Dedication (17 page)

“Me?” Sam balks. “We’re not exactly on the best terms.”

“I can’t ring his doorbell if he’s having a party. It’ll cause a fucking riot,” Jake retorts wearily, “And then we won’t get to spend any time together.” Travesty.

“Fine.” Sam climbs out and approaches the twinkling house through the mechanized lawn ornaments. He presses the bell, and after a few moments Todd answers, the foyer chandelier revealing his dramatically thinned hair.

“Wow,” I whisper. Sam gestures to us. Todd steps out and squints, his face lighting up when he spots the Corvette.

“I thought you’d be flattered,” Jake mumbles from the front seat.

“Excuse me?” I rev with alert.

“I thought you’d be flattered.”

“You thought I’d be
flattered?”
I lean forward as Todd closes his front door and Sam ambles back down the walk. “Think the peasants on the plains of Mongolia were flattered?”

“What?” He turns to me.

“When they were raped and pillaged by Attila the Hun—think they were
flattered?”

Sam opens the door, flips the passenger seat forward, and squeezes in next to me. “He said to pull around the corner.”

“At your service.” We cruise the bend just as Todd comes flying out the side door, hunched, bent-kneed, barn coat flapping, inviting an unfortunate mallard-comparison. He dives into the waiting passenger seat, a pair of skates clutched in his arms.

“Drive.
Drive!”

Jake belly laughs as he shifts gears and lurches us out into the street. “My God, man, is this the fucking escape from Alcatraz?” He reaches over to pat Todd’s pate.

“Katie, hey!” Jake’s hand on his gleaming head, Todd leans around the seat, the springs squeaking.

“Hey.” I smile awkwardly, not wanting to betray my allegiance to Sam. “You okay?”

“Michelle doesn’t know I’m gone.”

“I can’t believe you bagged Michelle Walker.” Jake chuckles, returning his hand to the wheel as we roll across the river.

“Bagged her. Married her. Had two kids with her.” His voice flushes with pride. Sam and I exchange silent glances at the shared vision of Michelle’s prom triumph, a decade and a hundred pounds ago. Todd turns back to us. “Katie, you look great.”

“Thanks. You, too, Todd.”

His bare crown tinges crimson. “Michelle has me on Atkins.”

Sam turns to me. “We were doing South Beach until Laura got pregnant. You do not want to see a pregnant woman on a low-carb diet.”

“My nutritionist makes these seaweed shakes,” Jake pipes in as we take a hard left and I careen into Sam. “They’re supposed to be prenatal—”

“Fitting,” I interrupt and Sam grins.

“They taste like foot,” he continues. “But they’re supernutritious. Hey! I could have her send Laura a few bottles.”

“Thanks, but I’m guessing the only thing scarier than my pregnant wife on a low-carb diet is my pregnant wife trying to suck down seaweed.” Or, seven-figure royalty check outstanding, unwrapping a gift basket from Jake Sharpe’s nutritionist.

Todd twists in his seat again. “We saw your parents at the kids’ pageant, they said you’re doing something with the environment?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m a sustainable development consultant.”

“A what?” Todd asks.

“Basically the way manufacturing operates globally pulls more resources from the planet than it puts back,” I explain. “I work with a firm that shows them how to be eco-friendly—self-sustaining.”

“And they just comply?” Todd asks skeptically.

“Tax deductions.”

Sam snorts, “Of course.”

“Fighting the corporate choke-hold on our planet will be the great war of this century,” Jake states, the phrase sounding tele-prompted. And at the same time eerily like a pamphlet I handed him in tenth grade.

“You said that at the VMAs,” Todd exclaims. “Last year when you got that environmental award for promoting…what were you promoting?”

“Recycling in high schools.”

Todd takes off his coat to remove the reindeer sweater. “That’s awesome, Jake.” And the vehicle’s biggest sycophant is…“So, hey, can you autograph something for me to put up at the dealership?”

“He probably has to get his
federales
to clear it first,” Sam grumbles, staring out as our headlights illuminate a passing cluster of teenagers, cameras and cell phones primed as they erroneously hike in the opposite direction toward the Sharpe house.

“No, man, of course.” Jake glances at Sam in the rearview.

“Great. And something for my nine-year-old, too. She’d love that. I tell her about the band, but I don’t think she believes me.” He pats his belly with that same self-deprecating expression he always used with Jake.

“What, she doesn’t recognize the skinny kid in the photos?” Sam asks.

Todd ignores him. “I display the old bass in my sales office, though. Keep her tuned up and everything.”

“We’re coming up on the turn to Benjy’s folks, right?” Jake seeks confirmation.

Todd straightens. “Yeah, but—”

“Let’s just go without him,” Sam adds.

Ignoring them, he makes the turn. We pull up in front of the rundown ranch house. “Man, it feels good to drive.”

“He’s still here?” I peer across the dark yard. Devoid of holiday decoration, the only sign of life inside is a low lamp lit behind the front curtain.

“That’s what I heard,” Jake affirms.

Sam looks to me. “He Googles,” I quip.

“And my mom still lives in this town,” Jake huffs, challenging his outsider status.

“If by
live
you mean rack up DUIs,” Sam whispers to me.

“Ben’s dad’s shop went under when the Home Depot opened,” Todd adds loudly, drowning out Sam’s vicious, albeit true, aside.

Jake honks the horn, its echo fading into silence broken only by the chugging engine. We watch the still house for a response. Finally, someone inside pulls the fabric in the front window back an inch…then releases it. The lamp goes out.

“Pass me my jacket?” Jake reaches his arm back.

Sam unearths a brown suede ski parka from between us and hands it up. Apparently no longer concerned with inciting a riot, Jake turns off the ignition and gets out of the car.

Todd pats the dashboard. “I can’t believe this thing still runs.”

“Jake Sharpe’s first car?” Sam scoffs. “His mom probably keeps it swaddled in a diaper in a heated garage. Been to the compound yet?”

“Just for a moment,” I admit. “It seemed the same. You know, plus the floodlights.”

We watch as Jake skips up the front steps to the listing porch.

“Nah,” Todd says as he strokes the maroon Naugahyde. “After Jake’s dad split—what was that—like, ’ninety-three?”

“Right after graduation,” Sam answers.

“Right, well, like a few years later she started buying up all the surrounding houses—left the shells, but gutted each one and made it something crazy—stables, a screening room—an indoor pool. Apparently in the summer she shuttles around on a golf cart, going from one building to the next.”

“Fucking insane.” Sam shakes his head, the thought sliding in a well-worn groove.

“It’s so sad.”

“What?” Sam turns to me.

“She never wanted to live here—Susan. Jake’s dad dragged her from Boston for work and then traveled nine months of the year, leaving her totally alone. And then after all that he gets out and she’s somehow…stuck. I don’t know. It’s sad.”

“We were in that house as much as you were, Katie. That woman’s a bitch.”

“Oh, I’m not saying she isn’t a bitch. I’m just saying it’s sad.”

We watch as Jake stops knocking and leans his finger into the bell.

“Well, this isn’t awkward at all.” I pull my fists up into my sleeves.

Sam hands me his gloves and I slide my hands into them gratefully. “He’s here in person instead of sending another letter from his lawyers—it’s a start.”

“You still at that?” Todd asks, pulling his sweater back on.

“Yes,” Sam replies, “We’re still
at that.
No thanks to you, you big fucking pussy.”

Todd whips around, “I have the number-one chain of dealerships in the state. In the state. So, no, I am not suing the town hero.”

“Only because you make more money telling everyone you’re still his best friend. I guess this little outing should pay for your retirement.”

“You will never win, Sam,” Todd’s measured salesman tone returns. “His lawyers have lawyers. Let it go, already.”

“That money belongs to my kids,” Sam snaps.

“Benjy!” Jake shouts from the porch, his breath visible. “Get your sorry ass out here! We’re going to the lake!”

The front door flies open and Ben, clad only in boxers and socks, bursts out, paper plate of pizza in one hand, beer can in the other. The old drumming arm winds up—

“What the fuck?!” Jake leaps back, utter disbelief on his sauce-splattered face. Ben seems to consider Jake’s question…then pelts him with his Bud.

“Shit,” Sam and I say in appreciative unison as the can bounces onto the porch, brown liquid pooling in the snow.

“Dude!” Spluttering, Jake backs down the steps, brushing off foam-sprayed gobs of pepperoni and cheese from his torso as Ben reaches in a frenzy for the mail by his feet. “Dude! Benjy, come on!” But Ben, his body taut with rage, follows down the steps, throwing anything he can get his hands on—the welcome mat, a watering can, string-tied recycling.

“Should we lock the doors?” Sam asks gleefully.

Jake leaps into the car just as a bag of garbage slams against the rear window. We peel out, a porch chair smashing on the asphalt behind us.

Breathless, Jake pulls over at the first stop sign. “Jesus Christ.” He wipes at the suede. “Anyone have a napkin?” Todd offers up tissues. “Thanks.” He pulls a piece of lettuce from Jake’s hair. “I mean, what the fuck is his—”

“Do
not
finish that question,” I interrupt him.

He winces, but says nothing as he restarts the car.

Seemingly as frustrated as its backseat passengers, the Corvette starts to register protest when Jake makes the turnoff for the lake, drowning out Todd’s patter with an ominous grinding. A mile later it shudders to a grateful stop under the skeleton of the towering oaks, a deep silence enveloping us as Jake cuts the engine. I do not want to be here, do not want to get out. Todd squeaks open his door, making a show of stretching his stiff legs. Sam climbs out behind him, but I can’t seem to move.

“Cold as balls,” I hear Sam mutter. Jake grabs his jacket off the driver’s seat before flipping it forward. He extends a hand to me, his forearm bare, his hair ruffled by the wind whipping through the open doors, suddenly looking all of the seventeen I feel. Have been plunged back into. “Come on, Brainy, I’ll help you.”

I clear my throat, sliding myself away from him and through the passenger door. “I forgot cars came without heat,” I muster bravado, stomping feeling into my feet.

“Or windows that roll all the way up,” Sam adds.

“Wusses,” Jake tosses off, grinning affectionately. “It’s good to rough it.”

Sam’s ribs spread as Jake breaks away, pushing through the knee-deep snow with a six-pack wedged under his arm to unlock the cabin door. “Hey! Grab some wood. Let’s get her roaring,” he calls from the door as he lights the porch lantern.

“On it!” Todd yells, and Sam follows him to the vestiges of the pile under the eaves.

I lean back against the warm hood, staring at the little house under whose roof, now weighted with snow, I once sought refuge.

Sam manages to coax a smoky fire from the frozen logs before joining Todd on two low beach chairs under a dust-packed wool blanket and producing a bottle of Jim Beam. I creak open my own rusted chair and lower myself, only to be greeted by an icy breeze rising through the crudely joisted floorboards. I extend my hand for the brown bottle as Jake flops down on the hearth’s ledge, his skates beside him. “Oh, man.” He hops up again, reaching over me. I twist my head to see him tapping the uncooperative power button on the cobwebbed boom box. Finally it lights and he presses
PLAY
on the tape deck. There’s a crackle and then—

“I’m hot, sticky sweet, from my head—”

“To my feet, yeah!” he shouts as three heads immediately dip and rise.

“Pour some suggggggggggrgghgphm.”
The tape grinds to a distorted halt, the vocals dipping into a satanic register. Then there’s a pop.

I take the bottle from Todd’s hand and gulp down a burning shot.

“So, after the plaster dust clears I realize I’ve blown it.” Buzzed, Sam gestures a wide circle with his beer can. “Literally. There’s a three-foot hole in the wall where the window’s supposed to be.”

“I can’t believe she never told me.” I huddle under the scratchy wool pulled taut to my chin.

“For the first three months of their lives the twins slept under giant garbage bags taped to the wall—”

“Thank God they were born in July.” I laugh.