“Bill doesn’t want money this time?” Beverly asked. “What’s wrong? He sick?”
“He could use a little money,” I said. “Fifty dollars or so… Sammy, would you watch what you’re doing? You’re getting ketchup on my sleeve.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” Sammy said. He went right back to squirting ketchup haphazardly out of the little package that came with the meal.
“Fifty dollars!” Beverly said. “That’s it? I thought maybe he had an armadillo farm he wanted you to invest in. Or perhaps a bee ranch.”
“Not this time. He just got himself in a jam.”
“What kind of jam?”
“Well… Sammy, you’ve got it on my sleeve, son. Would you move over a bit?”
“Sorry, Daddy… What you looking at?”
“What?” I said.
“Not you, Daddy. JoAnn. She’s looking at me. She goes like this.”
Sammy showed me how she went. It was a pretty ugly face.
“I did not,” said JoAnn. “He kicked me under the table.”
“Oh, for Christsake,” I said. “Would you two quit?”
“You and your sister have to stop this,” Beverly said. “Every time we go out, we go through this. It’s silly. You’re old enough to know better. It’s embarrassing. I want you to stop this minute.”
They didn’t, but for once I was glad. The subject of Bill’s jam didn’t come up again.
We finished and drove home, listening to the kids fight in the back of the van. By the time we got to the house, they had broken the toys from the hamburger joint, and as usual, left them on the floorboard along with past disasters.
I shuffled around the house nervously while Beverly read the news n ugly facpaper and the kids watched a cartoon show. When they finished that, the plan was we were going to watch the movie we’d rented.
I leashed Wylie and took him out the back so I could stop off on the back porch and get a pair of old paint-stained pants, some torn boxer shorts, and a flannel shirt out of the Goodwill box, and carry them out to my truck.
After Wylie did his business, I went upstairs, got a couple of shampoo samples Beverly had saved from motels, some shaving cream and stuff, and put them in my coat pocket.
I went downstairs. When I passed Beverly in the living room, I said, “I’m going to go out and clean up after Wylie. He left a big calling card.”
She slowly looked over the top of her paper. She wasn’t somebody who got much wool pulled over her eyes. “Thanks for sharing that,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “It was a real big one.”
She put the paper in her lap. “How big was it, Hank?”
“It was just big. You know? Big.”
Beverly stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. Poker wasn’t my game.
“That’s interesting,” she said. “Maybe we can compare this one to future shits. There might be a world record at stake.”
“I didn’t mean to stir you up,” I said.
“I’m not stirred up. Not yet, anyway. Just go clean it up, would you?”
I went out back and got the stuff out of my pockets and put it in the truck under my Dad’s old coat, got the poop shovel out of the garage, and cleaned up after Wylie.
So far, so good.
Clothes gathered.
Toilet goods gathered.
Dog crap cleaned up.
I went inside just as Beverly was carefully folding up her newspaper to go into the recycling bag.
“You too full for popcorn?” Beverly asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “but pop some anyway.”
She did. We took the corn and drinks upstairs and watched the movie. Between video pauses long enough to yell at the kids to stop fighting, talking, and picking at one another, it took about two-and-a-half hours for us to see a ninety-eight minute movie.
That was about standard.
I don’t remember what the movie was about. I was too nervous thinking about Bill, trying to figure what the hell the right moves were in a situation like this, and knowing damn good and well that no matter how long I thought about it, no perfectly correct answer was going to jump out at me.
When the kids went downstairs to have their bedtime snacks, I kept Bev upstairs a moment. I said, “Honey. That fifty dollars. I didn’t have it on me, and I told Bill I’d go back over there a s ovtaind give it to him tonight. He wants a little advice about some things too.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. I promised.”
“Can’t you call him and tell him you’ll do it tomorrow? I wanted to get in bed early. You got to get up and go to your mother’s tomorrow. You could drop it off then.”
“He really needs it before then,” I said.
“What could he do with it tonight?”
“It would make him feel better to have it. I understand how he feels. I’m like that myself. I got something on my mind, I want it solved as soon as possible.”
“What happened to the twenty you had?”
“I gave it to him, but he needs fifty beyond that.”
“Now the fifty is actually seventy.” She eyeballed me for a long suspicious moment, said, “But, I guess it’s cheaper than an emu farm.”
She got her purse from the bedroom and gave me fifty out of it, like it was an allowance. “I know you earned this money,” she said, “but I figure I earned it from you by dealing with our heathen kids while you went off to bring home the bacon.”
“No question,” I said. “In fact, you deserve a raise.”
“And since I earned mine the hard way,” she said. “I’d like to think this isn’t being spent foolishly.”
“Only a little foolishly,” I said. “He’s going to use it to eat with.”
“Well, I hate to think I’m helping keep him alive,” she said.
Any other time I would have thought of that as a joke, but this time it struck me hard, and I guess it showed on my face.
“Honey,” Beverly said, “is there more going on here than you’re telling me?”
“Some. Yeah. But I’ll explain later, okay? I got to think some things through, and I really need to get on over there.”
“He ought to start doing some of his own thinking… Never mind. Neither of you ever change. He’s always in need, and you’re always going to be there.”
“That’s why you love me though, right?”
“No, actually it bothers the hell out of me. But what’s the use, huh? Go on… and honey, don’t stay late.” She smiled. “I’m a little itchy, you know?”
I tried to keep things light. “I’m feeling a little itchy myself,” I said.
“When aren’t you?”
“Actually I can’t seem to recall. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll do some major scratching.”
“Not after midnight we won’t,” she said. “You want to get scratched, you got to be back here before Cinderella goes to sleep. Actually, sp. idth="1emI’m more like the coach in the story. After midnight, I turn into a pumpkin.”
“But a pretty pumpkin,” I said.
“Goddamn gorgeous,” she said.
I drove over to where Bill lived. Red Vine Street. It was as dark as Bill had said. The street light I passed appeared to be greased over. I didn’t know which house was his, but I remembered he said it had oaks in the yard.
I drove slowly down the street and noted all the houses had oaks in their yards. But only one had an orange ribbon across the front porch with, CRIME SCENE/DO NOT CROSS, written on it in bright, white letters. And only one had a carport with Bill’s car in it, and another car, a sporty model I didn’t recognize, parked behind it.
Bill told me he left his car at Dave’s, that he walked home, and when he got here the carport was empty, except for shadows. If that were the case, what were these cars doing here now? They were considerably more substantial than shadows.
I killed my headlights and drove on by the house with just my parking beams on. I turned around at the end of the street and came back up. I pulled over opposite Bill’s house and parked. I got my Dad’s revolver and put it in my coat pocket and got my flashlight and climbed out of the truck quietly and crossed the street and walked along the edge of Bill’s yard. I went around back of Bill’s house, onto the back porch.
There was an orange ribbon stretched across the back screen door. I stood there staring at it, listening. I didn’t hear anything that made me nervous.