“Why?” I asked, smoothing the new bag in place.
He shrugged, “I dunno. It’s just my favorite.”
“Well, it’s a lot like that. I do chores for an allowance,” I said. He nodded. I’d finished putting the new sack in the liner, and I bunched up the old one.
“You have a class now?” I asked.
He shook his head, “Waiting on my mom.” He nodded out the window, toward the road. Coming toward the curb outside was a large station wagon. The fake wood paneling on the side was faded so badly that the car looked like it had a skin problem. Something my dad would call ‘the mange’.
“Don’t laugh, okay?” he said. I looked at him. He continued to stare at the car.
“Why would I—?” I started to ask.
“Just—just don’t, okay? Please?” he asked. I’d never heard him talk in that tone of voice before. I’d always known him as excited and polite. He sounded almost like he wanted to cry. He moved for the door and I felt as though I was being pulled along after him. Looking back, I don’t know that I really wanted to meet his mother, but at the time, I didn’t feel like there was a choice. Something just pulled me along behind him.
The station wagon was enormous, and green. It seemed to be some old family pet that had gotten too huge to put out of its misery. The driver side door opened, and a woman with long blonde hair got out. She had huge, dark, round glasses on and I thought that she reminded me of an actress, one I’d seen before.
“Randall,” she said, walking around the car toward us. He was reaching for the door handle before he even got to the car. His steps were hurried. “Who’s this?” she asked, smiling at me.
“He’s a friend. Can we go?” Randy asked. He opened the door without looking back. She stopped a few feet from me, and smiled bigger. I thought for a second she was going to put her hands on her knees, bend over a little at the waist, and ask me what I wanted for Christmas. She seemed that sweet.
“Well, I’m sorry that Randall is being so rude today,” she said, extending her hand and walking closer. In the car, I could see Randy squirming. He closed the door with a slam. She jumped, and stared at him, her extended hand forgotten.
“It’s okay,” I said, looking at her, then back at him. She walked closer and extended her hand again, “I’m Mrs. McPherson, Randy’s mom,” she said. Her eyes were light green, and I thought about sage grass from a western movie.
I took her hand; it was soft and warm from the steering wheel. “I’m Mike.”
She let go of my hand and stood up. It wasn’t until that moment that I’d realized she’d bent over a little to look directly into my eyes. “So you’re the infamous Mikey, huh? Well, Randall tells me all about you. You’ve turned him into quite the little frog, haven’t you?” I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled. “Well, Mikey, it was a pleasure to meet you. You’ll have to come over some time for supper—,”
“Can we go?” Randy interrupted.
Mrs. McPherson rolled her eyes, and turned. She walked around the car, and it took everything I had not to notice how she was wearing shorts, and how smooth her legs were. Something about the way her ankles spread out from the long, thin curve of her lower leg made me feel too hot, and I stepped back into the shade of the building. Mrs. McPherson closed the door and pushed her glasses further back up on her nose. The station wagon rumbled itself around to face the road once more, then pulled out into traffic.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it go. When I finally came back around, I noticed that something was different. My stomach felt wobbly, and my knees weren’t doing so hot, either. Then I noticed; I’d gone stiff. My face immediately felt hot, and I got dizzy. I tried to relax, but it seemed like the more I thought about relaxing, the worse it got.
Just behind me, the door leading back into the lobby opened. I nearly jumped, but didn’t dare turn around. “You okay, hon?” Ms. Kate asked.
“Yep,” I said, “just—you know—thinking.”
“Oh. Okay. That your little brother?”
“Huh?” I asked, and caught myself about to accidentally turn around.
“That boy who just left; is that your little brother?” she asked.
“No, ma’m,” I said, finally remembering my manners, “he’s one of the boys I teach swimming to.”
“Oh?” she said, “Hmm. Spittin’ image of you.” I heard the door close. I started to panic again when I noticed that everything had gone back to normal. I sighed loudly. After one last look back down the road Randy and his mom had gone down, I turned and walked back inside.
That’s how it started, really. Or, I guess I should say, changed. That’s how it changed from being an older boy teaching a younger one how to swim, into friends. I smiled, back on the porch. I smiled and crushed out the cigarette. I liked thinking about him in the present tense, as if he were still alive. It was nice; warm.
FOURTEEN
The old ten-speed had long since been on its last legs. I had thought about maybe working on it for the rest of the night, but decided against that. I walked, instead. Funny how muscles remember things; what to do, where to go. I sort of put my body on cruise control and thought as I walked.
I’d taken Randy to the field once, about a year before he disappeared. I’d been on my way there on a Saturday when, riding down one of the side streets I almost never took, I saw him sitting on a curb. I liked this road in particular because it sloped gently to the right near the cross-street. Two things crossed my mind the moment I saw Randy, just a little blurb of dark colors against the lighter gray of the night: one was that it was him. Somehow, I knew instantly. The second was the time. It was already well past 1 a.m.
It seems so clear remembering the sound of the bike as I pulled to a stop near him. He looked up lazily, unafraid. “Hi,” he’d said, as if he’d expected me all along.
“Do you live near here?” I asked. Working around him so long, I’d seen his clothes, and the truck his mother drove. I knew the McPherson’s were from the other side of town.
“No.”
“What are you doing over this way?” I asked.
He stood, “Nothin’,” he said.
“Oh,” I’d replied. I knew that the Sheriff lived somewhere down this street, so I was nervous about staying too long. “You should get home.”
“Can I get a ride?” he asked. The streetlight behind me made wild sparkles in his eyes. I could tell he’d been crying.
“Sure,” I said. I knew from holding him up that he was light enough that I could balance us both on the bike. I leaned it down and he climbed on in front of me. He smelled like sweat and dirt. I flexed my leg and brought the bike up to its full height. Clicking down a few gears, I flexed my knee and let the slope of the road start us forward. My feet found the pedals, and with a lurch, we were off.
“Where were you going?” I asked.
“Nowhere,” he said.
“How long before they miss you?” I asked. I finally decided to stop craning my head to strange angles trying to avoid his hair, and rested my chin on top of his head.
“Hours,” he said.
I still wanted to go to the field. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get home, so I kept pedaling. It felt strange; the wind whistling past us, him against me. I asked Dr. Bledsoe once what he thought about it, and he said “Mike, it’s not that unusual for boys to experience a kind of love for one another at that age, especially if they have a secret to share.” I don’t know, though. It didn’t feel like that. Maybe some poet would be able to get at it better. All I know was that there was a strange tickle in my stomach at the two of us being out so late, together, flying down unlit roads.