And LeBay was taking over.
New Year’s Eve was cold and crystal clear. My dad dropped me off at the Cunninghams’ at quarter past seven and helped me over to the back door—crutches were not made for winter or snow-packed paths.
The Cunninghams’ station wagon was gone, but Christine stood in the driveway, her bright red-and-white finish sheened with a condensation of ice-crystals. She had been released with the rest of the impounded cars only this week. Just looking at her brought on a feeling of dull dread like a headache. I did not want to ride home in that car, not tonight, not ever. I wanted my own ordinary, mass-produced Duster with its vinyl seatcovers and its dumb bumper-sticker reading MAFIA STAFF CAR.
The back porch light flicked on, and we saw Arnie cross toward the door in silhouette. He didn’t even look like Arnie. His shoulders loped; his movements seemed older. I told myself it was only imagination, my suspicions working on me, and of course I was full of bullshit… and I knew it.
He opened the door and leaned out in an old flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. “Dennis!” he said. “My man!”
“Hi, Arnie,” I said.
“Hello, Mr Guilder.”
“Hi, Arnie,” my dad said, raising one gloved hand. “How’s it been going?”
“Well, you know, not that great. But that’s all going to change, New year, new broom, out with the old shit, in with the new shit, right?”
“I guess so,” my father said, sounding a little taken aback. “Dennis, are you sure you don’t want me to come back and get you?”
I wanted that more than anything, but Arnie was looking at me and his mouth was still smiling but his eyes were flat and watchful. “No, Arnie’ll bring me home… if that rustbucket will start, that is?”
“Oh-oh, watch what you call my car,” Arnie said. “She’s very sensitive.”
“Is she?” I asked.
“She is,” Arnie said, smiling.
I turned my head and called, “Sorry, Christine.”
“That’s better.”
For a moment all three of us stood there, my father and I at the bottom of the kitchen steps. Arnie in the doorway above us, none of us apparently knowing what to say next. I felt a kind of panic—someone had to say something, or else the whole, ridiculous fiction that nothing had changed would collapse of its own weight.
“Well, okay,” my dad said at last. “You two kids stay sober. If you have more than a couple of beers, Arnie, call me.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Guilder.”
“We’ll be all right,” I said, grinning a grin that felt plastic and false. “You go on home and get your beauty sleep, Dad. You need it.”
“Oh-ho,” my father said. “Watch what you call my face. It’s very sensitive.”
He went back to the car. I stood and watched him, my crutches propped into my armpits. I watched him while he crossed behind Christine. And when he backed out of the driveway and turned toward home, I felt a little bit better.
I banged the snow off the tip of each crutch carefully while standing in the doorway. The Cunninghams’ kitchen was tile-floored. A couple of near accidents had taught me that on smooth surfaces a pair of crutches with wet snow on them can turn into ice-skates.
“You really operate on those babies,” Arnie said, watching me cross the floor. He took a pack of Tiparillos from the pocket of his flannel shirt, shook one out, bit down on the white plastic mouthpiece, and lit it with his head cocked to one side. The match flame played momentarily across his cheeks like yellow streaks of paint.
“It’s a skill I’ll be glad to lose,” I said. “When did you start with the cigars?”
“Darnell’s,” he said. “I don’t smoke em in front of my mother. The smell drives her bugshit.”
He didn’t smoke like a kid who just learning the habit—he smoked like a man who has been doing it for twenty years.
“I thought I’d make popcorn,” he said. “You up for that?”
“Sure. You got any beer?”
“That’s affirmative. There’s a six-pack in the fridge and two more downstairs.”
“Great.” I sat down carefully at the kitchen table, stretching out my left leg. “Where’re your folks?”
“Went to a New Year’s Eve party at the Fassenbachs’. When’s that cast come off?”
“Maybe at the end of January, if I’m lucky.” I waved my crutches in the air and cried dramatically, “Tiny Tim walks again! God bless us, every one!”
Arnie, on his way to the stove with a deep pan, a bag of popcorn, and a bottle of Wesson Oil, laughed and shook his head. “Same old Dennis. They didn’t knock much of the stuffing out of you, you shitter.”
“You didn’t exactly overwhelm me with visits in the hospital, Arnie.”
“I brought you Thanksgiving supper—what the hell do you want, blood?”
I shrugged.
Arnie sighed. “Sometimes I think you were my good-luck charm, Dennis.”
“Off my case, hose-head.”
“No, seriously. I’ve been in hot water ever since you broke your wishbones, and I’m still in hot water. It’s a wonder I don’t look like a lobster.” He laughed heartily. It was not the sound you’d expect of a kid in trouble; it was the laugh of a man—yes, a man—who was enjoying himself tremendously, He put the pan on the stove and poured Wesson Oil over the bottom of it. His hair, shorter than it used to be and combed back in a style that was new to me, fell over his forehead. He flipped it back with a quick jerk of his head and added popcorn to the oil. He slammed a lid over the pan. Went to the fridge. Got a six-pack. Slammed it down in front of me, pulled off two cans, and opened them. Gave me one. Held up his. I held up mine.
“A toast,” Arnie said. “Death to all the shitters of the world in 1979.”
I lowered my can slowly. “I can’t drink to that, man.”
I saw a spark of anger in those grey eyes. It seemed to twinkle there, like spurious good humour, and then go out. “Well, what can you drink to—man?”
“How about to college?” I asked quietly.
He looked at me sullenly, his earlier good humour gone like magic. “I should have known she’d fill you full of that garbage. My mother is one woman who never stuck at getting low to get what she wants. You know that, Dennis. She’d kiss the devil’s ass if that’s what it took.”
I put my beer-can down, still full. “Well, she didn’t kiss my ass. She just said you weren’t making any applications and she was worried.”
“It’s my life,” Arnie said. His lips twisted, changing his face, making it extraordinarily ugly. “I’ll do what I want.”
“And college isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’ll go. But in my own time. You tell her that, if she asks. In my own time. Not this year. Definitely not. If she thinks I’m going to go off to Pitt or Horlicks or Rutgers and put on a freshman beanie and go boola-boola at the home football games, she’s out of her mind. Not after the shitstorm I’ve been through this year. No way, man.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m taking off,” he said. “I’m going to get in Christine and we’re going to motorvate right the Christ out of this one-timetable town. You understand?” His voice began to rise, to become shrill, and I felt horror sweep over me again. I was helpless against that unmanning fear and could only hope that it didn’t show on my face. Because it wasn’t just LeBay’s voice now; now it was even LeBay’s face, swimming under Arnie’s like some dead thing preserved in Formalin. “It’s been nothing but a shitstorm, and I think that goddam Junkins is still after me full steam ahead, and he better watch out or somebody just might junk him—”
“Who’s Junkins?” I asked.
“Never mind,” he said. “It’s not important.” Behind him, the Wesson Oil had begun to sizzle. A kernel of corn popped—ponk! — against the underside of the lid. “I’ve got to go shake that, Dennis. Do you want to make a toast or not? Makes no difference to me.”