Some kind of horrible wail began to beat and pound inside his head.
Why couldn't it have been Primo?
Why couldn't it have been his goddamn father?
They stopped for gas a couple of hours later. Nick got out and
stretched his legs while Primo vanished into the men's room and didn't
come out for twenty minutes. When he finally emerged he ignored his
son and headed straight for the convenience store, where he purchased a
pack of Camels and a six-pack of beer. Then he stationed himself by
the pay phone and began making calls.
Nick knew better than to ask who he was phoning. He didn't care.
It didn't matter what his father said, as soon as possible he would
find a job, save his money and get the hell out.
He got back in the van. It stunk of gas. Idly he rolled down the
window and watched a blonde in a miniskirt and boots make a dash from
her car to the ladies' room, somewhat futilely holding a soggy magazine
over her black roots.
Girls. They were all the same. He'd made out with enough of them to
know exactly what they were like. In all his travels there hadn't been
one girl he'd wanted that he hadn't had. It was hard to understand how
some poor jerks agonized over getting laid, because it was so easy-kind
of like fishing. Put out the bait. Reel em in easy. Go for the
kill.
And then take off. Fast.
Nick Angelo could score with anyone. And he did-as frequently as
possible. It gave him his only real sense of identity.
Primo lumbered out to the van, threw the six-pack-depleted by one
can-onto the seat and started the engine.
"Uh . . . it's illegal to drive with alcohol in the vehicle," Nick
muttered.
Primo wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "What're you, a
cop?"
"Just pointing it out."
"Well, don't."
Yeah. Shut up. Sit still. Butt out. The story of his life.
Leaning back he closed his eyes, drifting into a sort of half
sleepuntil he was jolted awake when they almost skidded into the back
of a massive truck parked on the side of the highway.
"Fuckin' drivers!" screamed Primo. "They don't give a crap where they
dump it."
"Why don't I drive?" Nick suggested. It was beginning to get dark and
Primo was already gulping down his third beer.
"Since when do you drive?" Primo sneered.
"I took driver's ed in school. I got my license."
"Don't remember that."
No, he wouldn't, would he? And even if he did, he'd never have allowed
him to use the van, but he'd taken it out on more than one occasion
when Primo was slumped in a drunken stupor and he'd had no fear of
getting caught.
The van skidded again. Primo grunted, finally deciding he'd had
enough. Pulling over, he slid across to the passenger side, shoving
Nick out into the icy raln.
Nick ran around the back and quickly jumped in the driver's seat.
"Where we headin'?" he asked, gripping the steering wheel, anxious to
get wherever they were going. Primo finished his beer, crushing the
can in his big hand and flinging it out the window. "Kansas," he said,
burping loudly. "Some piss-assed town called Bosewell."
"Why there?"
Cause I got a wife there, that's why."
This was big news to Nick.
OXWLL, IAFlXAX, 1975
hat started out as a simple date seemed to be turning into a
relationship, and everyone was pleased except Lauren. She'd fallen
into some kind of dumb routine with Stock. Dinner and a movie on
Friday night. Dancing and a party every Saturday. And two family
brunches. This had been going on for six weeks.
"What's happening?" she wailed to Meg. "I used to be a free person,
how did I get myself into this?"
"Has he tried anything yet?" Meg asked, lighting up a forbidden
cigarette.
She shook her head. "No. And stop pumping me all the time, you're
like a district attorney!"
"No, I'm not. I'm dying to find out the dirty details."
"Why?"
"C'mon, Laurie," Meg pleaded. "You know we share everything.
He must've kissed you at least."
"Maybe," she said mysteriously.
"Has he?" Meg pressed.
"Maybe," she repeated.
They were in Lauren's bedroom, and Meg began to bounce up and down on
the bed, her face red with the frustration of not being able to get any
good scoop out of her best friend. "Tell me, you rotten little cow!"
She didn't particularly wish to confide in Meg-after all, it wasn't
that exciting-but now there seemed to be no choice. "Okay, so he's
kissed me. Big deal. End of subject."
Meg's eyes gleamed. "Is he a good kisser?"
"He's got big teeth."
"What does that mean?"
"They get in the way. And besides," she sighed, "I told you, I don't
feel anything for him."
Meg jumped off the bed. "Perhaps I should take him over. How's that
for an idea?"
"Yes!"
"You don't mean it."
"I do! I do!"
Meg was exasperated. "You've got the hottest hunk in town panting all
over you, and you're acting like it's no biggie."
"It's not."
"Then why don't you stop seeing him?"
She sighed again. "Because I can't. My parents like him. They like
his parents. In fact, if you want to know the truth-my father's
selling his dad some kind of big insurance thing."
Meg dragged on her cigarette like a veteran. "Oh, that's not so
good."
"Don't I know it," she said glumly, trying to figure out exactly how it
had happened. Their first date had been uneventful, Stock had behaved
himself perfectly-he didn't even get drunk, while all around them his
football buddies were staggering zombies.
She'd had no reason to turn down his second invitation, especially with
her parents urging her on. And then suddenly her father was selling
his father insurance, and there was no way she could mess that up.
Before she knew it, everyone considered her and Stock a couple.
Now she was stuck. And she wasn't happy.
getting anything out of his class was almost impossible, he had no idea
how to fire his students' imaginations. They sat in front of
himtwenty-four bored teenagers engaged in a variety of activities.
Joey Pearson, the class clown, was busy writing dirty limericks and
passing them around. Dawn Kovak, the school tramp, negotiated with one
of the boys about what she might do to him during lunch hour. Meg
sketched fashion designs behind the cover of World History. And Lauren
daydreamed.
Her biggest daydream was always about New York. When she was little
her parents had taken her to see Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at
Tiffany's and she'd never forgotten the thrill of Seeing the big city
on the movie screen.
New York. . . she'd definitely decided that one of these days she was
going there just like Audrey Hepburn. And she'd have her own
apartment, a fulfilling job and a cat. Oh, yes, she'd definitely have
a cat. And of course a boyfriend. A real boyfriend. Not Stock
<
br /> Browning with his white crew cut and macho walk. A man more along the
lines of Robert Redford or Paul Newman-she was quite partial to the
dirty-blond look.
"Lauren!" Mr. Lucas's waspish voice interrupted her reverie.
"Kindly answer the question."
Question? What question? She quickly glanced at the blackboard and
figured out what he'd been teaching, coming up with the correct answer
just in time.
"You're amazing!" Meg whispered, stifling a giggle. "Even I could see
you were somewhere in China!"
"New York," Lauren whispered back. "Although I wouldn't mind visiting
China one day."
"Fat chance!"
She and Meg viewed their futures differently. Meg saw herself married
with kids and living happily in Bosewell. Lauren knew there was a
whole other world out there and she planned to explore it before
settling down.
The bell sounded, signifying the end of class.
Stock was leaning on the lunch counter waiting for her. "I'll pick you
up at six-thirty tonight," he said.
"You will?"
"Don't tell me you've forgotten."
Mr. Lucas, Bosewell High's history teacher, droned on. Lauren
attemted to concentrate but it was difficult-the man was dull-and
"Forgotten what?"
"Dinner with my parents."
"Oh, yes," she said listlessly.
"Don't go crazy with excitement."
What did he want from her? She was going, wasn't she? Surely that was
enough?
Bending down he pecked her on the cheek. He smelled of sweat and
camphor liniment. The sweat she could take, but the camphor almost
made her gag. It was definitely time she had a chat with her father
about the insurance he was selling Mr. Browning. Was it a done
deal?
And if she stopped seeing Stock, would it upset everything?
She was sure that any moment he was going to make the big move, and she
had no desire to star as the struggling victim trapped beneath his bulk
in the cramped interior of his Ford Thunderbird.
On the way home she stopped at her father's office-located on Main
Street above the Blakely Brothers hardware store. The door was locked,
the shade pulled down covering the glass. PHILIP M. ROBERTS, INSURANCE
was printed on the door. He'd hinted it would one day read "Philip
M.
Roberts and Daughter." Lauren hadn't summoned up the courage to inform
him she had no intention of going into the insurance business.
Disappointed he wasn't there, she continued on home.
Her mother was in the kitchen making a cake.
"Where's Dad?" she asked, sticking her finger in the mixing bowl and
scooping out a taste of the creamy mixture.
"Stop that!" Jane Roberts scolded. She was a dark-haired woman with
fine features and high cheekbones. It was easy to see where Lauren had
inherited her good looks.
"Umm, delicious." Lauren stuck her finger in again.
"I said stop it," Jane repeated sternly. "There'll be nothing left.
This cake is for you to take to the Brownings' tonight."
"No way!" she said, horrified. "I'm not taking them a cake,
Mother."
"Then I'll have to ask Stock."
"No, Mother, no! You can't embarrass me this way.
Jane stopped what she was doing and wiped her hands on her apron.
What's embarrassing about baking the Brownings a cake?"
Lauren hesitated. "Well, you know, it's sort of like . . . uh sucking
up.
Jane narrowed her eyes. "Sucking up?"
"You know what I mean."
"No. I'm afraid I don't." Jane glared at her only child with a How
dare you talk to me like that-wait until your father gets home
expression.
Uh-oh. Mother was p.o. d. Maybe she'd gone too far. "Okay, okay, I'll
take the dumb cake," she mumbled, and rushed upstairs to her room.
It was quite obvious suck up was the name of the game, and right now
there was nothing she could do about it.
Daphne Browning was a big woman with multiple chins and bright scarlet
lips. She greeted Lauren graciously. "Your mother's so thoughtful.
What a perfectly lovely gesture," she gushed. "Of course my doctor
forbids that I eat chocolate, but Benjamin simply adores it, don't you,
darling?"
Benjamin Browning barely glanced up from his newspaper. He was a tall
man, thick around the middle-with dour features, iron-gray hair and
matching bushy eyebrows. "Trying to diet," he grunted.
Stock prowled around the room, while Lauren settled herself stiffly on
a damask chair in the very formal living room. A hovering maid whisked
the cake away, never to be seen again.
"When are we eating?" demanded Stock.
Daphne ignored him. "Tell me, dear," she said, scarlet lips quivering
as she turned toward Lauren. "Is Stock your first boyfriend?"
Lauren could not believe she was being asked such a personal
question.
If she wasn't so polite she would have replied, "None of your
business." Instead she began furiously petting Mrs. Browning's
Pekinese-a ferocious little dog who bared its teeth and growled
viciously.
"What a cute puppy!" she exclaimed, trying to sound sincere. "How old
is he?"
"She," corrected Mrs. Browning.
"What's her name?"
"Frincess Pink Pontoon."
"How unusual." She patted the dog again and the little rat snapped at
her with its lethal teeth.
Stock guffawed. "It'll take your hand off if it can."
"Stock!" admonished Daphne. "Princess would never do that."
"Dinner is served," announced a black maid, appearing at the door.
Mr. Browning put down his paper. "About goddamn time," he said
irritably.
Dinner was a drag. This was one evening Lauren had no wish to
repeat.
Mrs. Browning was a snob. Mr. Browning was plain rude.
And Stock was . . . well, he was Stock.
On the drive home he got straight to the point. "They like you," he
said.
"That's n1ce.
"Even though you're young."
What was he-all of eighteen? "I'm thrilled," she said dryly.
He missed her sarcasm. "They gave us permission."
"For what?" she asked, stifling a yawn.
"To get engaged." retha Mae Angelo opened the door of her trailer home
and glared at Primo as if she were sick of looking at him. Actually it
was seventeen years since he'd walked out on her, but she certainly
wasn't about to let seventeen years stand in the way of a vigorous
tonguelashing.
Hunched in the van, Nick could hear every word as she tore into his
father.
"What you want? Cheatin' slime. How come you sniffin' round here
again? Y'ain't nothin' but a bum, so get outta here. Y'hear me?
Out."
She might be telling him to get lost, but Primo whined some kind of
weak excuse, and before Nick could make out exactly what was happening
the woman yelled more insults, dragged Primo inside the trailer and
slammed the door shut.
Nick sat in the van and contemplated the last week. He was sixteen
years old-nearly seventeen-and his life wa
s over. Who cared about
anything? He certainly didn't. His whole existence had been a lie.
Mary and Primo. His loving parents. Now Primo had informed him they
weren't even legally married, because he'd still been married to this
woman when he and Mary exchanged their wedding vows.
Primo Angelo was a bigamist.
And if that was so, what did it make him?
He didn't care to think about it.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle but it was still icy cold. Nick
huddled in the van, hungry and tired-empty of any emotion.
Some time later Primo emerged from the trailer followed by the woman.
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