In Wilde Country (4 page)

BOOK: In Wilde Country

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CHAPTER SIX

S
ummer sped by.

Johnny worked hard, mucking out stables, riding herd on cattle, breaking horses, doing
whatever filthy, backbreaking labor a leasehand did on an oil rig.

He was generally exhausted at the end of the day and he alternated between showering
and falling into bed or showering, then taking one of the ranch trucks into town to
see Connie.

Their relationship had made no real progress beyond kissing and copping a few quick
feels of her tits. The truth was, Johnny, who had once been as horny as any guy his
age, had lost interest in sex. Or maybe he just couldn’t get interested that way in
Connie.

He didn’t know how far things had gone with Alden and her and he didn’t want to.

There was something creepy in putting his hand under her T-shirt and suddenly wondering
if Alden’s hand had been there, too.

As for his relationship with Amos…

It was close to nonexistent.

Amos led a busy life. He was active in politics, both state and local. He spent a
lot of time out of town, meeting with people he described as important to Johnny’s
future, which struck Johnny as questionable since he, Johnny, had no idea what he
wanted that future to be.

One evening in late August, Amos decided to tell him.

He rapped on Johnny’s bedroom door, stepped inside without waiting to be asked, and
was seated in a chair beside the window, a glass of bourbon in his hand, when Johnny
came out of the adjoining bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips.

“Jesus,” Johnny said.

“Did I startle you?”

“Yes. A little.”

“John. We need to talk.”

“Well—well give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Sit down, John.”

It was unpleasant to be invited to sit down in his own room, but Johnny said nothing.
He went to the closet to get a pair of jeans. His father didn’t move. Johnny turned
his back, dropped the towel, stepped into the jeans and zipped them up. He grabbed
a light blue denim shirt from a hanger, pulled it on and sat down on the edge of the
bed.

“School starts soon,” Amos said.

“Yessir. Another ten days.”

“But football practice already began.”

Johnny nodded. “Yes.”

“Coach tells me you haven’t shown up for it.”

“No, sir.”

“Because?”

“Because I’m not going to play this year.”

“The team needs you, John.”

Johnny shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t want to play football anymore.”

“Nonsense. Your prowess on the field is one of the things that makes you a desirable
candidate.”

Where was this conversation going?

“Candidate for what?”

Amos crossed his legs and swung one booted foot back and forth.

“For West Point.”

Johnny blinked. “What?”

“Your grades the last semester were excellent, but before that they were abysmal.”

“Father…”

“However, those excellent grades, coupled with similar ones in this, your senior year,
will go a long way toward moving you to the top of the list. Add on your value as
a football player—”

“Wait a minute.” Johnny got to his feet. “I’m not interested in West Point. Even if
I was, playing football and getting a few good grades isn’t enough to—”

“Senator Duncan is a very good friend of mine. I’ve been one of his staunchest supporters.”
Amos smiled thinly. “You do know that appointments to the military academies pass
through the hands of elected representatives, don’t you, John?”

Johnny took a long breath, then slowly expelled it.

“Alden was the one who wanted to go to West Point. He wanted to be a soldier.”

“Not just a soldier. An officer.”

“Whatever,” Johnny said impatiently. “The point is I don’t. I don’t know what I want
to be, but I know that it isn’t a—”

“Wildes were warriors long before these United States existed.”

Johnny ran his fingers through his hair. He knew the stories. He and Alden had been
raised on them. Anglo-Saxons. Vikings. Men who’d crossed the sea and opened the American
West.

“Are you listening to me, young man?”

“Yes.”

“Yessir.”

Johnny knotted his hands into fists.

“Yessir, I am—but I don’t think you’re listening to me.”

Amos rose to his feet, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a knife-sharp line.

“You took my firstborn son,” he said coldly. “You took my wife. You will be a man.
You will be a Wilde. You will rejoin the Wilde Cats, you will get only A’s throughout
this coming year, and you will interview for the Point and leave a glowing impression
on those who will recommend you for appointment to it. Do I make myself clear?”

Pain knifed through Johnny’s gut.

“I didn’t kill Alden,” he whispered. “I didn’t kill my mother!”

“That’s what that foolish old woman would like you to believe, but you and I know
the truth. You’ve taken and taken.” Amos’s jaw shot forward. “Now it’s time to give
back.”

Johnny wanted to yell. He wanted to put his fist through the wall or maybe through
his father’s face, but it was all true. His mother was dead because of him. So was
his brother. He was worthless. Useless. He had come into the world a failure and he’d
never been anything but a failure.

Amos grabbed him by the shoulders. “You owe this to us all, dammit, to your mother,
your brother, and me!”

It was true, all of it. He owed them everything.

Amos let go of him.

“I have done my part with Senator Duncan. You will do yours at school. Do we understand
each other?”

Johnny swallowed hard.

“Answer me! Do we understand each other?”

He met his father’s hard gaze.

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir, what?”

“Yes, sir, we understand each other.”

Amos nodded. “Good. Fine.” His tone was conversational; he smiled, clapped his son
on the shoulder, then turned for the door, but at the last minute, he looked at Johnny
again. “The situation with the Grimes girl. Connie. She isn’t for you.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Johnny said. “You don’t know her at all.”

“Her father is a shopkeeper. He doesn’t move in the right circles.” He smiled thinly.
“I let Alden spend time with her because she could do him no harm, but the relationship
would have ended on his graduation.”

Johnny stared at Amos.

“You
let
my brother—“

“Of course. He understood.”

“I don’t believe that. Alden would never have agreed to something so—so coldblooded.
I knew him in ways you never did.”

“Think that, if it makes you feel better. Just understand that she will be out of
your life come next June. And remember, watch yourself with her until then. Each time
she pulls down her pants, you pull on a rubber.”

Johnny’s face blazed.

“She’s a nice girl, Father.”

Amos grinned. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t fuck, John. I’m sure she did for your brother.
If she hasn’t for you, why, you have a lot of catching up to do.” He glanced at his
watch. “It’s almost suppertime. I’ll see you in the dining room in ten minutes. We
have plans to make.”

* * * *

Yes, but the plans weren’t Johnny’s.

He tried not to think about that all through the next week.

He didn’t go into town to see Connie, but he didn’t attend football practice, either.
He refused to think about anything beyond getting up in the morning and falling into
bed, exhausted, each night.

The one thing he did let himself think about was Miss Cleary. About going to see her.

He missed her.

Her decency, her kindness, her no-nonsense way of looking the world in the eye.

He considered seeking her advice, but what would be the point? He knew what she’d
tell him.

She’d say his father was wrong. He didn’t bear the blame for his mother’s death or
for his brother’s, and the rational part of him knew that that was the truth.

The part that was pure emotion scoffed.

If your mother hadn’t got pregnant with you, she’d still be alive. If your brother
hadn’t climbed into your car, he’d still be alive, too.

Amos was away on business, so he didn’t know Johnny hadn’t shown up for football practice.

The coach phoned the house a couple of times. Johnny got the answering machine messages,
but he didn’t return the calls.

What for?

The coach wanted him back playing football. So did Amos.

Never mind Amos.

Deep in his heart, Johnny wanted the same thing. Not so he could seem a more attractive
package for entrance to the Point. Not because it would please his father and the
coach.

He wanted to be out on that field because he missed the game.

He’d spent all these months pretending he didn’t, but he couldn’t pretend anymore.
He missed the other guys, missed the crowds that hung out at preseason practice. He
missed the bone-jarring hits and the feeling that came of soaring into the air and
catching what was surely an uncatchable ball.

He found excuses to go into town. Somebody needed a replacement wrench? A dozen sacks
of oats?
I’ll go for it,
he’d say, and on his way there or on his way back, he’d take a detour that led him
past the high school to the football field, where he’d park whatever ranch or rig
pickup he was using and watch as the Cats went through drills and plays.

After a while he stepped from the truck, jogged through the gates, climbed high into
the stands where he figured nobody would notice him.

But people did notice.

TJ. Tim Stantos. A couple of other guys. They came into the stands, sat down next
to him and said
Hey,man. How you been? How’s it hangin’? When you comin’ back?
and he’d smile and give them five and avoid answering the question.

Then, one day, the kid trying out for tight end screwed up. Totally. It was just a
practice game, but he made such a piss-poor play that Coach marched up to him, his
fleshy face scarlet, and chewed him out so badly that Johnny could hear each word
even where he sat, almost at the top of the stands.

The kid’s shoulders slumped. He hung his head like a whipped dog.

Coach yelled some more. Then he looked into the stands, pointed his finger at Johnny
and bellowed, “Wilde! Come down here and show this asshole how it’s supposed to be
done.”

Johnny didn’t move.

The team did.

They bunched together, all of them, and stared up at Johnny.

Don’t,
he told himself.
Hell, don’t…

He got to his feet. Trotted down to the field. No uniform. No equipment. Santos didn’t
bother with a huddle. He waved them all into formation, rattled off an audible, and
Johnny fell back five steps, spun past the defender, ran toward the end zone and leaped
high, high, high in the air…

The ball fell into his hands as if it had been waiting to welcome him home.

The guys cheered and crowded around him, and Johnny...

Johnny was glad he was sweating, because maybe then nobody would notice that he was
crying.

* * * *

He drove home forty minutes later, downed half a gallon of OJ, showered, changed into
clean jeans and a white T-shirt, phoned Connie and drove to her house.

It was time to break things off.

She was waiting for him on her porch. And, man, she really was mousy-looking. Why
had Alden chosen her when he could have had any girl he wanted?

Well, no.

Alden wasn’t the Wilde brother who could have any girl he wanted.

Johnny was.

And despite what Amos had said, he was willing to bet that Alden had never been with
a girl. Not with this one or any other.

Johnny felt a stirring in his loins.

The Wilde brothers. One who’d never have a girl, one who hadn’t had one in almost
a year.

He rolled down his window.

“Hey,” he said, and motioned her over.

She looked a little surprised. He hadn’t done that before. Until now, he’d done what
he figured Alden had done, gone to the porch or the door, then escorted her to his
truck.

Yeah, well, things were about to change.

He leaned over and flung the door open. Connie reached for his hand and he drew her
onto the seat beside him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, his truck tires spitting gravel as he peeled down the driveway.

“I didn’t expect you to see you tonight.”

“Change of plans.”

He made a left, not towards town but towards a lake that was the kind of hangout he
never took her to.

“Where are we going?”

“To the lake.”

She looked at him. “I thought maybe we could see that new Goldie Hawn movie.”

“I’m not in the mood for a movie tonight.”

He drove fast. It felt good; he hadn’t gone over the speed limit since the accident.
When they reached the lake, he drove straight through the parking lot to a place where
the branches of magnolia trees, heavy with blooms, formed a natural screen. He pulled
in, turned off the engine and looked at Connie.

Her hair was loose. He reached out, tugged at a frizzy curl.

“So,” he said, “you ever come here with my brother?”

She blushed. She knew what he meant.

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

He smiled, ran a finger down her arm, watching the goose bumps rise on her skin.

“Too bad. That nothing ever happened between you, I mean.”

“We were good friends,” she said. “Don’t do that.”

“What? I’m just touching you. You feel nice.”

“John…”

“Johnny.”