Period 8 (6 page)

“Right on,” Justin says, “and by the way, we're still missin' a virgin.”

“That we are,” Arney says. “That we are.”

.6

A
fter school, Paulie heads for the lake. Logs may come later, but he's buried in teachers' meetings and a damage-control local news conference.

Paulie lays his wetsuit out on the dock, thinking about Hannah and Mary Wells and how his life has taken a turn for the bizarre. A paraphrased H. L. Mencken quotation he has taped to his bedroom wall pops into his head: “For every complex question there's a simple answer—and it's wrong.” He thinks too about
All the Pretty Horses,
a novel he read in English this year
.
The main character, John Grady Cole, says, “There ain't but one truth. The truth is what happened.” There was a time when Paulie thought it was as simple as that: learn the truth and tell it. It started with a Sunday school lesson back in elementary school, one taught by a kind of hippie throwback youth minister who believed finding the truth and exposing it was Jesus's
modus operandi
. You wouldn't tell some poor kid that you recognized the shirt he was wearing because it used to belong to you, or chide someone for some other reality that could only hurt. But with the big things, the things that bore
consequence,
well, you told it; you told what happened. But as he gets ready to hit the water, Paulie thinks it's a little more complicated than that. He told Hannah
what happened.
She didn't want to hear more.
What happened
was all she needed to bring the curtain down on what Paulie had considered the best thing that ever
happened
to him. Hannah knew how Paulie felt about his father's wanderings, about the hours upon hours he'd sat listening to his mom. She was there the night his mother went totally off and broke nearly every breakable thing in the kitchen—dishes, glasses, CorningWare—packed a suitcase, and stormed out.

“Guess she's finally had it,” Hannah had said, holding Paulie's hand as they stared at the carnage.

“It just means a new set of dishes,” Paulie had replied. “This time tomorrow night there won't be a trace of this.”

In the end Hannah had agreed with Paulie: his dad was a horn dog and his mother was weak.

But there were things Paulie admired about his father. His dad had saved more lives than Paulie could count. He had pulled bleeding or burned victims from the edge of death; he had even gone into a freezing river once to rescue a woman and her baby from the roof of a car. His pay was modest, the hours unpredictable, and failure at times inevitable. Paulie admired his dad's
toughness
but he'd vowed never to turn into that guy when it came to relationships.

But what Paulie did wasn't
like
that. It
wasn't
.

The idea of swimming without the wetsuit—in only his Speedo—tempts him. He knows the water is in the low fifties, testicle-numbing at best, but if you can take it for just a few minutes, the body actually feels warm. Stay in too long and you flirt with hypothermia, but he's done it before and it's pretty exhilarating as extreme sports go. He stuffs the wetsuit back in the car and walks toward the end of the dock, hyperventilating, determined, laughing inside when he considers he's providing his own punishment. Ten feet from the end he takes three long strides and dives.

 

Hannah walks into her bedroom after coming up empty scanning the guest room for possible missed clues, throws her car keys and cell on top of the dresser, and flops onto the bed. She wishes she had asked Mary more questions. Mr. Wells was weird today—if
she'd
gone missing, her parents wouldn't have been asking witnesses what they were doing out so late; they'd have been desperate and welcoming of any useful information. And what about
Mrs.
Wells?

She clicks the remote, looking for the evening news. A local talk show host pops on the screen so she hits the mute button, rolls over, and gathers her pillow. For those few quick moments this morning when she thought Mary Wells might be . . . well, dead—in the time between when she saw the news on TV and then the impossibility of that news registered—she also thought about Paulie. What if something happened to Paulie? Would this be how she wanted her last time with him to be? There was a moment of clarity that almost made her text him.

She rolls over to see Dr. Johannsen filling the flat screen, standing before a mike with a large 4 on it. Mr. Logs stands in the background. Hannah un-mutes.

“. . . news of Ms. Wells's disappearance. It was kind of automatic,” Dr. Johannsen is saying. “We got parental permission for the students we sent and it was the most natural thing to load a bus and see if we could assist. A teacher supervised and the police department directed the operation.”

“Were there students present
without
parental permission?” Mallory Preston, local TV reporter, asks.

Dr. Johannsen looks at her askance. “Not that I know of,” she says, and smiles. “I'll have a better idea about that tomorrow morning. The important thing is, those students are safe and the young woman in question, whatever her difficulty, seems not to have been the victim of foul play.”

“Speaking of Ms. Wells,” the reporter says, “do you have any further knowledge of her whereabouts?”

“I don't,” Dr. Johannsen says. “I'm sure more will become apparent in the next few days.”

“Have you had a conversation with her father since the search was called off?”

“No. We'll handle it through our attendance office like any other absence. This is a good student with an exemplary record, both academically and socially.”

“I wonder—”

“What will happen,” Dr. Johannsen interrupts, “is something newsworthy, and you folks will concentrate on that and we'll get on with the business of finishing up our school year. Thank you, but I have work to do.”

Right on, Dr. Jo!
Hannah thinks.
Slap that nosy bitch!
Hannah's cell has been ringing every ten minutes and she knows Mallory Preston and her colleagues want her on the record about her encounter with Mary, which is
not
going to happen.
Fifteen minutes of fame, my ass,
she thinks.
I'm saving mine for something fun.

 

Paulie pulls himself onto the dock after nearly forty-five minutes in the icy reservoir. It was a good, fast workout and he feels on top of the world, warm and strong.
Warm
will give way to violent shivering in minutes when sensation returns and his body reacts to the astonishing cold. He slides his feet into his flip-flops, rushes to the car and pulls on his sweats, slips into the driver's seat, and cranks the heat to high while backing away from the dock. As he approaches the city limits, the shivering starts and a half-mile later he pulls over because he's paying way more attention to his vibrating body than to his driving.
If I died right now they'd set my time of death two hours ago based on body temperature.
He laughs at the thought and sits another twenty minutes with the car heater slowly bringing him back toward 98.6. When the intensity of the shivering has diminished enough to let him clutch the steering wheel with a degree of confidence, he drives home, strips out of his sweats, and lowers himself into a bath. He considers the events of the past few days, wondering if he should go ahead and tell all he knows.

 

“Bobby Wright!” Paulie says as The Rocket door
cushes
closed behind Bobby. He looks at his watch; ten fifteen. “Aren't you out past curfew?”

Bobby looks confused.

“I'm messing with you, man. What can I do for you? Still got coffee that's almost fresh. A day-old croissant?”

Bobby frowns again.

“Still messin' with you, buddy. What do you need?”

“Like a pop or something,” Bobby says.

Paulie nods toward the cooler. “Pop we got. Coke, Pepsi, hell we even have Jolt and Red Bull in the back. Keep you hoppin' all night.”

Bobby's eyes shift side to side. “Is that what you've been drinking?”

“Naw, man. I'm just bored. Got an hour and a half to go.”

Paulie watches Bobby walk toward the cooler. The kid moves like he's afraid he'll trip a landmine. He stands staring through the glass at the soda pop, unable to decide. He opens the cooler door, closes it again, opens it.

“No matter which one you pick, you're gonna wish you'd got the other one,” Paulie says.

Bobby turns around. “Huh?”

“Messin' with you again. Grab one, it's on me.”

“I can pay for it.” Bobby reaches in his pocket, shows Paulie a five.

“Yeah, man, but you don't
have
to. I'm buyin'. All you gotta do is stay here to drink it.”

“Really? You want me to stay here?”

Paulie looks at his watch again. “You got some place to go?”

“No . . . I mean, usually nobody . . . I can drink it here.”

“All right then, grab what you want and pull up a chair.” He nods toward a table near the counter.

Bobby grabs a Dr Pepper and moves to sit. “I can pay for it . . .” he says again.

“But you're not gonna,” Paulie says. “Sit.”

Bobby sits.

Paulie claps his hands together. “So what do you want to talk about?”

Bobby's eyes widen. Bobby Wright does not often experience cool guys treating him like he's visible.

“C'mon,” Paulie says, “what's up?”

Bobby takes a drink of his pop. “Actually . . .”

“Shoot.”

“How'd you learn to swim like that? Like up at the lake an' stuff?”

Paulie walks around the counter, hoists himself up. “You know, swimming lessons when I was little. Then I joined the Parks and Rec swim team so I could get a coach. Cool thing about swimming is, if you keep doing it you get faster. Pretty soon I started wondering how far I could go. Found out Mr. Logs was a wannabe channel swimmer and just started doing it with
him.
Guy's a beast.”

“You think I could learn?”

“Sure. Can you swim?”

“Yeah, I took those lessons.”

“Just go down to one of the city pools when they open this summer. Tell 'em you want to join the novice team. Go from there. How come you want to swim?”

Bobby reddens, looks at the table. “I don't know. I guess it kind of seems cool.”

Paulie gives a short laugh. “It's more than cool,” he says. “It's colder than hell.”

Bobby smiles. “I'll bet. You think you'd be different? You know, if you didn't swim.”

“Yeah,” Paulie says, “I'd be different.”

“Like how?”

“I don't know. Swimming, like that's a challenge. First time you get in water that cold you can't fucking believe you're doing it. In fact, the first time you just get back out.”

“How'd you get back in?”

“Logs called me a pussy.”

“Mr. Logsdon called you that?”

“He didn't say the word,” Paulie says, “but he said it. Then when you do finally get used to the water, it's still hard work.”

Bobby's eyes dart around the room.

“You really thinking of trying it?”

Bobby grimaces.

“Hey, I thought the same thing,” Paulie says, “but that shit makes you tough, and there's nothing wrong with that. Listen man, you sign up for summer swimming soon as school is out and get a few miles under your belt. Logs an' I'll take you out when you wanna give it a shot. The water will be warm by then. Meantime do some running. Lift some weights.”

Bobby finishes his pop and stands. “I tried the weight room once,” he says. “But all those big guys . . . Arney Stack was in there and some other guys. I just left.”

“Naw man, fuck that. Those guys just make all the noise. Especially Stack. If you'd have stayed you'd have seen a whole bunch of regular guys.”

Bobby moves toward the door. “Think you could go down there with me once? Like, show me how the machines work and stuff?”

“
Hell
yeah,” Paulie says. “I go a couple times a week, on days I don't swim. Bring your gear day after tomorrow.”

Bobby opens the door, hesitates. “Okay, then,” he says. “Day after tomorrow. Weight room.” He smiles and is gone.

 

The classroom is abuzz when Logs closes the door for the beginning of Period 8 the next day.

“Guess I already know ‘what's up' today, huh?” he says.

“Did they find her?” someone asks.

“I haven't heard,” he says.

“Something's messed up,” Justin says. “Lotta time between when Mary was gone from home and when we went looking.”

“You have to admit, Mr. Logs, something's strange,” Marley Waits says.

“There
are
unanswered questions,” Logs says. He takes a deep breath. “We need to be careful how we deal with this. Mary's one of us and I'm guessing she'll be here again soon. We have to be respectful now, and when she comes back.”

“Yeah,” Hannah says. “I'd be pretty embarrassed if my dad called out the troops when I wasn't really missing.”

“Well,” Logs says, “as I understand it, Mr. Wells rescinded his missing persons report.”

“She'll be back,” Arney says, “and this will all make sense. We should make it easy for her. None of us would want to be in her shoes.” He shakes his head. “I don't get it about the torn-up room.”

“Or the fact that nobody saw it but her parents,” Marley says.

“How about instead of wild adolescent speculation,” Logs says, “we talk about how we felt out there looking for her? It sure wasn't the way I wanted to wrap up my teaching career.”

“I was just praying I wouldn't be the one to find her,” Josh Takeuchi says. “I kept thinkin',
leaves and dirt in her face, eyes all glassed over, marks on her neck; please God don't let it be me.”