Tourists of the Apocalypse (11 page)

“The future. How about this,” he sighs and pauses, looking across the street at Lance’s house. “The guy across the street might look like your adversary now, but give it just a little more time. A year from now you might be glad you didn’t make him your enemy.”

“A year from now?”

“Slightly less,” he corrects himself, pausing to think on it.

“What are you not telling me Graham?”

“Just making a suggestion,” he offers, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You should think about how this affects other people as well, not just you?”

“What,” I say a bit too loud then lower my voice. “Is this about my mom?”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” he balks, putting up both hands. “I was thinking about her,” he explains, nodding at Lance and Izzy’s house.

“She’s a big girl.”

“Might look that way, but she’s a long way from home. We all are.”

“How’s Violet?” I needle him, changing the subject.

“Washing her car last time you were home scored you serious points,” he chuckles. “You were all she could talk about. She’s doing great.”

“She’s a prostitute,” I add, trying to hurt him a little, but unsure why.

“She was,” he admits, seemingly unaffected by my slur. “She runs a little florist shop in Abilene now.”

“You guys?”

“Not in a while.”

“No fairytale movie ending,” I suggest. “The working girl and guy from the other side of the tracks.”

“Might have been, but I can’t just up and move.”

“Too busy babysitting Mr. Dibble?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he snaps as if I don’t understand his situation.

“Well, I hope the two of you are very happy,” I sigh, standing and backing up to the door. “I gotta get some sleep. Will I see you for a turkey leg tomorrow?”

“No doubt you will,” he replies, looking back over his shoulder. “Think about what I said.”

“Which part?”

“Pick your enemies carefully,” he warns me, never looking back.

Once he disappears into his house I am left to ponder his words.
Am I trying to make Lance my enemy?

…

I watch the red numbers on the alarm clock flip for hours. It’s cool outside, but feels stuffy in my room. I wait till midnight before pulling up the window in the bathroom and climbing out on the worn roof shingles. On my second shuffled move a shingle pulls free and I almost slide off into the bushes. Barley catching myself, I slip around to the chimney and climb down.
This plan almost ended before it got started.

Rather than walk around to the front of the house, I slip to the back. There are wooden picket fences almost six feet high between all the yards. I’m sure back in the fifties they were whitewashed every year or maybe in the fifties they didn’t need fences.
Maybe back then people just talked to their next door neighbors.
By crossing into the yard directly behind ours I avoid the fences. The next street over doesn’t have any. I have no idea why.

The back of Dickey’s house is dark. I have to slip between a row of overgrown evergreens to actually get in the yard, but after that, it’s a cake walk. The grass is mowed short and wet cut greens stick to my shoes
. I wonder who cuts Dickey’s grass.
This thought comes to me because I used to be the grass cutting guy for this grassy knoll conspiracy Dickey is now a part of.

The two patio chairs sit in the darkness of his back porch just as I recall them. On one arm, there are several divots left by me trying to open bottles.
I should have kissed her
. The screen door spring whines when pulled open. A very large spider web spreads across the glass on the door, but up close I can tell it’s on the inside of the window.
That’s right, he doesn’t actually live here now
. When I twist the knob it doesn’t budge. The romantic idea that it would be open is dashed; I drop into the nearest chair and sulk. It’s deadly quiet, crickets and the like long gone this late in the Fall. It’s peaceful and I let my thoughts drift and doze off.

The whine of the screen door spring jolts me awake. Before I can turn around a hand holds a beer over my shoulder, dangling it there. I pause before taking it, but the hand wiggles it as if ringing a tiny bell. The scent of lavender bath soap fills my nose.

“Come on,” Izzy’s voice begs. “You know you want it.”

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I suggest, taking the beer.

“You’re probably right,” she admits, dropping into the opposite chair.

“How you been?”

“Not bad. Graham says you’re out for good.”

“Yes, discharged.”

“Honorably?” she muses, looking at me while she tips up her bottle.

I nod.

“And what’s next?” she inquires, turning sideways and pulling her legs underneath her, careful to fold the hem of her dress under one knee. “Coming back here maybe?”

“Not sure, I get the impression Graham would prefer I didn’t.”

“You always do what he tells you?”

“Up to now,” I answer, sitting up and sliding to the front of my chair.

“I’d have thought you got enough of doing what you’re told in the Army?”

I nod.

She sips on her beer, staring back at me. I rise, tipping up my beer and finishing it in a long chug. When I look back she points at the door, indicating there is more inside. I wiggle a finger at hers, but she shakes her head slowly, holding it up to show me it’s still half full.

“I’m good,” she winks.

Pulling open the screen, I slip inside. The light in the fridge doesn’t come on when I open it. Warm musty air flows out like a fog.
It’s unplugged or the powers out
. I wait a moment for my eyes to adjust, but there isn’t anything inside. I try the freezer door above, but find it likewise devoid of beer. Behind me the screen door announces her entrance. When I turn she’s leaning her back on the counter behind me pointing at a brown bag sitting in front of an old wooden bread box. The box is white with primary colored polka dots. The words
WONDER BREAD
are emblazoned on the top.

“Icebox doesn’t work,” she whispers.

“Right.”

Moving slowly, I go to her, stopping a bit too close for good taste. I dig for a beer with my right hand, while putting the other on the counter past her left hip. Before I can pull out a bottle, she sets hers behind her back and tosses both arms around my neck. Caught off guard, I am still fishing for a bottle when she pushes herself up on her tip toes and whispers in my ear.

“Are you really that thirsty?”

“Ah, no,” I stammer, my nerve suddenly gone.

She remains poised there, her lips only inches from mine. My blood runs cold and I hesitate. I have kissed my share of girls, but for some reason my body won’t move. Dropping from her tip toes, she wrinkles her nose. Her hands slide off my neck to my shoulders.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

I nod, still at a loss for words.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” she pouts, her hands coming down.

I lean forward and kiss her before she can pull completely away. At first she allows this, but doesn’t join in fully. After a half minute she seems to get over my indecision, tossing her arms over my shoulders and pulling herself up by my neck. Caught up in the moment I pick her up by the waist, sitting her on the counter. We make out for several minutes and then she pulls her head back, taking a deep breath. I settle my forehead on hers and wait, my arms tingling.

“Glad we got that out of the way,” she mutters, out of breath.

“Absolutely,” I exhale.

“So other than me needing more lip gloss,” she sighs running her tongue over her lips slowly. “What now?”

Having no good answer to this question, I put both hands on her thighs, squeezing them and kiss her again. She jumps a bit, a muffled sigh escaping her lips. For whatever reason my timid reaction from earlier is gone, leaving me free to enjoy the moment. Lowering my hands to her knees, I put my thumbs under the hem of her dress and slide it up. Her body stiffens, her lips pulling away just a bit
. Is this a no response?

“Dylan,” she utters, but I press my lips to hers before she can say anymore.

I continue to push her dress until it reaches her hips, the fact she’s sitting on it causing it to pull tight against my hands. Her thighs are warm and the hem of her dress pops a seam from the pressure. Her knees try desperately to pull closed, but she doesn’t stop kissing me. We remain in this
will she or won’t she
struggle for several minutes. At some point her knees relax, releasing the death grip on my forearms. I am just about to pick her up and look for a better place to continue, when the roar of a diesel engine moves past the front of the house. Bright lights cut across the living room, tossing a single blade of light at us when it passes.

“Crap,” she mumbles, pulling her lips away from mine and pressing her knees together.

“What,” I groan, keeping her pinned to the counter.

“Let me go,” she complains, putting her hands on my chest and pushing me back.

At first I don’t back up, but there is a troubled look on her face that shakes me out of my daze. I stumble backwards, getting a clear view of how far I had her dress pushed up. She looks flushed and worried, making me feel like a rapist. Hopping off the counter, she brushes her dress down and shuffles into the living room populated by the shrink wrapped furniture. Peeking out through closed blinds she leans over an end table, teetering there.

“What is it?” I exhale hard, joining her.

“T-Buck,” she whispers over her shoulder. “Missy is cooking a big dinner tomorrow. Everyone’s going to be there.”

The roar of another engine, this one not a diesel, moves down the street. Pulling my own blind I see Dickey’s Mustang fly past. I’m panicked, as I assume he will stop here, but he keeps going to the end of the street.

“Shoot,” she blurts out, running a hand down her dress and finding a ripped seam.

“Oh gawd, I am so sorry.”

“Stay here,” she orders, pushing her dress down and smoothing it out.

“What?”

“Sit on the porch and have a few beers, then go home the way you came,” she lectures. “We can’t go wandering out there together.”

“Right,” I agree, my head spinning.

“Get a grip,” she reprimands me. “I have to get back. Lance will come out and then notice I’m not home. I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow.”

I nod, confused and excited at the same time. Following her to the back door, I watch as she tips up the beer she left on the counter and finishes it. Turning to me, her eyes soften.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, still feeling like a masher.

“For what?”

“You know,” I mumble, glancing over at the counter.

“Stop it,” she snorts, leaning up and pecking me on the lips. “I’m a big girl. When I want you to stop you’ll know it.”

“Kinda felt like you did.”

“You were ripping my dress,” she advises in a serious tone, then winks.

“I’m still sorry.”

“Nonsense,” she shakes her head. “You just caught me off guard this time.”

“This time? Meaning this is to be continued?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, moving away and putting her backside on the door. “That’s up to you.”

“How so?”

She wrinkles her nose at me, moving it from side to side. We share a longing glance, and then she slips out the door. I remain frozen for several minutes in thought.
Did this really happen?
Grabbing the bag with the beer roughly, I go out to the porch and have a seat. I take another divot out the arm of the chair opening a bottle and then lean back.
If it’s up to me, then TO BE CONTINED is guaranteed
.

…

Thanksgiving Day goes on forever. Everyone except Cain and Abel is in attendance, even Mr. Dibble. Beginning just after 9 AM, the house is full of parade watchers nibbling on all sorts of snacks provided by my mother. Izzy and Lance don’t show up till around one, when a huge turkey dinner is served. My Mother and Roberta act as wait staff for all four courses. Izzy is back to jeans and a hoodie. She sticks pretty close to Lance, offering only brief glances in my direction. Lance, for his part, spends a lot of time watching me.
Does he know?

After the main meal everyone sits around watching the football game. I am asked about my plans by Roberta and this starts the ball rolling downhill. Claiming to be unsure what I might do now, my mother blurts out the question I knew would come up. She asks Lance if he might be able to use me out at the site. She would prefer I came home to stay, completely unaware of the growing tension over Izzy. Graham tries to defuse this question, suggesting that might not be what I want, but Lance jumps in before he can finish.

Leaving nothing to misinterpretation, he explains that he won’t be in need of anyone else. He goes so far as to infer he may need to let some people go, causing Jerry and Dickey to eye the floor silently. Lance ends by pretending he wished things were different, but his point is made.
Make yourself scarce Dylan. Stay away from Izzy.
I have no intension of doing anything of the sort, but keep this to myself.

A round of pumpkin pie ends the day and by dusk everyone has migrated home. Izzy and Lance left abruptly after pie was served. I received only a slight glance, before she was swept out the door with Lance’s hand wrapped around her upper arm to make sure no hugs were offered. Roberta and my mother mill around the kitchen, while Jerry and I sit at the table watching the final football game of the day. The Carolina Panthers have crushed the Cowboy’s, leaving Jerry annoyed. He used to drink too much, but hasn’t had a beer all day. Working for Lance has cleaned him right up.

“So what goes on out there anyway?” I ask, changing the subject from the post-game wrap-up.

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” I press. “You gotta give me more than that.”

“Sorry, I can’t. Ask Graham if you want to know, but I am not supposed to talk about it.”

I find this odd. While I have never really had any interest in what they are up to out there it surprises me that it would be a secret. I widen an eye at Jerry, but he just shrugs and watches the highlights. Excusing myself, I give my mom a hug and slip out the back door. Cutting through the backyards, I come out on Dickey’s back porch and slip in the back door, which is still open.