Those People Behind Us, page 5
The night’s warm and his body makes a slight breeze as he rides through the quiet streets, the black plastic bag in the basket, his heart beating wild. He smells jasmine, onion, garlic, and charcoaled meat, hears a woman singing from an open upstairs window. A child laughs. There are lights on in the houses, but the blinds are all tightly drawn.
Ray parks his bike next to the trash can and picks up the plastic bag with one hand, using the other to open the lid. The bag shifts suddenly and a long pink claw stabs through the plastic.
“Holy crap!” Ray drops the bag. The possum blasts through the plastic and hisses at him, angry and very much alive, and then hobbles off toward the dark water lapping against the deep brush on the island.
It takes Ray a minute to realize he’s not breathing and then he starts laughing. Should have just left the damn thing alone. He jumps on his bike and pedals quickly out of the park.
“That cop show you like is starting,” his mother says when he comes inside through the garage, his heart still pounding.
“I need to wash my hands first and then put the sheets in the dryer.”
“What did you do with it?” she asks when he sits down.
“Turns out it was playing possum. It’ll be limping for a while, and it doesn’t have a tail anymore, but it’s not dead.”
His mother throws back her head and belly laughs. “I bet that scared the shit out of you.”
“Serves me right. I don’t know why I got so angry.”
“You were frustrated,” she says.
“That’s no excuse.”
“You want some ice cream? Or are you still on a diet?”
“I’ll get it.”
“Sit.” She pushes up out of her chair. “I can manage to dish up two bowls of ice cream.”
“I’ll take you to Stephanie’s funeral. But you have to use the walker.”
“People will think I’m an old woman.”
“You are an old woman who needs to use a walker. That’s the deal. Otherwise, I’m not going.”
“Fine.” She stops behind him and rests her hand on his shoulder, lingering long enough for him to feel her pulse. “Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Both,” he says.
“I knew you were going to say that.” She squeezes his shoulder and goes into the kitchen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KEITH NELSON
“It’s a great day at the Bug Guy,” Keith says, emphasizing the word great this time. This morning, desperate to think about something other than what time it is and how many more hours before he can clock out and go find someplace to sleep, he’s been experimenting with different inflections.
“What’s so great about it?” the woman on the phone says. “I’ve been waiting all day for the inspector.”
Keith checks the clock even though he already knows it’s not eleven yet. He’s exhausted. The cops came through the library lot early last night, so he drove over to Home Depot and tried to sleep there for a while until a security guard tapped on his window and told him to move along.
“You’re scheduled for inspection between nine and noon,” he tells the woman on the phone.
“I have better things to do than just sit here and wait.”
“Let me check with dispatch.” He looks up and sees Grace, the boss’s secretary, walking toward his desk.
“Your mother’s in the office,” Grace says.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, not sure he’s heard right. Why wouldn’t his mother call instead of just showing up? He gets the woman off the phone as quickly as he can and hurries to the front of the warehouse where his mother stands near Grace’s desk. She’s come from her office, judging from her business suit and heels.
“Son.” She takes in his dress slacks, shirt, and tie. “You look like you’re doing all right.”
“I am.”
“Then I really don’t understand why you’re taking money from your grandmother.”
Keith glances over at Grace, who is staring hard at her desk blotter. “Let’s go outside and talk.”
His mother follows him out onto the sidewalk. “Your grandmother fell in the bathroom last night,” she says. “What were you were thinking, buying her wine?”
“Is she okay?”
“She ripped most of the skin off her arm so no, she’s not okay. She’s not supposed to drink with that new medication. We’re hiring a live-in caregiver.”
“I didn’t know about the medication. I could move in with her. I could quit this job and take care of her.”
“And take even more advantage? I know about the check, Keith.”
“I tore it up. I never cashed it.”
“You haven’t cashed it yet. We’ve talked about this already. You are not to ask her for money.”
“She offered.”
“She obviously can’t live there on her own unsupervised. I need your Golden Years pass. From now on, you’ll have to call the caregiver first, before you just barge in.”
“I’m not barging in. I go there to visit. She’s my grandmother. I need to see her.”
Her eyes soften for a moment, and he thinks she might change her mind, but then she holds out her hand. “You’ll have to get permission first.”
He takes the pass out of his wallet.
“You’re not still sleeping in your car, are you?”
He can’t stomach another one of her disappointed looks. “I’m renting a place.” She doesn’t need to know that he’s still on the waiting list or that the place is in a portioned-off garage.
“Good.” She puts the pass in her purse. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“I didn’t cash that check,” he says but she’s already walking away from him. He stands outside until his heart rate slows.
Keith watches a Little League game from the deep shade of a tree near the athletic field next to the library. The field and the library are surrounded by Wellington Beach Central Park, which covers a full city block and has walking trails around a green lake choked with algae bloom and two scummy public restrooms. The library is air-conditioned and has decent Wi-Fi, ancient computers, almost comfortable couches, and a not-quite-as-scummy public restroom. Thanks to recent budget cuts, the library closes at 5:00 p.m. now instead of 9:00.
Keith takes a long drag from a cold Budweiser. He doesn’t usually drink beer because it’s fattening and reminds him too much of his father, but he needs alcohol if he’s going to sleep tonight. When he’d stopped at the Golden Years’ security gate after work, the guard told him he wasn’t on his list and to call his grandmother. Keith tried to explain that Granny C doesn’t always hear her phone ring, but the old man turned his back on him and shuffled back to the guard house. Keith pulled over and called Granny C’s number. A stranger answered and told him he “wasn’t allowed.”
“Give me that phone,” he heard Granny C say in the background. “Don’t worry,” she told Keith. “I can get you another pass. I’ll get what’s-her-name here to give me a ride to the office. We’ll figure this out.”
He should have just taken that check since his mother thinks he did anyway. He finishes the beer in one swallow and crumples the can. The tweakers over by the public restroom eyeball his Budweisers, the parents in the grandstands stare at the tweakers, and one of the mothers glances over at him and frowns.
Keith stretches his arms overhead. The trees in Wellington Central Park are mostly eucalyptus, with an occasional pine and scrub oak, and a few ornamental cherries no longer in bloom. The blue ceanothus is flourishing in the heat. He opens another beer. The kid on deck strikes out and one of the fathers starts screaming. The muscles in the back of Keith’s neck tighten. His dad was the same way.
It’s been almost two months since he’s seen his father. That night Keith had worked out in the garage after his eight-hour shift at the Bug Guy and was treating himself to a small bowl of ice cream. He was tired and planned to go to bed early, after he’d watched more of that lesbo series on Showtime. But then his dad asked, “What the hell is a Confederate Flag sticker doing on my beer fridge? I don’t want that racist shit in my house.”
“Wayne put it there as a joke,” Keith said, although he doubted it was a joke since Wayne has a small swastika tattooed on his wrist where you can’t see it under his watchband. Ever since Wayne joined that fight club gym he’s really gotten into politics. “Wayne says the Confederate Flag is part of history.”
His mother looked up from unloading the dishwasher. “I thought we agreed you’d stay away from Wayne Connor.”
His dad snorted. “Since when is that moron a history expert?”
“Don’t call him that.” He and Wayne have been tight since grade school. Wayne was a small kid with a stepmother who didn’t like him and a big mouth that got him into fights he could never win. “Wayne’s my friend.”
“Then you’re a moron too.” His dad’s voice was sarcastic and mean and his breath reeked of garlic and yeast. “Let me refresh your memory, son, since you’ve obviously forgotten. That friend is the one who convinced you it was okay to stroll into the Athlete’s Foot and walk out with whatever you wanted.” His dad moved even closer. Keith could count every broken vein in his nose. “Moron number one carried out twelve boxes of brand-new Nikes because moron number two was sure that mall stores never call security. Cost me a fortune.”
Keith set the spoon carefully in his empty bowl of ice cream and stood, scraping the chair legs against the tiled kitchen floor. “Why do you keep bringing that up?” He saw his dad’s chin quiver, his lips tremble, and realized, he’s afraid of me. It made him feel powerful and sick to his stomach at the same time. “I’m paying you back.”
His dad stepped away from him. “How? You spend every cent you make on steroids and vitamins. Twenty-four years old with the mind of a second grader. A second grader who stabbed a girl in the eye with a pencil.”
“That was an accident,” Keith said.
“That was just the beginning,” his dad said, turning away from him, walking toward the television in the den. “You were just getting started. And now I’m stuck supporting you for the rest of my life.”
“Not anymore. I’m out of here.” It was an unexpected decision, but the words felt good coming out of his mouth.
His dad sat down on the couch in the den. “Where the hell would you go?”
“I’ll get my own place.”
“Keith,” his mother said. “You don’t need to do this tonight.”
“Let him go,” his dad said. “If that’s what he wants.” He turned on the television set.
When Keith came downstairs with armfuls of his clothes, his mother handed him a duffel bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket,” she whispered. “This will blow over in a few days.”
“I’m done,” he said.
It’s weird, he thinks now as he sips his beer, how she knew exactly where that duffel bag was and had the money ready for him, as if she’d expected him to need it.
A redheaded kid hits the ball hard and solid. Keith watches it sail over the fence. He loved coaching Little League when he was in high school, except for the parents who constantly insisted their kid needed to start, needed to pitch, needed extra batting practice. He needed them to get out of his face, which he demonstrated one night by spreading his arms a little too vigorously, sending one father flying six feet across the field with a broken nose. The man filed charges, the league fired him, and Keith spent the rest of that summer and part of tenth grade at a correctional camp in the Sequoia Forest.
The redheaded kid rounds the bases and all the parents cheer. A woman flops down on the grass next to Keith. He’s seen her before—rotten teeth and oily yellow hair. Her skin is gray and mottled. “Can I have a beer?” she asks. “I’ll make it worth your while.” She smells like piss and has a dumb look on her face. It’s insulting, her thinking he’d want someone like her. That girl in second grade had just peed her pants too and she got too close to him when he was trying to concentrate. “Get away from me,” he says.
The tweakers stand and roll their bikes across the grass toward him. He could easily knock their heads together, teach them to show some respect, but there are too many witnesses right now and he’s not like that anymore. He picks up the beer and leaves the empties behind.
He drives around for a while until it’s almost dark, up and down the Wellington streets, a concrete maze of cinderblock walls covered with creeping fig. He takes Patton across to Eckerd, cruises down the hill past the horse trail houses. A blond girl is up ahead in the bicycle lane, white top off one shoulder, long legs in shorts, nineteen, maybe twenty. No helmet, flip flops, riding carelessly as if nothing bad could ever happen to her.
Someone should tell her to wear real shoes when she’s riding a bike. She shouldn’t ride alone at night either. Her bike doesn’t even have a light. He passes her and pulls over where the streetlamp has burned out. He’ll scare some sense into her.
She doesn’t see him until he steps out of the shadow.
“You need lights on that bike.”
“What the fuck, dude?” she says. “Get out of my way.”
When she swerves to avoid him, she loses her balance, and he grabs her shoulders to keep her from falling. Her skin is soft under his grip, the kind that shows bruises, and even though she’s wearing some rank perfume that smells like decayed incense, he immediately has an erection. She jerks away from him. “Asshole! What’s wrong with you?”
“You shouldn’t ride alone at night.”
She laughs, too stupid to realize she should be afraid. He twists the handlebars just enough so that her bike tips over, scrapes between her thighs, and drops to the ground. She yelps as she trips over it, ripping the strap of her flip-flop from the sole.
That’s enough, he decides. He makes himself turn around and go back to his car. He watches her in his rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb. She’s trying to fix her shoe and doesn’t look up to read his license plate. Stupid girl. He cranks up the volume on the radio.
How do you own disorder?
The bass vibrates from the steering wheel up into his arms and adrenaline comes alive in his heart. Whoever wrote this song understands what it means to be alone.
The feeling of connection lasts until the song ends. He pulls into his parents’ tract and parks away from the streetlights. He’ll put a towel over his lap and jerk off. There’s one beer left for afterwards. It’s warm, but it might help him sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
JOSH KOWALSKI
Before Stephanie’s funeral starts, Josh follows his mom to the front of the church. “You don’t have to look in her casket if you don’t want to,” she says, “but we do need to say hello to Neil.”
Josh actually does want to look in the casket, which is probably messed up and wrong. He’s never been to a funeral though and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to look at. There aren’t many people in the church. Ray Murdoch and his mother are the only other neighbors he recognizes. Stephanie’s casket is white and lined with blue satin. She’s wearing a long-sleeved blue blouse with lacy cuffs that cover her hands. She looks a lot better than she did the last time he saw her, almost normal really, better than normal, which is weird.
Neil sits next to his daughter, Joni, in the front pew. He stands when he sees Josh and hugs him. Josh feels the calluses on Neil’s fingers through the back of his dress shirt.
“I’m sorry you were the one who found her,” Joni tells Josh when Neil finally lets him go. “But I really appreciate what you did.”
“I really didn’t do anything,” Josh says.
Joni lowers her voice. “We’ve decided not to mention the particulars of what happened. No one needs to know about the cat or how long my mother was there before Josh found her. What’s the point, right? I hope you both understand.”
“Of course,” his mom says. She turns to Neil. “Are you getting settled into the new place?”
Neil is staring at Josh. “I screwed up, didn’t I?” he says. “Missed your lesson today.”
Josh stuffs his hands in his pockets, realizing for the first time that Neil might be missing lessons from now on.
“He likes the care center just fine, don’t you, Dad?” Joni says.
“Can you have visitors?” his mom says.
“Absolutely,” Joni says. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Dad?”
“I’m sorry,” Neil says, still staring at Josh.
“We’ll come see you real soon Neil,” his mom says.
For the rest of the week, his mom treats him as if he has chicken pox or something, doesn’t say anything when he leaves his room a mess, doesn’t complain that he hasn’t made any headway on the front yard project. She even agrees to let him go to the Midnight Slinkers concert at the Orion Club. “Your dad always liked that band.” She doesn’t laugh at him either when he spikes his hair up into an almost Mohawk. He nods when she asks if twenty dollars is enough for a ticket. The concert is already sold out, but he’s not telling her that. He’s not going to need a ticket anyway because he has a plan.
“I hope that’s Jack Daniels,” the Orion Club bouncer says in front of the backstage door when Josh pulls his dad’s old flask from the front pocket of his cargo shorts. Jack Daniels might have been a smarter way to impress the bouncer, Josh thinks, but it’s too late now. The man watches as Josh takes a shot of lighter fluid. He’s nervous. He’s only practiced this a few times after watching a YouTube video of the Midnight Slinkers doing the same thing, which is why his dad liked them.
His dad loves fire, and Josh is the same. The power of it, the mystery. How fire makes its own rules. How the colors and the shapes are indescribable because they keep changing. Josh knows the danger too. His dad made him stick his finger in a flame when he was three, so he’d know what it felt like. His mother was furious.
