was to it.
“I can’t,” he mumbled into the phone.
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t marry you.” He cringed at the sniveling despair in his voice.
“You mean you lied to me?”
Her voice, a whisper now, shouted betrayal at him.
“No. I meant it then.”
“But now that it’s happened, you’re backing out. It’s my problem, is that it? Even though you were the one who always wanted to do it … even though you wouldn’t take any precautions.”
She was right. He was a wretch. Feller’d been right, too. He should’ve worn a rubber. If only he could put one on now. He’d put it on his head. That was where the worst leak had occurred.
“Look, maybe you’re mistaken,” Blondie said, trying to gin up a little hope.
“I don’t think so.”
Her voice was hard now, in a tone he’d never heard before. She was in control.
“How about an abortion?”
“It’s illegal, remember. Besides, I’m a Catholic.”
“Adoption?”
“Are you serious? You think I’d give our baby away?”
Our baby!
“Well, what else is there?”
“There’s nothing else, Blondie. You’ve told me all I need to know. I’ll be seeing you.”
“But what are you going to … ”
She hung up.
Oh, heel of a thousand heels. He’d fucked up Flossie’s life when she’d trusted him. Where were his noble intentions now? He was running from the consequences of his behavior like a puppy that’d fouled a carpet. But he had to save himself, didn’t he? He assured himself most guys would do the same thing in this situation. True, a nit-picking voice agreed, but most guys were moral worms.
“Do you want some chicken, Blondie?” his mom called to him from the kitchen.
Was she kidding? The idea of eating anything made him want to retch.
“No thanks.”
“That’s not like you,” she replied.
You don’t know the half, he thought, as he headed for his room and, hopefully, the oblivion of sleep. First the golf match, now this. If he had any honor, he’d commit seppuku right this minute. He wondered how much it would hurt.
He had to talk to someone. He called Grouper and asked if they could get together the next evening. Just the two of them. He instructed Grouper to bring some beers — a lot of them.
Sure enough, when he showed up, a case of Pabst was in the back seat of his dad’s Chrysler. It looked brand new.
“My dad fixed it right away,” Grouper said. “He may get pissed at me, but he always fixes my mistakes. He reminds me of that on a regular basis.”
Grouper drove up to his overlook. Once he’d parked, he pulled a can from the container and punched it open with a church key. He handed it to Blondie. Then he opened one for himself. He pushed his doughy torso into the soft leather seat and breathed deeply.
“Well, what should we talk about tonight?” he asked.
Strangely, now that he was with Grouper, Blondie couldn’t bring himself to talk about Flossie. He wanted to talk about anything but her.
“What’s the deal between you and Miss Spalding?” he asked Grouper instead. “The truth.”
Grouper chuckled.
“I’ll tell you, Blondie, if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
“Cross my heart,” Blondie said, guzzling the beer. He was determined to push his problems from his mind.
“Last year, about this time, I stayed late at school one night to finish a science project. I heard some noises from a classroom down the hall. It sounded like a woman moaning. I thought maybe someone had been hurt. I opened the door and turned on the lights and there was the Bear humping Miss Spalding.” Bearzinsky! That prick! He’d drilled Miss Spalding too. What a philandering fuck. He had to pay. Blondie’s anger momentarily pushed all thoughts of Flossie away. But after it subsided, they came right back. After a few more beers, he could hold it in no longer. He told Grouper about Flossie’s “condition.”
Grouper turned toward him and put his big paw gently on his shoulder.
“What is life?” he asked.
What did that have to do with anything?
“Life is consequences,”
Grouper said. “Consequences that spin a web around you. The older you get, the more consequences you’ve created. The web gets tighter and tighter until you’re trapped by the results of everything you’ve done.”
Trapped! Blondie could identify with that.
Blondie waited for Grouper to continue, but he didn’t. Instead, he quickly downed two more beers. Blondie, with a recklessness born of lost hope, matched him. Soon, he felt his brain slowing down and strange perceptions bubbling to the surface of his consciousness. Like how Grouper’s head looked like a balloon blown slightly forward by the wind. Or how there was a strange light off in the trees to their right.
He watched the light jump across the dark and disappear.
“A light in the forest …. ” he said poetically.
“Life is like that,” Grouper said.
“Sbeginning to sound like life is like everything,” Blondie said, his tongue struggling to form words.
“A very astute observation, my boy. Life is like everything …. everything is life.”
Grouper’s voice drifted off. Blondie feared he’d fallen asleep.
“I’m not planning to marry her,” Blondie said.
“I guess you don’t have to,” Grouper answered lethargically.
“I said I would, though. I have no honor ash all.”
The self-pity in his voice disgusted him. He also was getting seriously drunk. His dad would think that was disgusting. But he didn’t care. He needed to.
“Well, I suppose each person must follow his own code.”
“But I told her I’d marry her if I got her pregnish.”
“Here, have another beer.”
“Thanksh.”
Grouper breathed in and out loudly a few times.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Blondie. It’s easy to be noble in advance.”
“Ish that a law?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Good, I needed one.”
Blondie looked out the window and saw the light again. Now, it seemed to be hopping.
“Look at that,” he said to Grouper.
“H-mm, that’s weird,” he said.
“Maybe it’s a fartgeist.”
“A what?” Grouper said.
“Brick saysh farts sometimes spontaneously ignite and glow in the dark like shpirits.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
Blondie counted the empties on the dash twice. He was sure there were either thirteen or fourteen. Unless there were twelve.
“Gotta pee,” Grouper announced. He opened the door and crashed into some nearby bushes.
The light in the woods drew closer.
Stuporously, Blondie watched it dart from here to there.
Blondie pointed his finger at the light and cocked his thumb.
“POW,” he said.
The glow stopped moving, then headed straight toward him like a guided missile. His door flew open and a beam of light smacked him right between the eyes.
“All right, buster, where’s your partner?” a voice barked.
“Who’re you?” Blondie said.
The beam — Blondie now could see it came from a flashlight — began whipping around the interior. It reflected off the row of beer cans and then passed slowly along them.
“I knew you were drinking. I could tell by the way you drove up here.”
“Didn’t drive. Grouper drove. He always drivesh that way.”
“You’re in trouble, buster. You don’t look like you’re twenty-one. Show me your license.”
“Can’t.”
“You don’t have one?” The voice rose.
“No. I can’t get up.”
A hand grabbed his jacket at the shoulder and ripped Blondie from the car.
“Stand right there.”
As soon as the hand released him, Blondie began to sway back and forth.
“Now slowly remove your wallet and show me your license.”
Blondie reached for his wallet. He got it out of his pants pocket before he lost his balance and fell into his invisible inquisitor.
“Sorrysh,” he said as the light fell to the ground.
“Shit,” the voice came from near Blondie’s feet. “I just had this fucking uniform cleaned.”
Blondie staggered to his feet.
“Let me helpsh you.”
Blondie held out his hand to his fallen antagonist, only a dark shape in the night. The shadow struggled upright without his help.
“I’m going to take you in, boy. Now, show me that license.”
“Dropped it.”
The flashlight painted a white circle on the ground, illuminating Blondie’s wallet. A hand materialized from the night, snatched it up and flipped it open.
“Aha,” the voice said. “You’re not twenty-one.”
“I never said I wush.”
“Okay, forget your pal. We’re leaving. You follow me.”
“No keysh.”
“What?”
“Ish not my car. And, something elsh.”
“What?”
“I’sh too drunk to drive.”
“Well, get in my car.”
“Okay. One morsh thing.”
“What now?”
“I think I’sh going to throw up.”
“Oh God, why did I get this call? I could have been busting whores.”
“I won’t tell,” Blondie promised.
“What are you mumbling?”
“If yoush go, I won’t say you wersh here. No one will know yoush fucked up.”
“I DIDN’T FUCK UP,” the voice roared.
Suddenly, the mournful baying of a coyote floated across the night. A very old coyote.
“What’s that?” the cop said.
“Animal?” Blondie offered.
The baying turned into the whoop-whoop-whoop-yip-yip of a chimpanzee, a chimp with a deep voice.
“All right, smart ass. You’re coming in, too.”
“You’ll have to catch me,” Grouper boomed from the woods. “Watch the mud holes.”
“Well, I’ll just take your partner in, then,” the cop called back.
“I’ve got your ke-eys,” Grouper yodeled.
“WHAT?”
“You left them in your ca-ar.”
The dark figure groped around his belt.
“Goddamn,” he muttered.
“Make you a de-al,” Grouper sung out.
“No way,” the cop said.
“No keys then.”
“What’s the deal?”
“We’ll leave if you do. Okay?”
“How about my keys?”
“I’ll put them back on your seat. Deal?”
“Deal.”
There was a long sigh. An owl hooted in the distance.
A little later, Grouper called out, “You can go now.”
“What if I don’t?” the cop asked, suddenly assertive.
“I’ll go take your keys again.”
“Ah shit,” the cop finally said. He stomped away. Blondie heard his steps Shortly, a car door opened, a motor roared to life, and the cruiser sped away.
A moment later, Grouper exited the woods.
“What if he’sh waiting for us to come out?” Blondie asked.
“He wouldn’t want anyone to know about this little episode, now would he?”
Grouper laughed.
“You mean we beat the law?”
Blondie couldn’t comprehend it.
“You could say that.”
“Well, fuck-an-A.”
And, for a while, their triumph pushed Blondie’s troubles from his mind. The next morning, though, he felt punk. It didn’t help that his dad kept eyeing him suspiciously. He was still slightly hung over on Monday.
“I hope you feel better for the junior-senior picnic,” Feller said.
That rang a faint bell.
“When is it?”
“Next week, dummy. Tammy will be there.”
And Flossie wouldn’t, Blondie realized. She was only a sophomore.
A if he’d read his mind, Feller said: “I heard about that number Flossie did on you.” A smirk flew across his face.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh Blondie, I’m pregnant,” Feller mimicked in a falsetto voice.
Blondie grabbed his arm.
“What are you saying?”
“Easy, Blondie,” Feller answered, removing Blondie’s hand. “I didn’t think you’d fall for it.”
“Flossie’s not pregnant?”
“Not hardly.”
“Then why …. ?”
“Meryl put her up to it. Flossie told her you said you’d marry her if you got her pregnant. After you dumped Flossie …. “
“I didn’t exactly dump her.”
” …. Meryl dared her to put you to the test. She was with Flossie when she called.”
“Goddamn dames!”
“Yeah,” Feller agreed. “It’s terrible what men have to go through to get laid.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The scene reminded Blondie of a painting he’d once come across in his mom’s book of French impressionists: bathers in colorful garb beside a slow river, strollers in fancy clothes and parasols, people relaxing in the sun. Only here, the bathers were in much skimpier outfits, the strollers were in tattered jeans and tee shirts, the river was a chilly mountain lake, and a bunch of guys were playing softball on a makeshift diamond nearby. No one had been playing softball in the painting. It was Fenton High’s annual junior-senior picnic.
Here and there, radios on scattered blankets were blaring forth the latest hits — “Soldier Boy,” “Slow Twistin’,” “Mashed Potato Time” — and a few pale bodies were jerking to the bouncier tunes. It was a bright May day and everyone were giddy.
Not Blondie. All he could think about was how his life had unraveled. His dad was still pissed at him over the car — even though it was fixed, his dad claimed it “pulled to the left” — and because he wasn’t going to New York with them. He’d agreed to take that awful Phyllis Scarff to the prom, just a couple weeks away. He’d messed up a pretty good thing with Flossie. Coach Beasley regarded him as a loser, even though he’d beaten his man at golf every time since the first match. And, though Barnwell and Purdy had quit taunting him in the halls, Blondie was still apprehensive. He knew they still wanted a piece of him. All things considered, his chances of surviving high school — at least without substantial psycho-logical, emotional or physical damage — remained slim.
Grouper's Laws Page 22
