Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories (20 page)

CARDS FOR HIS SPOKES, COINS FOR HIS FARE

John F.D. Taff

Can I ask you a question, the most important one I can think of?

Sure. I might not know the answer. Or I might not be able to tell you, but you can ask me anything.

Can you tell me how to let go of something? Something precious?

Simple. Don’t hold onto it for too long.

***

The Schwinn was brand new, gleaming, pale white.

The color of clouds, of bones, of ghosts.

“Wow,” Scott said, still too stunned to smile.

He ran his hand unbelievingly down the ten-speed, from its rubbery seat down its smooth center bar to the ram’s curls of its handlebars. His fingers flitted over the gear levers, squeezed the brakes.

A real ten-speed
, he thought.
A grown-up bike
.

And not a birthday or even a Christmas present.

He turned to his parents, both standing nearby, quiet, expectant smiles hovering on their faces.

“So, what do you think, kiddo?” his father asked. “You don’t seem too happy about . . .
oof!
”

Scott’s sudden embrace knocked the air out of his father.

“It’s cool . . . it’s dy-no-mite!” he shouted.

Laughing, his father hugged him back. “Well, that’s better.”

Scott released his dad, threw his arms around his mother. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

His mother, who appeared happy but a little more dubious about the gift, placed one hand on his shoulder, ruffled his hair with the other, bent to kiss the top of his head.

“You’re welcome,” she said, putting her lips to his ear. “You just be careful, mister.”

“Honey . . . ,” his father chided.

“Mom . . . ,” Scott moaned at the same time, pulling away and regarding her with an exasperated look.

She smiled again, and it hung there in the air over her face, as if scrawled over a sketch of an anxious mother.

“Hey, a mom can be worried,” she said, ruffling his hair again. Scott saw her flash her eyes quickly at his father, who gave a little shrug in response. Scott knew that he was not supposed to see this, that it wasn’t supposed to register with him. But since he’d gotten older—12 years old this past February!—they were all coming to an accommodation about what was registering with Scott these days . . . what he noticed, what he understood.

“Well, I’m sure you and your dad have some things to go over before you take off, so I’ll let you go to it,” his mother said. “But first . . . ”

She held out her closed right hand to Scott, who stood there for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do. So she waggled the hand at him, and he finally put out his own, palm up, underneath it.

His mother opened her hand, and two coins fell out.

Scott saw two quarters cupped in his hand, looked at his mother quizzically.

“One for a phone, if you need to reach us. And one for the bus, if you need to get home.”

Scott heard this as mom-speak for,
One for a phone, if there’s a problem. And one for the bus, if there’s a problem.

“Put them in your pocket, and promise me,
swear
to me, Scott Phillips, that every time you go out on this bike—I don’t care when, I don’t care how far, I don’t care for how long—that you’ll always have these two quarters in your pocket.”

If there’s a problem . . .

“Yes, mom.”

“I mean it. Don’t spend it on comics or candy. It’s for emergencies only, young man. Swear it.”

Smiling, Scott jammed his pinky finger out to her, and it was her turn to look at him in confusion.

“Okay, pinky swear!” he said, laughing.

His mom stuck her own pinky out, hooked it around his, and they shook.

“Pinky swear,” she said, then smiled at him again—that same, rueful smile—and drifted back into the house.

Scott watched her go. “What’s wrong with mom?”

“Oh, it’s nothing kiddo. She just doesn’t want you to grow up, that’s all.”

His father sighed heavily. “OK, so before you get the dreaded safety lecture, let me give you a little something from me.”

He passed a small packet to his son.

Baseball cards. Topps, of course, with the requisite slab of chalky, pink bubblegum.

For a moment he thought of this as a strange gift for his father to give him right then. He thought about the players he’d like to have—George Brett with the Royals, Tug McGraw with the Mets, Nolan Ryan with the Angels. Maybe Hank Aaron with the Brewers or Johnny Bench with the Reds. And, of course, the card that always seemed to elude him, Lou Brock with the Cardinals.

As he took the single packet, though, it finally struck him.

Cards.
Baseball cards for the spokes of his new bike.

“Wow . . . thanks, Dad!”

Scott turned the pack over in his hands. It was the cello-pack, slightly more expensive at a quarter, with 18 cards inside.

“You know what to do with it, don’t you?” his father chided, looking on as Scott ripped the package open, absently jammed the gum into his mouth, chewing automatically.

Rifling through the cards, he quickly took inventory. A few names he didn’t recognize immediately—Skip Pitlock with the White Sox, Mike Wallace with the Yankees. A Ron Santo from the much-hated Cubs. Four cards from the Giants—Gary Lavelle, Dave Heaverlo, Jim Barr and Glenn Adams.

And a double play that made his heart stop . . . Bob Gibson and Lou Brock from the St. Louis Cardinals—his home team!

“Dad . . . wow . . . oh wow!” he said, showing his father the two cards.

“Wow is right! Two redbirds in one pack!”

“Not gonna use these two, that’s for sure,” Scott said, ogling the two cards like unearthed treasure and sliding them carefully into the middle of the pack, where they’d be protected by the other, lesser cards.

“Which ones are you going to use?” his father asked.

Scott fanned the cards out, surveying the names and slices of faces.

Four cards, two on each bike tire.

“Well, there are four Giants,” he said, sliding them from the deck. “Perfect.”

So, Dave Heaverlo, Glenn Adams, Jim Barr and Gary Lavelle were all pulled from the deck. The rest were neatly squared, wrapped in the cellophane sleeve, and slid into the front pocket of Scott’s jeans.

***

The bike . . . oh, the bike was a thing of beauty.

Taken from the Schwinn catalog—which had arrived three months back in a manila envelope that his mother had placed on his dinner plate before supper—the bike was exactly as pictured.

A 24-inch Schwinn Varsity Sport.

To answer the needs of thousands who have been asking for a lightweight style 10-speed bike,
began the catalog description,
here is the new 1975 Schwinn 24-inch-wheel Varsity Sport. Scaled to fit the smaller rider. Every safety feature, every high-performance component found on the full-size Varsity is here. Choice of colors: Bone, Chestnut, Lime Green or Yellow. Wt. 36 1/2 lbs.

A ten-speed bike . . . a grown-up bike.

No more banana seats for Scott. No more ape-hangers or sissy bars.

Now, he had gear shifts and dual brake calipers and ram’s horn handlebars.

Now, he had a bike like the older kids’ bikes, one that could take him out of his subdivision and into the larger world.

Now, he had freedom.

***

His dad gave him the safety lecture. He showed him how to shift, how to brake, how to signal, how to do just about everything. He told him how to cross streets, how to ride on the side of roads, even how to tuck his jeans cuffs into his socks to prevent them from being snagged in the chain.

But he also saw Scott getting antsy, Scott not paying attention, Scott just wanting to ride the thing.

“OK, let’s get these cards on and you can be on your way,” his dad said, reaching into his pocket and producing four wooden clothespins.

“I don’t think your mother will mind.”

Scott took the pins, knelt before the bike. For a moment, he stroked the smooth metal. It was cool though the air was warm and heavy, as St. Louis air almost always was.

He started to clip the first card to the spokes of the bike, but his father
tsked
, kneeled beside him. Taking the clothespin from Scott, he clipped it to the right side of the front fork, slid the first card, Glenn Adams, into its pincers, so that the card stuck into the spokes.

“Do it that way, Scotty, and they’ll stay on longer.”

“Daaad!” Scott responded. Just as he graduated to this new, bigger bike, Scott had also begun demanding to be known by his name, not by the diminutive
Scotty
. That name had gone the way of kid’s meals at McDonald’s and Underoos.

“Okay, okay,” his dad chuckled, standing. “The last time, I promise.”

Scott stood, too, disengaged the kick stand and mounted his new Varsity Sport.

“One more thing,” his father said, holding something more out.

Three crisp, new one-dollar bills, folded neatly in thirds.

“You know, for stuff,” he said, winking. “Mom doesn’t need to know about it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Scott said, stuffing the money into the pocket with the rest of the baseball cards.

“Enjoy your gift, Scott. Be careful and be back before dinner, if you know what’s good for you . . . and me,” his father said.

“I will!” Scott said, standing on the pedals and taking off down the driveway, wobbling slightly and not looking back.

Not looking back.

***

Scott raced from home, feeling the air cool as it rushed past him, ruffled his t-shirt, his hair. He wasn’t going
too
fast, though. No, he wanted people to see him, see his new bike.

He wanted to show off.

But there weren’t many people out early on this summer weekday morning, which was too bad since it was still cool outside and that wouldn’t last long. It never did in St. Louis. Already the air had the implicit edge of heat on it, hinting at the inevitable assault of the climbing sun and the relentless humidity. Soon, it would be hot and dank, and the air would no longer be cool and kind, but as smothering as a damp blanket just out of the dryer.

Now, though, the sun was out in the bright blue, cotton-streaked sky, and the air was soft as he slipped through it. A few adults acknowledged him as he sped by—old Mr. Trank, as always bent over his enormous garden, Mrs. Garrison, Todd’s mother, sweeping her front porch, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins climbing into their car, waving jauntily.

But none of his friends were out yet to see him, not even any of the kids he didn’t particularly like.

Too bad because they might have seen a suddenly more grown-up Scott Phillips pedal by on his new bike, his spare, lithe form working the pedals, curled over the handlebars, his tanned arms flexed, his hair, already sun bleached, blowing out behind him. His smile like the beam of a headlamp, aimed forward, aimed past the limits of his old bike—the boundary of his subdivision—toward the outer world, the
whole
world.

They might have seen Scott Phillips transported.

***

Scott did as his father had told him, stopping at the traffic light, waiting for the “Walk” sign to light up, then walking his bike across the busy two-lane road that had been the border of his old world.

His parents had never let him leave the subdivision on his old bike—what he increasingly thought of as his “baby” bike. But now, with a whole $3.50 in his pocket and the permission of his parents to take the bike to the local strip shopping center, well . . . the sky was the limit.

As he pedaled down Howdershell Road, he mentally charted the path he’d take: past St. Dominic’s (which he and his friends called St. Pringle’s because of its modern, curved and sloping roof) to the IGA, turn left onto Lynne Road, then about 10 blocks to his ultimate goal, Village Square.

This was the sprawling, open-air mall that housed most everything Scott thought important—a Dairy Queen, a candy shop, and a record store. But mostly it was the cramped little bookstore that was his goal; a bookstore selling comic books and the science fiction paperbacks he was increasingly becoming addicted to.

Before, he had to beg his mother to take him there . . . and that was only when she had the car. Now, with his new 10-speed, he could practically go whenever he wanted.

In his mind, he saw how the day would unfold. Parking his bike at Village Square, flipping through the new comic titles, buying three or four issues (all at one time!), grabbing some candy and a soda, then heading over to McMillan Park, where he’d lean up under the shade of a tree, read his purchases, eat his candy and cool off with a Coke. Then back home in plenty of time for dinner, to prove to his mother that this bike, this freedom wasn’t a bad idea.

With all that running through his mind, he pedaled harder, launching the bike down sun-dappled Lynne Road, lined on either side by ranch house after ranch house. Sprinklers were on now, fanning lawns with water. A few kids were out jumping through these sprays, running and giggling. A dog ran after him for the length of three houses, before giving him a desultory bark and turning reluctantly back for home.

As he neared the end of the street, he stopped the bike, turned back to where he’d come from. The entire, ruler-straight length of Lynne Road was a narrow green-gold tunnel of houses and trees, receding into the distance. At its far end, obscured by distance and sunlight, was Howdershell Road.

As he stood there with his bike, marveling at how far he’d come, he noticed a clump of shadows, backlit by the powerful late morning sun.

It looked like kids . . . four kids on bicycles, unmoving, silhouetted against the golden smear of light at the end of the street.

Their dark shapes didn’t move at all as he watched, and that seemed odd. It was as if they were looking at him, directly,
specifically
at him. Their lack of movement struck him as so odd, in fact, that it gave him a funny, ticklish feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he sometimes got when he rode in the car with his dad and they went over a particularly sudden drop in the pavement.

Scott watched the shadows for a moment longer, then, shrugging, he remounted his bike, set off for Village Square.