She confronted Donald with the evidence when he’d come home that evening. But Donald had only laughed and said at least Donnie was practicing safe sex. And the drugs? Kate had asked. What about the drugs? Donald said it was only pot, for heaven’s sake, they’d tried pot in college.
“He’s not in college,” said Kate.
Donnie continued his antics in spite of Kate’s warnings and threats. He moved his activities from the stable to the house. Not only did he entertain high school girls in his bedroom, but he began his own pot distribution center. When arrested during the second semester of ninth grade with some stash on him at the school, Donald the father was forced to become Donald the lawyer. A private plea was arranged; if Donnie was given the help he needed, the charges would be dropped. Donnie would remain an upstanding citizen and the McDolen name would be untarnished.
Donald found Ricketts-Heyden with a couple phone calls. Donnie was enrolled within the week, to begin in July.
“I’ll miss you,” Kate said to her son on the stairs.
“Yeah, I’m sure, but you’ll get over it.”
Donald opened the front door and called, “Hurry up, the car’s running. Kiss your mother good-bye and let’s get going.”
Donnie had not kissed his mother good-bye. He hadn’t even looked at her as he’d stood from the stairs, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and walked out through the door.
The weeks that followed were quicksand; thick, sluggish days where she couldn’t even read a magazine article or a page from a novel without losing concentration. Her gaze slid off the print as if caught on slick ice. She found herself zoning in and out of focus when Donald talked to her. Where she found sleep was the best comfort of all.
At her yearly pap exam in Emporia in August she began to cry and couldn’t stop. The nurse practitioner asked Kate if she was depressed. Depressed? She’d thought. No, I’m just so tired.
So unbelievably tired.
She was sent home with a prescription for Zolof. She was too distracted to take it. Donald said, “You have to do something, Kate. I can’t stand to see you hanging around all day in your pajamas. When did you last shower?”
“Why do you care?” she’d asked him over dinner. “You don’t see me often enough to know what the hell I do or don’t do.”
The following day, Stuart Gordonson called to tell her there was a fourth grade opening starting in September at Pippins Elementary School and she would be the perfect candidate for the position.
Ah, but Donald was quick and to the point.
She remembered.
With a new surge of conviction, Kate yanked opened the front hall closet, grabbed a handful of spare scarves, a knit hat, and two of the seven assorted umbrellas, then raced out through the sleet to the waiting car.
12
There was wet pattering on the back windshield, and Mistie pulled the blanket away from one eye and looked at the glass. Thick streaks of ice were striking the window and sliding down like Daddy’s tobacco juice on the side of the refrigerator when he missed the can. Only Daddy’s tobacco juice wasn’t clear like the ice, it was brown. But it slid the same, not in a straight line but zig-zaggy, all the way down to the floor. Mistie had tried chewing tobacco one time. Her Daddy said it’d be good for her since it was a vegetable and kids should like vegetables. She didn’t like it and gagged, so he’d made her swallow it all down.
“That’ll show you,” he’d said.
Mistie’s stomach growled and she pushed her knuckles into in until it stopped. She burped. She wondered where the teacher was taking her. Maybe to a carnival. Maybe to Wal-Mart. They had balloons at Wal-Mart, and ice cream. Princess Silverlace liked strawberry ice cream the best.
She put her finger into her nose and pulled out a dry crust. She stared at it, and then said, “Mama had a baby and its head popped off.” She flicked the crust out from beneath the blanket and onto the floor. She wished the teacher would hurry up.
And then the front door popped open and she could smell the teacher’s hand lotion before she heard the teacher’s seat squeak beneath her.
13
“Show us what you got first before we show you what we got,” said Whitey. The Hot Heads were in their usual seating places, except for DeeWee, who got left home. DeeWee would forget what they’d said in the car earlier, but DeeWee might not forget what they did if he was there to see it happen. And DeeWee, even Leroy would admit, couldn’t keep his mouth shut if God Himself came down to earth with a staple gun.
Leroy was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and a bulky black coat Tony had never seen. He had a pair of scratched plastic sunglasses that looked like they came from a Burger King kid’s meal. Buddy had on a hunter cap with the flaps pulled down and a fake fur coat that looked like a mauled grizzly. He’d sprayed his face with what looked and smelled like the gold glitter spray his sister used to make her normally dirty blonde hair look like something special. He hadn’t sprayed the eyes, though, and they popped white through the red. Whitey wore a wrinkled trench coat, a scarf around his neck, and a pair of fuzzy mittens. Little Joe had lost all traces of cowboy. He wore a windbreaker, some rubber boots, and a pair of eyeglasses that had the lenses punched out.
The Chevelle lurched forward as Buddy’s foot slipped on the gas, then off, then back on again. He cussed at the sleet. The Chevelle’s passenger windshield wiper was broken, and it spasmed like a dying insect against the glass. The icy downpour picked up in intensity. Tony ran her hand under her nose to catch a leak.
“Show us what you got,” repeated Whitey.
“Your show me first,” Tony said.
“Bull us first,” said Leroy from the front. “You had this idea. This is your goddamn circus. You show us what you got.”
“Got this knife,” said Tony, lifting her foot for all to see.
“Knife?”
“Swiss army,” said Tony. “For back up.” She pulled out the revolver and waved it around. Little Joe ducked when the mouth of the barrel came to rest at his forehead.
“Cut it out!” he wailed.
“Mrs. Martin gonna cry just like you,” mused Tony. She grinned and put the revolver back into her pocket. Her head was itching again, beneath Granddad’s flattened hat. Again, she let it itch. It felt, well, fucking glorious.
“That’s a big ass gun, Tony,” said Leroy.
“I’m the only one big enough to handle it,” she said. And then to Whitey, “Now show me.”
Whitey produced a pistol. Tony didn’t know one pistol brand from another but it was small. At least it wasn’t rusted or bent up.
“Got ammo for this?” said Tony.
“Asshole,” said Whitey.
“Didn’t do anything to your face,” said Tony with a nod of her head. “People know them burned-up cheeks anywhere.”
“Yeah? Watch.” Whitey tugged the scarf up to show how it fit over his nose and chin. Muffled through the knit he said, “Just shut your fat lips.”
“What else we got?” Tony asked. “Little Joe, you said your great-uncle had a gun at home.”
“He was home,” said Little Joe. “Couldn’t get it.”
Tony slapped his glasses off. Little Joe put them back on. “Then what about you, Buddy? Leroy?”
There was silence a moment, and Leroy said, “Still got the bb gun, okay? So what? Nobody else found guns. You want to make a big deal, fine, I’ll throw you out the car. With what you and Whitey got nobody at the Exxon’ll know what’s bullets and what’s bb.”