East of Denver (14 page)

CHAPTER 18

TEST RUN

He actually allowed me to drive back. I took Highway 36, which brought us past the school. Dorton Elementary/Middle/High School. K–12. In a good year, the enrollment for the entire school would reach one hundred and twenty kids. When the new school was built in 1954, it was state-of-the-art. Now it was in a state of disrepair. The windows were stained powdery white, the grass was trampled, leaky gutters left rusty streaks on the beige bricks.

Pa said, “There's a neat old building.”

I slowed the truck. “Wanna go?”

“Why not?”

I pulled in. No cars in the parking lot. Thirteen years waiting for the bus, getting chased around the flag pole, trying not to watch car windows steam up while I got in my car to drive home alone after homecoming.

I parked right square in front of the building. We didn't have anything to be ashamed of. We were simply revisiting the old stomping ground.

I opened the glove box and found a Phillips screwdriver, which I put in my pocket. “Pa, let's go to school.”

We circumnavigated the building. It remained as square as ever. The doors would be locked, of course, but the window into Mr. Schickle's room had a bad latch and, more important, it was on the back side of the building, hidden from the highway. I squatted, jimmied the screen out, and lifted the window. It slid up with an aluminum screech.

Pa said, “You know what you're doing?”

“I gotta pick up something I left here.”

“Why don't you use the door like everyone else?”

I said, “It's locked.”

“You know what you're doing?”

I was halfway thru the window. “Come on. It won't take a minute.”

He followed me into Mr. Schickle's history room.

It still had the same shitty desks. Chalkboard. Lectern. Window-shade maps. All the lights were off. Ghosts lurked in the corners. Dorton was a small school. Elementary students were two grades to the room. In seventh grade, you moved to the west wing with the big kids. From then on, you had the same history teacher, English teacher, math teacher, and so on until you graduated. Everyone got to know each other real well. It's no good talking about it. But the air in that room was thick. No need to stick around and pry things out, we had a mission to complete. I had to steal something. I wasn't sure what that would be. I figured I'd know it when I saw it. I didn't see it in Mr. Schickle's room.

Pa followed me out the door and into the hall.

He said, “It's dark.”

Sure was. It made things creepier. The lockers. The tile floor. Pa took a drink from the water fountain. He smacked his lips. “Good stuff.”

Into the gym. Hopes and dreams and P.E. and dances and lunchtime lounging. We crossed the floor in our street shoes. Nothing worth stealing here. Not even a basketball.

On the other side of the gym was the entrance to the school shop. The door was locked. I gave Pa the screwdriver and said, “Can you pop out those hinge pins for me?”

He said, “We're not supposed to be here.”

“Nope. But I don't give a damn.”

He looked at me for a moment. “Me neither.”

He whacked the handle of the screwdriver with the heel of his hand and worked the pins out. The noise echoed in the gym. We jittered the door out of the frame, leaned it against the wall. There, before us, was the shop. I wasn't so good in shop.

The Future Farmers of America creed was inscribed on a plaque nailed to the wall.

 

I believe in the future of agriculture, with a faith born not of words but of deeds—achievements won by the present and past generations of agriculturists; in the promise of better days through better ways, even as the better things we now enjoy have come to us from the struggles of former years
 . . .

 

I used to know that thing by heart. I suspect Dad did, too, when he was a kid.

The shop was clean. All the tools were put away, the welders in a row, the floor swept. It was nothing like the chaos of Pa's shed. I should have excelled here, but everything I made came out crooked and flimsy. I couldn't weld, saw, route, measure, hammer, or screw. I tried chewing tobacco and puked on my shoes. No regrets. Some people aren't built for chew.

There wasn't anything in the shop that I felt like bringing home with me.

The shop was adjacent to the music room. They were connected by a door whose purpose no one ever ascertained. It was kind of like one of those doors that links two hotel rooms. I crossed the floor, tried the knob. This door wasn't locked.

A word about our music teacher. Mr. Pridgon was his name. He didn't care for music or children. As far as I knew, he was still the Dorton music teacher. When I was in school, he yelled at us and pounded on the piano and generally made our lives crummy for forty-five minutes a day, three days a week, from kindergarten thru sixth grade. Even so, me, Vaughn, D.J., Clarissa, and the rest of the bums in my class would do our best to sit and sing “Old Black Joe” like good little boys and girls because if we acted real nice Mr. Pridgon would sometimes let us have Music Free Time.

Music Free Time meant we all got to go into the instrument closet, pick out anything we wanted, and play it as loud as we could for ten minutes. The first three minutes of MFT were typically spent arguing over who got to play the snare drum. Once we sorted ourselves out, the class became an avant-garde symphony. Snare drum, bass drum, piano, horns, out-of-tune guitars, and an assortment of percussive things. Mr. Pridgon never tried to teach us how to play anything. He just counted to four and away we went with our barbaric commotion. It was pure joy. It was like vandalizing the air itself. Something as simple as sliding a mallet up and down a glockenspiel could make you feel wild and free, as if you were throwing rocks thru windows.

Music class ended at seventh grade. The school didn't have enough money to pay Mr. Pridgon to teach the older kids.

For the first three decades of its existence, though, Dorton
was
able to afford a full-time music teacher and an actual high school pep band, which explained all the instruments in that closet.

Along with those instruments, there were two dozen band uniforms. They hung in the very back of that same closet, dusty and ignored.

I remember when I saw my first photograph of Jimi Hendrix looking stoned and cool. I was a sophomore, reading one of Vaughn Atkins's
Rolling Stone
magazines, and there he was, the supreme badass of the universe, and he was wearing a band jacket.

The next day at school, I slid up to Mr. Pridgon in the cafeteria and asked if I could please have one of the band jackets.

“No.”

“But nobody uses them anymore.”

“They were bought with tax dollars.”

“So?”

“So go finish your chimichanga.”

No band jacket for me.

Pa was silent now, tiptoeing. I said, “Breathe with your mouth wide open. It's quieter that way.” He complied. He was my accomplice. We were a team. This was excellent preparation for the bank robbery.

We crossed the threshold into the music room. High ceilings. No windows. The air was cool. Pa said, “I believe it's time to shed some light on the situation.” He flipped the switch. The fluorescents flickered on. In the center of the room was Mr. Pridgon's blond, upright piano. “Old Joe Clark,” “Blow the Man Down,” “Biscuits and Gravy.” I plunked a few keys. Dad sat on the bench next to me. We sang “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

When we finished “Twinkle, Twinkle,” I closed the piano lid.

I said, “Let's get what we came for.”

In the music room closet, past the shelves of horns and guitars that nobody ever tuned, past the forest of music stands that never got used, was the rack of uniforms, still untouched. It's possible that some of Pa's classmates wore those jackets years ago.

I took one off its wooden hanger. “DHS” was embroidered on the back. Epaulets. Black with gold trim. I slid into it. I was wearing the skin of Jimi Hendrix.

It fit tight. My arms stuck out the sleeves. It made me want to play an instrument. Music Free Time. With Pa's help, I pulled cases off the shelves until we found a trombone. I stuck the mouthpiece in the pipe and let Pa try. Nothing but wind.

I took the horn from him and said, “I'll show you.” I gave a blat and slid the slide. It made a comical sound.

Pa laughed for ten solid seconds. “Your face turned ten shades of purple.”

I showed him how to play it. “It's easy. Put your lips together and make fart noises.”

He played the trombone. Fiddled with the slide. Random sounds, then more serious. His brow furrowed. He wanted to figure it out. He made a crude scale, which he repeated rhythmically. It sort of resembled the first few notes of a Johnny Cash song. I found some mallets and started playing along on the glockenspiel. Then I found a bigger mallet and whacked the bass drum. Dad banged on the piano. I played the snare drum, oh, beloved snare drum. THWAP THWAP THWAP. Dad marched and smashed the cymbals. KERRAANNNG! Pure racket, pure transgression.

When our song was played out, I conducted us to a triumphant conclusion. Dad applauded. I raised my arms in victory and then bowed. The band jacket split down the back.

Dad thought it was funny. I thought it was awful. Then I looked down at myself and realized I never would have worn the thing in public anyway.

We packed the instruments away. I left the jacket on the piano seat. I stole a tambourine instead. We exited the way we came in. It took a few minutes to put the pins back in the hinges of the shop door. I played the tambourine as we walked thru the gym, down the hall, thru the cafeteria and then we froze in place because we were not alone.

Someone had turned on the lights in the kitchen. I put my finger on my lips and pointed at the serving window. Dad understood the situation. He looked at the tambourine I'd been shaking. I stuck it under my shirt as quietly as I could. The jangles clacked together softly. Pa motioned that I should leave the tambourine on the floor. I shook my head no. That would be a waste of a trip.

In order to return to the history room and sneak back outside, we'd have to get past that serving window. From far back in the kitchen, I heard the sounds of cabinets being opened, then something heavy being moved. Whoever was in there, they didn't know about us. I crouched into a duck walk and scooted along below the view of the serving window. Dad followed in a crawl. Once we were past, we walked quickly to the history room. We twisted ourselves outside and stood, blinking and breathing.

Pa said, “What do we do now?” He sucked nervously on one of his cheeks. All his life, he hadn't broken the law or done stupid things. He'd never been in a situation like this before.

I said, “There's currently someone in the school. They're in the kitchen, which has a view thru the cafeteria right out onto the parking lot. If we get in the truck, they'll see us. Of course, whoever's in there will probably recognize your truck so they'll know it was us no matter what. But maybe they don't know we were actually inside. For all they know, we've been tossing a Frisbee on the football field. Of course, we were making a lot of noise, but the music room's a long way away from the kitchen. They might not have heard us. So, in conclusion, let's hide and wait until whoever is in there decides to leave.”

He walked. I followed. There's a little hill next to one corner of the school. It comes up to about five feet below the roof.

Pa said, “That's where you want to go.”

Standing on the hill, I boosted him up and then he lent me a hand and we were on top of the building. We sat still and waited.

The sun was bright. Pa lay on his back and instantly started snoring. I wandered around the building and looked out over the parking lot. There was our truck. Next to it was a '72 Chevy Nova. The one that belonged to our drug-peddling, skunk-smelling friend, D.J. Beckman.

I became more curious than nervous. I sat on the edge of the roof and resolved to wait for him to leave.

Ten minutes later, I watched as D.J. strode out the front door with a two-gallon can of tapioca pudding under each arm. I knew it was tapioca pudding because D.J. and I had hefted a million of those green-and-yellow things when the two of us were cook's assistants in sixth grade. He set the cans on the passenger seat, started the car, and drove away.

I woke up Pa. We crawled off the roof, got in the pickup, and went home. I hung the tambourine on a nail above Mom's piano.

Pa fell asleep in his chair before I made dinner. When I woke him up he didn't want to eat. I let him go to bed without brushing his teeth.

Later on, as I sat in bed reading the novelization of
Aliens
, I got to thinking about the last few days. A whole lot had happened. I lost Pa. I painted the granary. Pa came home. I went to Clarissa's. I came home. We saw buffalo in a cemetery. I learned how I got my stupid name. We broke into the school. I stole a tambourine. We didn't get caught.

I got to thinking that we really could rob that bank.

CHAPTER 19

MEMORIAL

The granary fell down. Maybe it was the paint I put on it. Maybe it was the wind. The building wobbled. Dad and I watched. Just before it happened, a white barn owl burst out from under one of the eaves and flew away with the wind. Then the granary slow-motioned to the earth like an old dog lying down. You could hear rusty nails creaking thru the wood as the building lost its shape. That was the that of that.

Dad said, “You can't win 'em all.” I had to excuse myself to the bathroom so I could cry for a minute.

The farm was still falling apart.

Turns out Vaughn Atkins killed himself that same day. Clarissa called and told me. She was all tore up. Between sniffles, she said, “At least he's finally out of the basement.”

I thanked her and hung up. Then I cried. I didn't make it to the bathroom this time.
Out of the basement.
It was corny of Clarissa to say it. But it got me. If I had just gotten him out of that hole and away from his mom. Just one more step. Dad asked me what was my damn problem. I rubbed my nose with my shirt.

“Vaughn Atkins's dead. Killed himself.”

Dad got quiet. “Oh.”

“You know Vaughn, right?”

“The kid with the . . .” He pantomimed rolling a wheelchair.

“Yep.”

“What happened?”

“He killed himself.”

“Oh. He wasn't real healthy.”

I said, “Not for a long time. Not since he broke his back.” I got profound in my misery. “The day he wrecked his car, that's the day he died.” I sniffled.

Dad gave me his handkerchief. He said, “He's more dead now.”

I turned on the TV. Clint Eastwood was eating poisonous mushrooms.

The funeral was three days later. We didn't go to the ceremony. Clarissa told me that she heard that Vaughn's mom didn't want us within a hundred miles of her boy. Vaughn's mom thought it was our fault. She thought we'd gotten him riled up. She wasn't altogether wrong.

We gathered in Clarissa's trailer instead. She was wearing a black dress. It looked new. Fitted good. More of a cocktail thing. She was definitely losing weight. Compared to her, Dad and I were a couple of sloppy dogs in our work shirts and dirty jeans. Clarissa offered us beers. I said no, thanks, and so did Dad.

“Still not drinking?” said Clarissa.

“When I drown my sorrows in booze, they always swim back up, wet and breathless.” I'd been rehearsing that line.

Clarissa said, “That leaves more for me.” She fetched a beer.

We sat on the couch. The TV was tuned to cartoons. Clarissa said, “You can change the channel if you want.”

I found the remote and gave it to Dad.

I told Clarissa that I thought her dress looked nice. She didn't say anything. We watched Dad press buttons on the remote. He changed the channel, found snow, turned the volume up until white noise filled the room. He gave me the remote. “I don't know what to do with this damn thing.”

I pushed the “Off” button. The screen shrunk into black. We stared at it for a while. I thought about Vaughn Atkins. Running in the playground, happy birthdays, not knowing what to say when he rolled into school after he got out of the hospital.

Dad said, “Why are you crying?”

I thought he was talking to Clarissa, but he was looking at me. I put a hand to my cheek. Sure enough, it was wet.

I said, “Well, Pa, Vaughn Atkins—”

Dad snapped his fingers. “That's right. He killed himself.”

Clarissa shook her head like she had made up her mind about something. She spoke with her lips twisted. “It's a shame. It's a crying shame.” She hugged herself and cried and moaned and shuddered. She tilted her beer up to her mouth but it was empty.

I fetched another one from the fridge and tried to hand it to her. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She waved me away, then beckoned me back. She grabbed my free hand and pulled me in close.

I wasn't raised as a hugger—there aren't many huggers in Strattford County—so it was awkward at first. She was sitting on the couch and I was holding an open beer. I kind of leaned over and put my arms around her shoulders. She stuck her face into my armpit and sniffled and heaved. I squeezed her arms. It's funny, the things you think about when you're hugging a woman. We hugged and I let a few tears fall out. Dad stood up and joined us. We were a sorry, hugging lot.

We moved to the front step just to get outside. Dad walked around the property, kicking weeds. The sun was about noon high.

“I'm inconsolable,” said Clarissa. She was still crying but not so much.

I said, “Yeah.”

She took a deep breath. “They're going after D.J. Beckman.”

“Who? What for?”

“The sheriff. For giving Vaughn the drugs.”

“Sleeping pills?”

“Something like that. They don't know for sure. But they think D.J. sold them to him.”

“That ain't illegal, is it?” I realized that I had just said something stupid. “I mean, it's not murder. It's selling drugs.”

“They can still arrest him.” She played with one of her toenails.

I said, “I saw something funny the other day. Dad and I were sitting on top of the school building and D.J. Beckman came out the front door with two giant cans of tapioca pudding. What the hell would he want with tapioca pudding?”

Clarissa smiled a little bit. “What were you doing on top of the school?”

I smiled a little bit. “Stupid stuff. Working on our tans.”

She slammed her fist against the step. “This town sucks. This place sucks. It makes you do stupid stuff. I hate this town.”

“Everybody hates their hometown. Especially people from Dorsey.”

“What do you know? You been gone. This place is falling to shit. You don't see how people are going broke. I work in a bank, you know. I see it all the time. It's sad. And poor Vaughn. He disappeared off the planet. He's just a cripple in a basement. He was. Nobody ever came to visit him. His mom was a mean old biddy. And you tried to be his friend but now you feel guilty about it because he's gone. You shouldn't, though. You were trying to be his friend. And D.J. Whatever you might think of D.J., he's just a big dumb person who says dumb things. He acts like a bully because he doesn't know what else to do. He tried to be Vaughn's friend, too. D.J. did Vaughn a favor when he got him those pills, but he's gonna go to jail. And everything Vaughn ever was, that's all gonna disappear.” Her voice got loud now. “And we aren't even allowed to go to his goddamned funeral!” She stood up and threw her beer bottle as hard as she could. It landed intact on a patch of buffalo grass.

I wanted to explain to Clarissa that I was pretty bent out of shape myself. My cat died. My dad was sick. Strattford County had pulled me back into its clutches. The bank stole our stuff. Vaughn was my pal, too.

This was Clarissa's time to be mad, though, so I buttoned my lip.

Dad wandered over and picked up the bottle. He brought it back to Clarissa.

She said, “I'm sorry, Emmett.”

Pa said, “We should go for a drive.”

Since Vaughn's mom wouldn't let us go to the funeral, we went to Vaughn's mom's house. We took Clarissa's car. She drove. Dad didn't object.

There was no one home, obviously. A bunch of casseroles were cooling on the kitchen table. We didn't linger. We went straight downstairs. Vaughn's bed looked weird without him in it.

I asked Clarissa what the room smelled like.

She shrugged. “A basement.”

Dad said, “This is a dead man's room.”

I said, “It sure is, Pa.”

Clarissa said, “We should search for brownies or pills, anything like that. We need to dispose of any incriminating items. We have to protect D.J.”

“I guarantee you the sheriff's already been thru the place.”

She said, “Sometimes they miss stuff the first time around.”

There was nothing under the pillows. Between the mattresses, we found a dirty magazine and an empty freezer bag. On the nightstand was a film canister full of fingernail clippings. No brownies.

Clarissa pulled out one of Vaughn's Paul McCartney records and held it to her chest. “He loved this album.”

I said, “This feels weird. We should go.”

“You're right,” said Clarissa. But she had a look in her eye. “Emmett, would you mind opening that liquor cabinet over there?”

Dad put his hands on the padlock. He was hesitant. “Is it okay?”

Clarissa said, “It's what Vaughn would have wanted.”

She and I excused ourselves to the bathroom and closed the door. She sat on the toilet.

I said to her, “You're after those coins.”

“I am.”

I said, “You thinking we could still rob that bank, even without Vaughn?”

She said, “I am. Maybe. I don't know.”

“I think we could.”

“Maybe.”

I liked to hear that.

Her stomach growled. I said, “When was the last time you ate anything?”

“Not counting vitamins? June.” She sniffed. “By the way, just for your information, this bathroom has a smell. It stinks like bleach and farts.”

When we exited the bathroom, Pa was lying on Vaughn's bed with his eyes closed. The safe was not open. But sitting outside of it was a bottle of booze and a bag of coins.

We left the whiskey but we took the wampum.

We hustled out of the basement and into Clarissa's car. When she opened the door to get in, Dad slipped past her and sat in the driver's seat.

Clarissa said, “Emmett?”

Pa put his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

I said, “I think he wants to drive.”

“Let him,” said Clarissa.

I tossed her the bag of coins, shouted, “Shotgun!” and jumped into the passenger seat.

Clarissa climbed in back. “The key's in the ignition, Emmett.”

He started the car. Revved the engine. “Where to?”

“My place,” said Clarissa.

He said, “What's our ambition?”

I said, “We're gonna decide what to do with those coins.”

Dad said, “Those coins aren't yours. They belong to the old man.”

I said, “They belonged to Vaughn, Pa. But he killed himself. Now they don't belong to anyone.”

Pa was insistent. “They belong to the old man.”

“What old man, Emmett?” asked Clarissa.

Dad looked out the windshield. Clarissa repeated her question. Dad didn't say anything. He drove. He turned left when he should have turned right.

“Where are we going, Pa?”

It was a mile before he spoke. “The old man had a place around here. We oughta go there.”

Clarissa said, “Do you mean Ernie?”

Dad nodded. “Yes. That's him, Ernie Atkins. We should go see him.”

Clarissa said, “Ernie's gone. The place has been empty for thirty years.”

I asked, “Who's Ernie Atkins?”

Dad started to answer but Clarissa interrupted. “Vaughn's grandpa. Used to take care of the dump.”

I said, “What dump?”

Clarissa said, “The town dump. Before we had the landfill, there was the dump.”

“He had a Caterpillar,” said Pa. “He pushed all the junk into a pile.”

“That's right,” said Clarissa. “Set fire to it every Sunday afternoon. You could set your direction by looking for that smoke. That's what they say, at least. He's been dead a long time.”

Dad said, “He's dead?” He thought for a minute. “Seems I heard something about that.”

All of a sudden, Clarissa got a look on her face. Kind of dreamy and excited at the same time. She said, “Let's put those coins in a hole in the ground.”

That seemed like a weird thing to say. I didn't say anything back to her.

“Let's bury 'em,” she continued. “They don't belong to you or me or Emmett. Vaughn's mom sure don't deserve 'em. Vaughn was the rightful owner but he's dead. So let's give them back to Ernie.”

“You wanna bury that bag of coins in a hole in the ground.”

“Or drop it in an old outhouse. Something like that.”

I said, “What about the bank?”

“What
about
the bank?”

“We had plans. You were in favor of those plans a while ago.”

“I said maybe. And I was being inconsolable at the time. But I'm feeling a lot better. I've got focus. Don't you see?”

I said, “I see that your head's all over the place. You're grieving. I had a focus, too. I
have
a focus. I want to rob that damned bank and scram ourselves out of Strattford County.”

“That idea's pure crazy and you know it.”

I turned around in my seat so I could look at her. “I don't think so. Not a bit. Up until half a minute ago, you didn't think so either.”

She said, “I haven't eaten in weeks. I'm weak and tired and I'm getting annoyed with all your second-guessing. We're burying the coins. Shut up. Leave me alone. This is what Vaughn would have wanted.” She crossed her arms and pouted. The way her arms pushed up her boobs, it was distracting.

I said, “The coins were important to him.”

“You said yourself that they were just symbolic. We don't even need them.”

“They represent Vaughn and everything he stood for.”

She said, “What did Vaughn stand for again?”

I kept quiet. Vaughn didn't stand for anything.

“See?” said Clarissa. “He wouldn't give a damn what we did with the coins. As long as we did something.” Her stomach growled.

“How do you know what Vaughn would give a damn about? Maybe he'd want us to rob the bank. And if you're so hungry, then eat something.” I looked at her. “Jesus. You're just about sexy right now.”

She hit me on the back of the head and half-screamed, “It's not about sexy, you cro-mag! It's about boredom and self-esteem and addiction. It's about everything
but
sexy. HAVEN'T YOU EVER READ
SEVENTEEN
?!?”