Something Rising (Light and Swift) (21 page)

Cassie said nothing, picked at her sandwich.

“Why don't you cut your hair, Cassie? It's so long it gets on the table when you play, it's a distraction.”

“It's a distraction to you. Don't tell me to cut my hair.”

“I'm just saying.”

“Dude, stop crossing me.”

“Dude. Listen to you, a grown woman talking like that, you sound like Leroy Buell, for pity's sake. Grow up.”

Cassie said nothing.

“I'm also thinking,” Bud said, spitting some pretzel salt Cassie's way, “that you have good reasons to go to Louisiana, maybe you recognize them, maybe you don't.”

“Yeah? Name one.”

Bud rocked back on his heels, then crossed his arms over his chest. His own haircut seemed fresh and raw. “You name one, Cassie. I'm going to stand right here, the door locked, my business not open for business. You name one.”

Cassie clenched her fist under the bar, didn't let Bud see it.
“What, what do you want me to say? that I need a little voodoo? I don't.”

“Okay.”

“Or that I'm planning to run away and not do right by Belle? I won't.”

“I believe you.”

“I want just one thing,” Cassie said. “No, two.” Her whole body ached with the effort required not to hit Bud, she didn't understand why he hadn't been killed before now. “I want to see where she lived. And I want to meet Jackson LaFollette, the man she almost married.”

“Ah, Christ.” Bud shook his head, looked to the ceiling for mercy.

“What? What's wrong with that?” Cassie appealed to him, palms up on the bar.

“You can go and do that, Cass, you can see where she lived and what she missed and wanted to go back to. But that other thing is bullshit.”

“Why, how? Tell me why?”

Bud gave her a tight smile, tilted his head, this was his look of love and contempt. “Because,
dude
: The Worst Thing That Can Happen To You.”

The unassailable law: Is That You Will Find What You Seek. Cassie's hands relaxed, the muscles in her shoulders unwound, she took a bite of her sandwich, swallowed. “I know.”

Bud stared at her.

“I know,” she said.

He walked away, unlocked the front door, turned on the neon sign that said Open.

*    *    *

“Oh, we are going to Emmy's house,” Puck sang, a meandering tune, “I'm usually not welcome at Emmy's house. What will we find at Emmy's house? God. Only. Knows.”

“Roll your window down if you want to smoke.”

“It's cold.”

“I don't care.” In truth, they knew exactly what they would find at Emmy's house. Puck knew so well he'd begun a graphic novel about her life called “Saucy Little Broadcaster,” after Emmy's old dream of reading the evening news on television. Emmy had not seen the novel, didn't know it existed. It was quite long, and every time Puck and Cassie saw Emmy, he added another chapter. He called it his Life's Work.

“Do you think Brian would kick me out if I kissed Emmy on the lips?”

Cassie struggled with the truck in the first two gears; it had hung on a long time. She was hoping to get it to two hundred thousand miles so she could present it to Emmy's dad.

“Do you think Brian would kick me out if I kissed Bart or Dylan on the lips?”

In third gear the truck usually caught on and was fine. Not always. Patience was required.

“Do you think Brian would kick me out of the house if I kissed their furniture or, like, their spatulas and whatnot?”

Billy Poe was her mechanic; he called the acceleration problem a head scratcher. He literally scratched his head when faced with it.

“Oh, their married towels! their toothbrushes! the way their sink is always clotted with blue toothpaste! their married bed, Cassie, do you see where I'm going with this?”

“I do.”

“I DO! she said.” Puck leaned over and kissed Cassie on the cheek, he'd been drinking. “My hero.”

Emmy yelled
Come in
, she was standing in the kitchen holding her married spatula, she yelled at the boys to stop running, but they ignored her. She said If you're going to run, at least take those popsicle sticks out of your mouth, if you fall they'll go right down your throats.

Puck and Cassie took off their jackets and draped them over a chair. All of the furniture was new, from a department store in Jonah, it all matched. Dark blue with small red flowers. Dylan, who was five, ran down the hallway through the kitchen, through the dining room connected to the living room, into the living room and up onto the couch. His Popsicle stick was in his mouth. He wore no shirt or pants, just little-boy underwear patterned with trucks. Dylan was the one Cassie liked. He looked her in the eye. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Cassie said.

“I wonder if you remember about the Pokémon.”

Puck covered his eyes with his hand. “Precious Savior,” he prayed, “I beg you, not this.”

“I do remember,” Cassie said.

Dylan rubbed his wet Popsicle stick against the wall like a pencil. “Who's your favorite Pokémon?” In the spring Emmy shaved the boys' heads, said it was easier to keep them clean. Dylan looked like a tiny prisoner.

“Butterfree.”

“Mine is that—that ghost Pokémon, what's he called?”

“I don't know,” Cassie said. “What is he called?”

“You tell me.”

“I don't know,” Cassie said, “you tell me.”

Puck whispered, “Do you think Brian would kick me out of the house if I licked their walls?”

“Do you know what Butterfree evolves into?”

“No.”

“Don't you like Squirtle?” Dylan put his left hand down into his underwear, took it out again. “Do you know what Squirtle evolves into?”

Emmy yelled, “Dinner's almost ready, Dylan, leave them alone.”

In the kitchen Emmy hugged them both, apologized for her bad haircut, for her weight, for the clutter in her kitchen, for Dylan, who refused to wear clothes. Bart slunk through the room pulling a suitcase on wheels. He was the one Cassie didn't like. At seven he already walked as if into a windstorm, his head down, a nervous scuttle. He was worried about everything, trusted nothing and no one. What was in the suitcase was A Secret, but Emmy looked all the time. It was nothing, she said, a broken microscope, a book about dinosaurs. A lot of rocks, a model airplane missing a wing. In Puck's novel the suitcase was filled with nuclear waste.

“Brian will be back in a minute, Cassie get yourself a beer, Puck I'm afraid if I offer you a beer I'll be Enabling you.”

“Oh,” Puck said, eyes wide, “I wouldn't dream of allowing you that personal compromise.”

On the counter next to the stove was a crock filled with light blue plastic utensils, but in Puck's novel they were in all the colors of the rainbow. Bart came through the kitchen again, wearing a short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up to his throat and a
pair of shorts hiked nearly to his chest. Cassie could see him plainly as an adult—if no one killed him in junior high—walking across a college campus, furtive, clutching his thesis to his chest. Dylan ran through with an action figure, then Bart, then Dylan again, there were only two of them, but they had the ability to swarm.

“Kids!” Emmy shouted, a bit seriously, “land somewhere! Go watch television!”

“Our TVs are on,” Bart said, still moving.

“Then why aren't you watching them?”

“Because we want to be in here,” Dylan said.

Brian walked in the door, smiled warmly at them all. “Hey, you guys! So nice to see you!” He was carrying a green bucket, which he placed under the sink. “Just taking out the compost.” Dylan ran over and punched his father in the thigh, and Brian swooped him up and tucked him under his arm. “Let me go get rid of this nuisance,” he said, and carried Dylan, who was kicking and laughing, into the living room. They fell on the floor in a pile and started wrestling, and Bart ran in and jumped on his father's back, but tentatively.

“Cassie, carry these salad bowls to the table, it's just lettuce and shredded carrots, I couldn't find a good tomato, and Puck take this dressing, we only have ranch.”

They carried the bowls and the salad dressing. Puck whispered to Cassie that he was
so
happy. So Happy.

Over the dinner of salad, homemade baked macaroni and cheese, and garlic bread, milk for the children and for Puck, they talked about Bart's test scores, very high, and Pokémon. Gengar, the
ghost Pokémon. Dylan remembered and went and fetched him from his room; he was indeed transparent. Cassie declared him her new favorite, and so Dylan had to change his own favorite to Rabbitmon. Bart said, with thick disdain, that his name was not
Rabbitmon
but would not go on to say what the real name was, and Dylan started to cry. They talked about Brian's agency, he sold car insurance at cut-rate prices, he owned a franchise.

“How's your brother, Em?”

“He's fine, he's at MIT studying … what is it, Brian?”

Brian said, “I have no idea.”

“Something with particles? Particle acceler—transmi—I don't know.”

Emmy said since Dylan was in kindergarten, she thought about getting a job. She had applied to the new bookstore in Jonah. “It was terrible, the interview.”

“Why?” Puck asked, concerned. Cassie could see his wheels turning, in his mind he was writing a chapter heading, The Interview.

“Well, for one thing, the manager asked me what was the last book I read, and I couldn't think of a thing to say, because I haven't finished a book since Bart was born. I've started a few. So I finally answered honestly and said it was
The Cat in the Hat
.”

Puck roared with laughter, he leaned back and put his hands on his belly like Santa Claus.

“The manager didn't think it was so funny. He kept asking me very pointed questions about child care, like what would happen if I was scheduled to work and one of my kids got sick, what if their school called, would I be the one to go get them, who would take care of them after school if I was scheduled to blah blah blah.”

“I told her,” Brian said, “that the workplace is the workplace and home is home.”

“Wisdom,” Puck said, bowing his head slightly toward Brian, who ignored him.

“And I realized he was right, the manager was right. I'm in a carpool and I have responsibilities, and I have to attend all those school functions and there are snow days, so I'm not getting a job.”

Cassie ate. Dylan crawled under the table and lined Pokémon up all around her boots. She and Puck had ten bucks riding on whether Emmy would stay up and talk to them after dinner.

After dinner Cassie and Puck loaded the dishwasher and washed the casserole dish, and it took an hour for Brian and Emmy to get the boys bathed and in bed, to read to them and say good night, to turn off their bedroom light and see it turned back on seconds later, to reprimand and get water, to kiss them and turn off the light, to see it come back on seconds later. Dylan said his toys were all looking at him. Emmy turned the toys around. Puck and Cassie sat on the new sofa in the living room, sat sort of on the edge of the cushions, which did not give, until Emmy and Brian finally joined them.

“It was good seeing you guys,” Brian said, “but I've got to hit the hay. I've got an early golf game in the morning.”

“I greatly appreciate your hospitality,” Puck said, standing and offering Brian his hand; Brian rolled his eyes but shook it.

“Puck, when you get your license back, come in and see me about insurance. You're going to be considered a high risk at any traditional agency. I'll work with you.”

Puck's eyes narrowed. “How kind of you.”

“Brian?” Emmy was splayed in an armchair in front of the fireplace. “Do you mind if I stay up and talk awhile?”

“Of course not,” Brian said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “But I'll miss you. You know I won't really sleep until you're in there with me.”

“I won't be long.”

“And don't forget that my parents are coming for breakfast in the morning.”

“Right, right. I remember.”

“And don't stay up too late, you were cranky this morning.”

He smiled again, went in to bed.

Emmy rubbed the back of her own neck, closed her eyes a moment, enjoyed the silence of her house. She was terribly lucky; she always said to Cassie,
You can't imagine how it feels to be loved so much
. “You guys, he's right, I really should get to bed.”

Cassie stood up, reached for her coat. Emmy stood, too, stretched, put her arms around Cassie. “I'm sorry about your mom,” she whispered. “But it was a nice service, the minister was nice.”

Cassie gently pulled away. “He didn't know her.”

They thanked her for dinner, headed outside. Puck pulled ten dollars from his pocket, and Cassie took it. In the truck Puck said, “I need a drink.”

“Hello, my name is Bobby Puck, and I'm an alcoholic.”

Uncle Bud ignored the extended hand. “What do you want, Bobby?”

“I'll have a Rolling Rock, and another for my chiquita here.”
Puck settled his weight on the bar stool, then glanced at the men playing at the tables around him. “Crackers on Parade,” he said, giving Cassie a wink. He bobbed his head and sang along with the song on the jukebox but changed the words to
Sweet Home Indiana
. Bud returned with the beers, and Puck asked him, “Mr. Uncle, would you rather have sex with a dead person or a live animal?”

Bud crossed his arms, gave Puck his fiercest stare, then said, “How dead?”

Puck roared with laughter, slapped the bar. “A fine answer! Cassandra, please do record that in your notebook. How dead, indeed.” Bud wandered off; Puck shook his head, drank his beer. “You know I'm an alcoholic, Cassie.”