Damage (6 page)

Mrs. Mackenzie’s eyes are sweeping you up and down. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” she asks Heather, and leans against the doorway.

“This is Austin,” says Heather in a flat voice.

“Austin, you are a
doll.
My goodness. You must over six feet. You left your horse outside, I take it?” takes you a moment to realize she’s referring to your cowboy boots. “Oh, that’s not an insult,” Mrs. Mackenzie assures you. “I’ve always been partial to cowboys myself.” She straightens, produces a gleaming smile that looks a lot like Heather’s. “Would you like a drink, Austin?”

“We’ve already covered that,” Heather says, sound-annoyed. “Don’t you have a date, Mother?”

“No, thanks,” you tell Mrs. Mackenzie.

“Are you sure? How about a beer?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t call me that. I’m Linda.” Two muffled honks sound from the street; she tosses a glance toward
the front of the house. “There’s Ronny, right on time. He’s very punctual,” she adds to you, her nose crinkled. Her eyelashes are very black. “The only thing wrong with him is that he won’t come to the door.” She steps close to your chair and leans down to advise you in a stage whisper, “Don’t
you
do that, when you go to pick up girl, Austin. Get out of the car and go ring the doorbell. Hear?”

You’ve got a fine shot of her cleavage. “Yes, ma’am,” you say.

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t move. Her breasts look like they’re being scooped up and served to you in that black tank top.

“Linda,” you add quickly.

“That’s better.” She stands up. “I’ll be back late,” says to Heather, and walks away. Her heeled sandals make a faint
tck-tck-tck
sound on the linoleum and then across the wooden floor in the living room.

Heather frowns into her open book.

The heels pause. The sound of a door opening. “Now, you two don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Mackenzie calls. A couple more
tcks
—the click of front door shutting—and she’s gone.

Heather makes a face. “Whatever. Do you know anything about Shakespeare’s sonnets?”

“No. Sorry.”

“I’ve got to write a paper on them. That’s what
these books are. Rough draft’s due Monday.”

“Maybe I should let you get back to work. I didn’t really have any reason—”

“No, no—I’m glad you’re here. It beats being alone. I mean,” she says, with a quick glance at you, “I don’t to be alone.”

“Do you get scared?”

“No.” She shuffles through some papers as if looking for something. “I just like to be around people. Some people, anyway.”

One of the windows is open a little. You can smell the rain outside. It’s afternoon, but dark because of the clouds, and the thunder rumbles like something coming loose way up in the sky.

When Heather speaks again, her voice is bright. “I know. How about if you recopy my quotations for me? Mrs. Henderson’s making me do them over.” She hands you some index cards covered with writing and a stack of blank cards. “They’re supposed to be in my handwriting, so write
round.”
She pushes a pen toward you across table, then pulls a book closer to her and starts leafing through it.

You don’t say anything, just pick up a card and get started…very, very slowly. You don’t really have any intention of forging her homework. You just want to stay here with her.

Gradually, something inside you relaxes. You don’t
have to be entertaining or charming or friendly—just present. You copy a few more words in black ink—writing
round.
But mostly you’re just watching Heather, who’s bent over one of the books, reading quietly.

Her cheeks look like they’ve been carved from some fragile stone. Her eyebrows are delicate arcs, her lashes fine-drawn brushes. A lock of hair falls over one cheek; she brushes it back. After a few moments it falls right back again.

Finally, she looks up and catches you watching her.

“You’re staring at me,” she says. Not flirting, not accusing. Just a statement.

You know what the Pride of the Panthers would say: “You’re a lot more interesting than index cards.” But you say nothing, and because you don’t know what to do you’re not going to flirt, you stop looking at Heather and instead look down at the groove down the center of table, the space for adding leaves.

“Know what?” you hear Heather say. “I can tell what you’re thinking. You don’t want to do my note cards for me because you think it’s cheating. Only you don’t want to say so because you’re afraid to be rude. But the thing is, you’re wrong; it’s not cheating because I did them already. See? But I forgot it’s supposed to be in
black
ink. I’d already be through with them if I had anybody but Mrs. Henderson. Most of the other teachers don’t even
do
note cards. So you understand, don’t you? That it’s not cheating?”

You shrug.

“But you’re not going to do them anyway, are you?”

“No.”

“See, I knew you were going to say that. I could by the way you’re frowning. Or not exactly frowning. just have a general frowny attitude about the whole thing. And I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to somebody else’s note cards, either.” She sighs and pushes the book away. “And I can’t concentrate on some old who’s been dead a hundred years. Want to listen CDs?”

Much later, driving home, you realize that you don’ remember much of the evening. You don’t remember following Heather to the couch in the living room or what music she put on. You don’t even remember putting your arm around her. All you remember is her lips touching your face, your neck, your chest; her body pressed against yours through too many layers of clothes, and finally her voice, like bright liquid that joined her hands in pushing you away.

By the time you’re home, and in your room alone, all you remember is that when you were sinking, Heather swept you up and pulled you in.

By the time a few weeks have passed, you’re feeling almost like your old self again. It’s the easiest thing in the world, being Heather’s boyfriend. Like skimming the surface of a lake in a sailboat. All sun and breeze.

If you don’t listen to Curtis.

It’s Saturday afternoon. You’ve got a date with Heather tonight, of course. You’ve spent the last hour listening to some CDs she let you borrow, heavy-beat dance tunes—not your type of music. You’re mostly just skimming through them.

As you head toward the refrigerator, Curtis bangs on the back door.

“Brought your mower back,” he says, peering at you through the screen. He’s got on old bleach-stained shorts, no shirt; his face is streaked with dirt and sweat. “Okay if I grab the keys to the tack room?”

Glancing through the screen door, you see the lawn mower where Curtis pushed it, far across the yard, in front of the shed that once served as an equipment room back in your mother’s horse-training days. Now it holds fertilizer and lawn equipment and whatever else shouldn’t be left out in the rain. Next to it is the barn, which used to be a stable and now provides shelter for the few calves Becky raises for 4-H.

“Don’t worry about the mower,” you tell Curtis. “I’ll put it up later.”

“I’d rather take care of it right now. If my mom looks out and sees it sitting there, I’m going to get the lecture on taking care of other people’s possessions. That’s one of the long ones.”

“’Kay.” You shrug. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” The screen squeaks open and Curtis’s lean sweaty arm reaches in to snag a key hanging on the peg next to the door.

The screen bangs shut. “Hey,” you call. “Go ahead and mow our yard, too. That’ll show you can really take care of other people’s possessions. Go on—I’ll call your mom and tell her how good you did.”

Curtis pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, squints up at you. “Sure,” he says. “And I’ll call your mom and tell her how you’re going to come over and paint our front porch.”

“How about if we just call it even?”

“Done,” says Curtis, and continues on to the tack room.

You dig in the fridge for a Coke, and pull out a Dr Pepper, too, for when Curtis comes back. That’s the way it’s always been; whenever he drops by he comes in to shoot the breeze. Besides, you’re tired of skimming through those CDs. You just don’t want to have to look Heather in the eye and admit you didn’t bother to listen to them.

You hear Becky coming down the hall, singing one of the songs you just played, one of Heather’s songs.

“I ain’t invisible, baby, so don’t look thro-o-ough me. Our love is possible, baby, so come over to-o-o me.” She walks into the kitchen just as you hoist yourself up to sit on the counter to wait for Curtis.

“That’s one of those songs that gets stuck in your head,” you observe—and it is. A minute ago it was just one of dozens you’ve heard this afternoon, but now, thanks to Becky, you’ll probably be humming it in your sleep tonight.

“I’d rather have that in my head than ‘It’s a Small World After All.’ Or the commercial for Joe Ryan Chevrolet. You want me to sing that for you instead?”

“No,” you tell her. “Don’t. Please.”

Becky grins at you and takes a deep breath—but happens to glance out the window over the sink. She decides not to annoy you; apparently she’s been stricken with a
sudden desire to straighten the sink area.

First she rinses the plate you left on the counter earlier and places it carefully in the dishwasher. Then she unfolds the dishcloth that sits by the sink, shakes it out, and refolds it. All the time looking out the window toward the tack room.

When Curtis stomps up the back steps, she says real loud, “Is that Curtis Hightower? Quick, lock the refrigerator before he inhales a week’s worth of groceries.”

Curtis doesn’t bother to respond, just steps inside to hang the key to the tack room back up. You don’t say anything, either, but hold out the Dr Pepper.

“Thanks.” Curtis takes the can from your hand and leans back against the counter by the refrigerator. He pops the top, takes a long drink. Flecks of grass and dirt are stuck to him, mostly on his legs but bits on his arms and chest, too.

Becky makes a big deal out of refolding the dishrag again—carefully, eyes down.

Curtis finally lowers the can and eyes Becky. One corner of his mouth goes up a little. “Hey, Becky. What’s this I hear about Robby LeBlanc being madly in love with you?”

Becky’s brows start to come together. If it was you, she’d let you have it with both barrels. But with Curtis, all she says is, “He is not.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like him,” Curtis says, deadpan. “I thought for sure you’d want to run your hands
through that flowing mane of his.”

Becky tries to give him one of those scathing looks she’s been practicing lately. The kind that sweeps from head to toe and back again, withering everything in its path. Only this one doesn’t make it all the way. It travels up Curtis’s legs, loses steam somewhere over his sweaty shorts, and falters completely in the vicinity of his bare chest.

You don’t know how Curtis feels about Becky having a crush on him. But he’s got to be aware of it; he’s not blind. And it’s his own fault, for all those years when you ordered Becky to quit following the two of you around, and he’d always feel sorry for her and say, “Aw, let her tag along.”

That stupid song is already replaying in your head.
It ain’t just physical, baby
…something, something.

Becky’s face is pink; she won’t meet anybody’s eyes. Luckily for her the phone rings. She snatches it off the wall. “Oh, hi. Hi,
Aaron,”
she adds, a little too loud. She ducks her head and her hair falls to shield her face.

“Aaron, huh?” Curtis says to you. “Dang, she’s going to have to beat these boys off with a stick.”

“Nothing much,” Becky tells Aaron, but you see her smiling to herself. She heads down the hall slowly, cradling the phone. “Uh-huh. I know.” She glances back right before she disappears into her room, but Curtis isn’t looking at her anymore.

“So,” he’s saying to you. “Dobie and I haven’t seen
much of you around lately. Been busy with Heather?”

Don’t be so cynical, baby…
da da da da-a-a da. “Yeah. She’s all right,” you add, just to let Curtis know how things stand.

Curtis doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod. After a moment he takes another long drink from his Dr Pepper.

“Listen, if you got to know her, you’d see she’s not as bad as you think.”

Curtis doesn’t look at you, just examines the silver rim of his can.

“It wouldn’t kill you to open up your mind a little.”

“It’s open,” he says abruptly. “Open enough to see that she’s using you for her senior-year escort.”

“She is not.”

Curtis shrugs. “Okay. She’s not.”

That’s Curtis. He thinks he’s right, so he’s not going to argue about it. You ought to keep trying, though. Explain how Heather’s not always the same as she is at school. And that even if she is, it’s not her fault. She’s always been the center of attention—so how could she know what it’s like to be treated as if you don’t matter? How’s she supposed to learn to think about other people if everybody’s always thinking about
her?

Curtis frowns down at his Dr Pepper. “You know, Austy, it doesn’t really matter what my opinion is. You’re the one going out with her, not me. And whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be around.”

He means, if you and Heather split up.

Finally that stupid song gets driven out of your head. Curtis is being ridiculous. Things are just getting started. Things are going great. No way you’d split.

Sometimes you wish Curtis would just keep his mouth shut. Keep his thoughts to himself—Curtis’s thoughts are like dark fingers, trying to wrap themselves around your ankles and drag you down.

The truth is, Heather fills all the little bitty gaps you didn’t even know you had. Nowadays you’re completely different from when—well, you’re not even going to think about that. There’s nothing to think about. How you used to feel—well, you just don’t feel that way anymore, that’s all.

You remind yourself how, when Curtis was immersed in Kat, you and Dobie used to tell him to his face that Kat had him pussy whipped. Curtis never got mad, never once got upset about it. Curtis just let the comments rain down around him, brushed them all aside, and went about his business.

That’s what you need to do right now. Just brush all his talk about Heather aside. And go on about your business.

One of Becky’s calves bawls somewhere in the field behind the barn. The old screen on the kitchen door vibrates in the grip of an unseen breeze. It’s a bright, sunny day outside. A beautiful day. You can smell the fresh-cut grass.

“Hey, guess what?” Curtis says out of the blue. “I actually spoke to the old man on the phone.”

“What’d he want?” you ask. You don’t have to ask who “the old man” is. Even though Mr. Hightower eventually married Tiffani-with-an-i, Curtis still hasn’t gotten around to forgiving him for being unable to keep his pants zipped in the first place.

“Get this. He asked me if I wanted to go skiing over Christmas with him and What’sherface.”

“What’d you say?” you ask, although you already know. Curtis has never gone to visit his dad in Nevada. Won’t get on the plane, won’t get in the car to go to the airport. He’ll barely even talk to his dad on the phone.

“I told him, ‘Sorry, I got things to do.’”

“Gave up a free ski trip?”

Curtis shrugs, takes another sip of Dr Pepper.

“Might not be so bad,” you point out. “The skiing part might make up for the rest of it.”

Curtis just shakes his head. He’s never understood what an opportunity he’s dismissing with his dad. He just doesn’t get that he has a chance some people will never have.

“When he was here he never came to a single one of my games. Now all of a sudden he’s asking what position I play. So I just tell him I’ve got to go, that’s all. Tell him I’ve got stuff to do—which is true. And he always says, how about if I call back later? And I always say, sure, do that. But somehow I’m always busy, when later rolls around. And mostly, so is he.”

“But he did call in the first place,” you tell him.

Curtis shrugs again. “He made his choice. I’ve moved on from there.”

That’s the way Curtis is; everything tallied and weighed, and while he turns his back on whatever he decides isn’t worth his while, he also digs his heels in on whatever he cares about. Nothing you ever say can change that—one way or the other.

“Thanks for the DP.” Curtis tosses his empty can into the bin. “I’ve got to go get cleaned up. Dobie and me and Stargill are going to a movie in Burlington. I guess you probably already got plans?”

“Yeah. What’re you going to see?”

“Mayhem.”

“Which one’s that?”

“The one where a bunch of terrorists take over the Pentagon. It’s supposed to be good,” Curtis adds. “You’re welcome to ditch Heather and come along.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Curtis just nods—that’s what he expected. “Later, then,” he says, unconcerned, and heads out the door.

The screen bangs shut. You hop off the counter and head back into your room, taking the half-finished Coke with you.

Da da—da da da da.
“Don’t be so cynical, baby,” you sing under your breath, and turn up the volume.