Saints of Augustine (5 page)

He stood on a stepladder in the backyard, spreading gobs of Turtle Wax across the aluminum roof of the shed. He'd taken off his damp shirt, and the gnats had set in. He'd been smacking them when they lit on his chest, and he felt like he had as much wax on
him as on the shed. What did his mother see in Teddy? The big ape was at their house for hours every day, yammering on about politics, and sports, and “the immigrants,” and “the terrorist-sympathizers” (his term for anyone protesting the war). He talked with his mouth full. And he sat at
the head of the table
. Wasn't that supposed to be Sam's spot, if his dad wasn't going to be there? His dad would never have asked him to do anything as stupid as wax a toolshed they didn't even need. Sam wanted to call London, get his dad on the phone, tell him who was sitting in his chair…only he didn't know if his father even cared anymore. It wasn't like he'd been kicked out of the house; he'd chosen to go and live an entirely different life.

At least Teddy hadn't been spending the night at their house. That would be too much to stomach.

Sam gripped the damp rag, dragged it fiercely across the shed, and caught the side of his thumb on a bolt. “Ow!” he yelled. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” He threw the rag toward the fence and sucked on his thumb. It wasn't bleeding, but it hurt like hell.

That evening, he asked his mom if they could eat on TV trays, in front of the television.
“No,”
she said
firmly. “Any more questions?” Then she handed him the silverware and told him to set the table.

From the head of the table, Teddy dominated the conversation, churning through another stupid sociopolitical lecture and cracking jokes that made his mom smile and made Hannah practically convulse. “I'm telling you, the good folks down at Ex-Lax don't make a chocolate patty big enough for the U. S. government. I don't care which party's in charge, they still can't get a darn thing
done
. It's like one big digestive track that can't…poo.” He winked at Hannah. She dribbled milk down her chin. “Roof-Smart's not much better. It's just like a little version of the government—lots of backstabbing and lying and what have you. They'd get a heck of a lot more contracts if they listened to me. But they never will. Because the district manager's a knothead who doesn't know one thing about marketing, and the assistant district manager's a bozo fairy who flits around like Tinker Bell, asking you how your
day
is going instead of getting down to the nitty-gritty—”

“I thought we weren't supposed to say
fairy
,” Sam interrupted, looking at his mom.

She glanced down at her plate. She wiped her napkin over her lips.

“Why?” Hannah asked.

Sam waited for his mother to answer her. When she didn't, he said, “Because it's one of those words Mom told us not to say. Remember?” He turned to his mother. “I had to write an essay on prejudice, and you helped me look up examples—”

“I remember,” his mom said over her napkin.

Sam looked toward the head of the table, into Teddy's eyes. “So we don't say that word.”

“Hey, fine with me,” Teddy said, chuckling around a mouthful of chicken. “I don't ever have to say
fairy
again. You know Spanish? How about
mariposa
? The Mexicans in the tile department say it all the time. It means butterfly. I'm telling you, this guy really does flit around the office like a butterfly.”

Sam looked at his mom again.
Say something to him
, he thought.
Tell him to shut his stupid mouth.
But she only said, “I'm not big on politics at the dinner table.”

Charlie sprinted from the
baseline to the free-throw line and back. From the baseline to half-court and back. From one baseline to the other, and back again—the whole length of the court twice. It was a quick way to get the blood flowing, to get his body warmed up like he would for a game. Not so easy, because the “court” in the small park at the back of the neighborhood was really just a slab of faded asphalt with a rusty hoop at either end, and over the years the painted lines had been sun bleached and trampled by sneakers until they were
almost invisible. Also not easy because this one set of line drills had him folded over, hands on his knees, winded.
Perrin!
Coach Bobbit would have screamed.
Get your mind off your dick and get the lead out, son!
But this was just Charlie, alone, come to shoot some hoops. He had only himself to do the yelling.
Up, loser
, he thought.
Another set gonna kill you?
He assumed the position at the baseline and started running all over again.

What about a third set? Is
that
gonna kill you?

A minute later he had his answer: Yes, a third set of line drills would put him in his grave. Breathing heavily, he picked up his ball from the edge of the court and tossed it back and forth between his hands. He ran forward, dribbled, and banked a shot through the hoop. A little on the sloppy side. Too much rattle in the rim. He retrieved the ball and repeated the shot several times, then moved back to half-court and stared furiously at the hoop as he smacked the ball against the asphalt. He ran, dribbling, dodging imaginary opponents. He approached the hoop again.
Perrin curls around the screen, sets himself, and drops a three. Look at him! Shoulders set, great rotation,
swish!

He caught the ball and repeated the shot. Then went at it again.

You'll notice he's got his Air Perrins on—an excellent shoe that's selling all over the country—and there he goes again! This guy really is a master of form….

Clank!
Brick shot. The ball missed the rim entirely, got away from him, and bounced across the court until it rolled to a stop under a park bench.
You suck, Perrin
, he told himself.
You've lost your edge. You didn't practice enough this summer.

Frustrated, he kept himself in constant motion for the next minute, going for fairly easy shots and making each one, seven in a row. “That's better,” he said aloud, spinning the ball between the two webs of his hands. He moved into position for a free throw.
Nothing but net
, he thought.
Nothing…but…net.

The ball dropped straight through the hoop.

Suddenly he was thinking about Sam. Two summers ago, he and Sam had stood side by side on this same court, in this same heat, and Charlie had tried to teach Sam how to free throw. Sam had been lousy. It became funny after a while; in fact, they were laughing their asses off, because Sam seemed
absolutely incapable of judging the distance between himself and the hoop. He watched Charlie intently, nodded at Charlie's instructions, and each time he was handed the ball, he'd just launch the thing into the air as if it were burning his hands, and it would fall short. “You're not even trying,” Charlie told him.

“That's just it!” Sam said, laughing. “I
am
trying! That's how pathetic it is!”

“All right, look.” Charlie handed him the ball and stood directly behind him. “Here's you. Here's the ball.” He reached around either side and raised Sam's elbows until Sam was holding the ball just under his own nose. “There's the hoop.”

“Hi, hoop,” Sam said.

“Visualize,”
Charlie told him. “You have to focus your mind and
see
this happening. You're gonna shoot the ball, it's gonna fly straight from your hands to that hoop, and it's gonna drop right in. Whoosh. Nothing but net. You got it?
Visualize.
”

He heard Sam's breathing, felt a slight tremble in Sam's elbows, which were still resting on his palms.
Charlie brought his hands down, and Sam threw the ball. It sailed over the backboard.

“Wow,” Charlie said. “You may be the worst basketball player in the world.”

“As long as I have a title.”

Charlie went after the ball. When he came back, Sam was balanced on one foot, his limbs contorted into a pseudo–tai chi pose. “Freak,” Charlie said. “Want to try again?”

“Yeah.” Sam took the ball from him and began dribbling awkwardly. “In fact, let's not leave this court until I make a basket.”

Charlie groaned. “Oh my god, we're gonna starve to death out here. They're gonna find our skeletons in a heap on the ground.”

“No, they won't,” Sam said. “Watch this.” He held the ball with one hand and waved his other hand at it, as if casting a spell.

“I repeat,” Charlie said, “freak,” as Sam turned himself toward the basket, closed his eyes, and performed a very sloppy and ridiculous-looking granny shot.

The ball arced high up into the air, dropped, and passed through the hoop without a sound.

“Holy crap!” Charlie said. He burst out laughing. “
Look!
You made the shot!”

Sam opened his eyes. “I did?”

“Yes! I can't believe you did that!”

“I made the shot!” Sam said. He grabbed hold of Charlie by the shoulders and crunched their chests together, then broke into a victory dance. “I made the shot! I made the shot!”

“I'm gonna start calling you Granny.”

“You're gonna start calling me Mr. Made the Shot!” Sam said, grinning. “Let's play horse—unless you're afraid you'll lose.”

“Ha!
My
name, in case you didn't know, is Mr. Kick Your Butt.” They were constantly coming up with names for themselves that summer, and calling each other crazy variations on whatever they'd come up with.

A year later, they weren't calling each other anything at all.

Sam just told him one day—over the phone, with a strange quiver in his voice—that he didn't want to hang out anymore. Charlie was shocked. Then, almost immediately, he became mad. “Why not?”

“Just because,” Sam said.

“Well…that's not a reason!”

“It's reason enough. I just don't want to hang out anymore, okay?”

“Well, then, screw you!” he hollered, and slammed down the phone. A minute later he tried to call back, but Sam didn't answer.

That next week, at school, he saw Sam across the commons. They made eye contact, but Charlie turned away, and when he looked back, Sam was walking off toward the cafeteria. After that, it became easier not to say hi. It became a predecided thing, something that hurt and that constantly bugged him, but something that just…stuck.

Standing at the free-throw line now, he took another shot and made it. He took another one, and made it. He took a third, and made it. Three for three.

He'd known a kid named Layton Bingham once. Layton's family had moved in next door to Charlie, and because he and Layton were both ten years old and were living just feet apart, they started playing together. It took Charlie quite a while to realize that Layton was almost always getting angry, throwing
fits, making fun of him, or waving some new toy in Charlie's face and then refusing to let him touch it. It struck Charlie one day like a splash of cool water in his face: He didn't like Layton Bingham. He'd never liked Layton Bingham. He wasn't going to be Layton's friend any longer. He let Layton know, face-to-face, and that had been the end of it.

Had the same thing happened with Sam? Maybe Sam had just realized one day that he didn't like Charlie, that he'd
never
really liked him, and that was it. End of story. Maybe Charlie hadn't been as good a friend as he thought. Or maybe he'd teased Sam too much. It had always seemed like it was in good fun, and Sam had done his share of teasing back, but never as much as Charlie, who could really lay it on thick when he got going. Maybe it had always bugged the hell out of Sam and he'd just never said anything about it.

Whatever. Not whatever; he missed Sam. It would have been nice to have been able to talk to Sam when his mother got sick, and especially after she died. But what was he going to do about it now? There wasn't anything he
could
do. Besides, he had
more important things to think about than a friend who had bailed on him over a year ago. Sometimes it was all he could do to keep his mind from ricocheting like a pinball, what with worrying about his father, about his debt to Derrick Harding, about his lousy game, about the fact that he was getting low on pot and couldn't exactly go to Derrick for more. (
Shit, has that joined the list of worries, too? Getting more pot? Sad, Perrin. Really sad
.)

He ran toward the basket, veered to one side, and tried for a jump hook.

The ball missed the hoop entirely.

 

Kate sat in the passenger seat of the Volkswagen, her shoulders moving to the song on the radio. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing cutoff shorts and a partially unbuttoned shirt over her swimsuit. Charlie could just glimpse the bikini top inside her shirt.

“Hey, take a picture,” she told him. “It'll last longer.”

He grinned and turned his eyes back to the road. “You look really great.”

“Thanks.”

“You look like a…I don't know…like a model.”
Real original. She must think I'm an idiot.

“I wish,” she said. “Models probably make a lot more than psychologists.”

“You want to be a shrink? I thought you wanted to be a veterinarian.”

“One or the other. There's plenty of time to decide.”

“Good thing, too,” he said. “If I don't get picked up by a scout this year, I'm going to need a backup plan.”

“You could always coach.”

Yep, she thinks I'm an idiot.
“I'm not really good at yelling. Coach Bobbit yells himself hoarse by the end of every practice. Plus he just seems mad all the time. And did you notice how fat he's getting? We call him the coach potato.”

“Looks-ism,” she said, reminding him of that concept he still didn't understand. “You wouldn't have to be like Bobbit. Besides, he's mainly a football coach. Basketball coaches are different. They're kind of…academic and sexy.”

“Gross,” he said. “You sound a little a looks-is-my yourself. Nah, I don't want to coach. I want to play ball for a good school, then for a great team. I want to retire at thirty, and then…” He didn't feel like telling her about wanting to own his own island. It seemed silly, at the moment. Because he had to say something, he said, “I don't know, become an astronaut.”

Kate burst out laughing. “You can't just decide to become an astronaut one day! Those people train for
years
. Most of them start off as pilots.”

“I meant as a millionaire,” Charlie said, embarrassed. “That's how they're going to fund the space program in the future, you know. Millionaires buying seats on the shuttle. Be nice to me and I'll get you the seat next to mine.”

“Great,” she said. “I can treat all the people who go crazy on Mars.”

They were south of Anastasia Island now, crossing the bridge onto Summer Haven. There were plenty of beaches to choose from in St. Augustine, but Summer Haven was theirs. It was where they'd ended up on their first date four months ago, and where they'd made out for the first time. They hadn't been
to any other beach all summer.

He turned off Old A1A onto a road that led to a clearing large enough to park the Volkswagen.

“Wow,” she said as they got out of the car, “could this thing be any shinier? You must wash it twice a week.”

“Almost,” Charlie said, grinning.

“Maybe you should detail cars for a living.”

“You really have high hopes for me, don't you? I don't want to clean other people's cars. Just mine.” He grabbed their blanket and towels out of the backseat, and they headed down the footpath toward the beach.

They picked a spot as far away from other people as possible. Charlie unfolded the blanket while Kate took off her shirt and cutoffs. The lime green bikini seemed to glow against her tan. He stripped down to his swim trunks.

For a while, they just lay there side by side, soaking up the sun and listening to the surf. Then Charlie asked if she wanted to go into the water. “You go, Charlie Horse,” she said. “I don't want to wash off all this sunblock.”

“I'd be glad to help you put it back on.”

“Go swim, smart-ass.”

He grinned at her and charged off toward the water.

The waves were good. He ran straight into them, spiking his knees above the waterline until the ocean slammed into his chest, pushing him back. He dove beneath the surface. When he came up, another wave smashed into him, knocking him sideways. The next wave came and he dove for it, bodysurfing at least twenty feet before it let him go. His father had taught him how to do that. It was hard to imagine now, since the man almost never left the house, but the three of them—Charlie and his mother and father—used to come to the beach every Sunday. Charlie remembered holding his father's hand and walking out farther than he'd ever been, learning how to dive at just the right moment so that the wave caught him and shoved him toward the shore. They bought a raft at Eckerd one Sunday—it was bright yellow and had a blue rope—and Charlie had blown it up on the beach and then ridden waves that dropped him right onto the sand at his parents' feet.

His mother went out on the raft with him once. They sat together, laughing, as the waves bounced them up and down. Charlie's father had brought their camera, and he snapped two pictures in a row: photos they laughed about later and stuck up on the refrigerator, like two consecutive frames of a comic strip. In one, Charlie and his mother were perched on the raft, holding hands, looking down at the water, and trying to stay balanced. In the other, the raft was tossed upward, and only their bare legs and feet were showing, pointing at the sky as they were tipped into the water.