The Calling (6 page)

I was out the door and headed toward Grandma’s trailer, my sneakers squishing in the wet grass and mud, when I first saw Joey Cunningham.
 

He was a small black kid, standing no higher than five feet tall. He wore a dark blue windbreaker, the sleeves pulled up, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he walked down the drive. His sneakers were gray but nondescript, something bought from a warehouse or bargain store. The glasses on his plain face were thick and goggle-like, and as we passed each other, he looked up at me and smiled.
 

I nodded at him but that was it, and a second later he was behind me. His smile stayed in my mind, though; it was like one of those smiles friends give each other, not strangers. Like this kid somehow knew me.
 

The idea was unsettling and I decided to forget him completely, when behind me I heard him say, “Did you ever wonder if the animals in the Garden of Eden could t-t-talk?”
 

I paused, my right foot unwillingly stuck in a puddle.
 

“I mean, before Eve who else did Adam have t-to t-t-talk to? God was there, I guess, but don’t you think it’d be cool if the animals t-talked?”

Slowly, hesitantly, I took my foot out of the muddy water and turned.
 

“Excuse me?”
 

He smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand. “My name’s Joey. What’s yours?”
 

“Chris.”
 

“Nice t-t-to meet you, Chris.” His handshake was firm and strong, surprising for his age and size.
 

I asked him if he lived around here.
 

Joey shook his head. “Nah, not around here. Actually, I don’t live anywhere. Me and my dad travel around a lot. He speaks at churches.” He pointed past my grandmother’s trailer at an RV sitting along the drive on that side—what some of the locals called Lane B. Parked beside it was a blue Geo Metro. “That’s ours.”
 

I nodded, thinking briefly of the figure smoking last night. Joey looked to be ten, maybe eleven years old. But the way he spoke, the way he presented himself, he seemed much older.
 

Joey asked, “So do you live around here?”
 

I told him no, that I was just visiting.
 

“Oh yeah? Family or friends?”
 

“Family.” The word felt strange to say.
 

“Cool,” he said, nodding, but that was it.
 

Silence fell between us. It should have felt awkward but for some reason it didn’t. We were just two strangers, standing underneath an overcast sky, while down in the valley some thin fog had settled.
 

Finally I motioned toward Grandma’s and said, “Well, I should get going.”
 

“Right. But you didn’t answer my question. Do you think the animals could t-talk?”
 

I shrugged. “I really don’t know. What do you think?”
 

Joey seemed to ponder his own question a few seconds, before saying, “You know, I’m not sure either. But I think it’d be awesome if they did. I’ll see you around.”
 

Then he turned and started down the drive, past the various trailers spread out around The Hill. For some reason I expected him to look back and wave, but he didn’t. He just kept walking.

•
 
•
 
•

I
SPENT
A
few hours in my grandmother’s trailer, having what she called brunch but which was really just overcooked hamburgers and Tostitos tortilla chips. We played some cards, watched some TV, then she apologized for not being much fun and suggested I check out the Rec House. She said the last time she was inside it was filled with video games and whatnot, stuff I would probably like. I told her I was content right where I was, though in truth I was bored out of my mind.
 

Around four o’clock, when Mrs. Roberts stopped by, I stayed for some chitchat and then told them I was going for a walk. Grandma reminded me that we were having dinner with my uncle, and after nodding and saying goodbye, I went outside. The sky was clear for the most part, the grass and drive, except for an occasional puddle, all nicely dried. I started toward the trailer I was staying in when I glanced back toward Half Creek Road, at the cinderblock building resting beside the trailer park’s entrance.
 

“What the hell,” I muttered, and started up the drive.
 

The only entrance I could find not locked was a screen door located next to an old RC Cola machine. All the buttons were lit up out of order. Opening and closing the door created such a racket that some little dog started barking not too far away.
 

The place was dark and cold, the smell of dust everywhere. I tried the switch just inside the door but no light came on. Enough of the sun shone through the dirty windows that I wasn’t walking blind as I made my way around. There were two metal card tables, one with a broken leg. A wide couch that looked retro enough to be from the ’70s, propped in front of an ancient television set. On top of the TV was an original Nintendo console, its gray cover cracked; resting on top of it, two games that I hadn’t played in years:
Contra
and
Duck Hunt
. Across the room were three tables: ping-pong, foosball, and pool. The last table’s green surface was marked all over by unforgiving cues.
 

Hanging scattered across the ceiling were white paper plates. Written on each in different colored markers were names and locations and short messages. I stopped and read a few, realized they were past visitors to The Hill who’d left these as a kind of memorial to their time spent. One written in wide purple letters read
 

We had a GREEEAAAT time! THANKS!!!

The Trout Family

Darvills, Virginia, ’93

while another in blue and yellow read
 

The best barbeque EVER hands down

Can’t wait to come back next summer!

Bob & Sue Willie

Luttrell, Tennessee

All over the walls was a variety of junk, from a chalkboard to framed pictures, to tennis rackets and what looked to be a stuffed armadillo. I walked up to the wall that had Polaroids tacked all over, displaying different activities from organized softball to badminton, to a pig roast and what looked like a marshmallow eating contest. I glanced at these only briefly, trying to catch glimpses of my grandmother or Mrs. Roberts, before deciding to head back out. I turned to leave, not watching where I was going, and stumbled into a card table that had various toys scattered on top. A bright yellow remote control car, balanced on the end, fell off, landing headfirst on the concrete. I didn’t even attempt to check to see if it was okay; I said, “Whoops,” under my breath and headed for the door.
 

“Hey, you break it, you buy it.”
 

The voice startled me so badly I actually jumped. A soft giggling followed right after, and I turned around, searched the back of the Rec House for the three seconds it took me to spot her. The building was obviously built with greatness in mind—there was a small kitchen, a stock room, and even a single bathroom pushed against the far side. A large opening was in the wall, right above a counter, looking into the kitchen. She sat behind that, a solid shaft of sunlight shining directly toward her. Dust motes floated freely in the glow. For a moment I wondered just what the hell she was doing there, when I noticed the paperback in her right hand. Her left hand was hiding her mouth, before she quickly composed herself.
 

“You scared me,” I said, half because it was true, half because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
 

Her hand dropped away from her face. “I scared you,” she said. “This from the guy who could have woke the dead opening a simple screen door.”
 

I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but found that I couldn’t. I was stuck. Which was weird, because I
never
got stuck.
 

“It was ... difficult.”
 

She nodded, like she understood exactly what I meant. “Yeah, I’m sure it was.”
 

There was an awkward silence, so I asked, “What are you reading?”
 

She held the book up so I could see the cover. “
Billy Budd
by Herman Melville.”
 

I made a face. “Good God, why?”
 

“It’s on the Summer Reading List for a class I want to take next year. Have you read it?”
 

“I skimmed a paragraph or two.”
 

“Let me guess, you thought it was boring.”
 

“Not really. I just preferred the SparkNotes version more.” I approached her and held out my hand. “I’m Chris, by the way.”
 

“I’m Sarah,” she said, shaking my hand. Hers was cold and soft, the fingernails unpainted. “And just because you know my name now, don’t go thinking you’re off the hook. Remember, you break it, you buy it.”
 

For a moment my grin faltered. Was she really serious? Who cared for it anyway? It was just a piece of junk in a building full of junk. Then she grinned again and I knew she was joking, and I couldn’t help myself, I started laughing. The first time I’d laughed in a long time.
 

•
 
•
 
•

H
ER
NAME
WAS
Sarah Porter and she was sixteen years old. Sixteen and a half, really, as she made a point of mentioning that her birthday was in November. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin smooth and white, her nose small. The lighting wasn’t the best where we were inside, but as I later found out her eyes were blue—gentian as my mother the gardener would have liked to say. Her hair was strawberry blond, its length down to her shoulders; every once in a while a lock would fall in front of her face, causing her to push it back behind her ear. She never stood up from behind the counter, so I could only see her T-shirt, which was pink and had some kind of obscure design printed on the front.
 

I’ll say this here and now: she was attractive, there was no doubt about that, and any guy in his right mind would have been a fool not to fall for her, but for me I just didn’t feel that way. Who knows, maybe it had to do with my parents, or Mel, or the fact a murderer was supposedly after me, but as I stood there talking with her, I didn’t see her in the back of my mind as someone I could potentially be with. Even that bulk of men’s brains that controls lust—and I’m sure a scientific study has been done somewhere, explaining that particular part takes up ninety-nine percent—wasn’t swayed. Not once did I find myself glancing at her chest, or even wondering what one of her breasts might feel like cupped in my hand. Or the feel of her thighs, her butt, even her tongue inside my mouth. She was just this girl who had scared me, who had actually proved herself just as sarcastic as me, if not more, and I had no problems talking to her. And it wasn’t flirting, either; it was just talk.
 

We talked for maybe an hour, and it’s impossible to recount everything that was said, because it was mainly about nothing. Just one topic after another that changed suddenly to another that didn’t seem to have any correlation with the first but obviously did. Sarah had this thing she said she asked everyone new she came in contact with; it was three simple questions that supposedly told everything about you. The first was what CD you last listened to; second, who’s your favorite actor; and third, what’s your favorite movie of all time. They were tough questions, except for the CD one, so I asked her to give hers first.
 

“Easy,” she said. “Coldplay’s
A Rush of Blood to the Head
, Julia Roberts, and
Pretty Woman
, without a doubt.”
 

“Okay,” I said slowly. I had been hoping for more time. “In my car, the last thing I listened to was Alice in Chains. Their unplugged album. My favorite actor is ... well, if I have to pick one, I’d have to say Bruce Campbell.”
 

She said, “Who?” frowning like I’d just told her I was the offspring of an alien race.
 

“Bruce Campbell,” I repeated, then started to list off the movies and television shows he’d starred in, when I realized it wouldn’t be worth it. So in the end I shrugged and said, “I work at Blockbuster, what I can tell you. I see a
lot
of movies.”
 

“Good,” she said. “So then you shouldn’t have a problem telling me your favorite movie of all time.”
 

“
Citizen Kane
.”
 

Her face went blank. “You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
 

 
“No way. Orson Welles was a genius. That film’s amazing, nearly flawless. Way ahead of its time.”
 

“Oh my gosh.” Her voice had gone toneless. “You just said film.”
 

Grinning, I said, “Fine. For the less cultured, movie.”
 

“Okay then, how about this? Favorite chick flick.” She smirked. “If, of course, you’re willing to impart such private information.”
 

“
Casablanca
,” I said, without a beat, and she groaned and rolled her eyes, muttered, “How old are you anyway?
Fifty
?”
 

“Eighteen. But everyone says I’m very mature for my age.” I gave a too-wide grin, then leaned forward and whispered, “Except, between you and me, I can be as immature as the next guy.”
 

“Oh really.” She didn’t look convinced. “What’s the most immature thing you’ve ever done?”
 

For an instant I thought about Mel, and what I’d forced her to do three months ago.