The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  “But I’ll certainly give it some thought,” he added bogusly.

  Joel looked at him.

  “All right?”

  “All right,” Joel said, managing a weak smile.

  Teddy spent the next half hour graciously listening to Joel talk about Susan, figuring it was the quickest way to let him get her off his chest. By the time he was done the Cross Keys Inn had grown quiet, the traffic on Newton Pike had almost stopped.

  “You want to sally forth and check out some tunes at Rancho Swope?”

  “Yeah,” Joel said quietly. “No Lennon, though.”

  Teddy accepted this onerous condition with a gracious spread of his hands.

  “You make the call. You can crash there if you so desire.”

  As he stood Teddy noticed the light was on in his dad’s office. Not surprisingly. The guy worked constantly. They walked back to the end of the pier, weaving through the fifty-five gallon drums that blocked off its entrance and once again scaling that nettlesome fence. They held their breath as they passed the big pile of stinking, rotting fish somebody had left there. As they mounted the long concrete steps he noticed the Town Car in the usual spot. And right beside it was Truax’s Cutlass. Now, that was weird. Maybe the sarge was getting canned for taking a poke at Joel. He considered pointing this out to his friend but decided against it. He’d probably start thinking it meant he’d be getting back with Susan.

  They passed the Gravity Tree, with its hammered steel trunk and that dangling brass apple. The city’s logo, a dumb, optimistic visual pun that represented everything Teddy hated about EarthWorks. Though he knew his father could be allied with far worse outfits, especially the bozos currently running the Western world a few miles to the south, the happy clams from EarthWorks still gave him the willies. It was amazing how a select group of highly educated people could so blatantly miss the fundamental truth of the matter. Humans were not good. Progress was not possible. The future was not rosy. In fact, it was a wasteland, filled with mushroom clouds, rampant overpopulation, famine and plagues. Just read Nietzsche, sports fans. The Last Man had arrived. Evolution was over. The human mind was being softened into pablum by a constant bombardment of TV, bad music and illogicality. All you had to do was read a few pages of The Widening Gyre to see this. Or Teddy’s honors paper on Twilight of the Idols, the one he’d stapled so propitiously to his Harvard application. The only hope for the planet was that people like the Swope clan be given the reins. Otherwise, they’d all be in caves by the millennium, eating bugs and berries, puzzling over the hieroglyphical scribbles of billboards and the books they used to fuel their paltry campfires.

  “Quiet night,” Joel said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I wonder what Susan’s doing.”

  Choking on Fruit Loops, Teddy didn’t say.

  As usual, the Firebird was discreetly parked in a shadowy end of the lot. They were halfway to it when Teddy saw the figures coming toward them. There were four of them, moving with the speed of high-plains hunters. Joel saw them, too.

  “Let’s bolt,” Teddy said.

  “Too late.”

  He was right. The Firebird suddenly seemed miles away. And the lobby’s guard station was empty. Teddy and Joel froze, both knowing from freshman experience how flight worsened these matters. It took the charging boys just a few seconds to surround them. They had it down to a science. Two in front, one on either side. Teddy recognized them from the teen center. Their leader was the one who’d fronted the charge on the Edgar Winter brigade. Tonight he wore an Orioles shirt, white with orange sleeves. There was a pick planted in his hair—its fisted handle emerged from his head at a sharp angle.

  He moved directly in front of Joel.

  “Gimme a quarter, man.”

  Teddy looked at Joel. He was scared. More scared even than when Truax came into Susan’s room.

  “Mother-fucking, titty-sucking, two-balled bitch,” the one directly to Teddy’s right said.

  “Gimme a quarter, bwoy,” Fist Head repeated, apparently downgrading his assessment of Joel’s age.

  Teddy didn’t have any change. His wallet was hidden beneath the Firebird’s front seat. And Joel never had money. A long time seemed to pass. A bronchial whistle issued from the boy at Teddy’s right side.

  “Look,” Joel said. “Just leave us alone.”

  Fist Head stepped forward. Teddy noticed that the laces of his Chucks were untied.

  “You say, nigger?”

  “We don’t have any money. We just want to go home.”

  “Toms like you always got money,” Fist Head said.

  The others laughed. Joel stiffened.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  His voice blended fear with defiance.

  “Man, what, you a Tom. I seen you with that white bitch and this faggot here. You think these people be with you, man? You think this bwoy is your brother or something? He fuck you up first chance he get.”

  “First chance,” someone affirmed.

  Untrue, Teddy thought.

  “Come on, Joel,” he said instead. “Let’s just go.”

  “Girl, you aren’t going anywhere,” the boy with the cold said into Teddy’s ear, projecting a mist of bacterial spittle onto his cheek.

  Boy, how he wished his dad would come out of the building now.

  Fist Head moved forward and put his face just inches from Joel’s. Teddy could now see that he had a decorative toothpick between his lips.

  “Say you a Tom,” he commanded.

  Joel shook his head.

  “Say it, bwoy.”

  Teddy could feel the violence coming. Just like at the teen center. He shot one last despairing glance toward Newton Plaza. The lobby was still empty. Their only hope was that his dad was looking down. Seeing this. Calling the cops.

  “No,” Joel said.

  Teddy looked back at his friend’s face, which had taken on the mulish cast he knew only too well. These guys were going to stomp them into grease stains and Joel was going all proud. And then, in grim confirmation of Teddy’s worst fears, Fist Head grabbed Joel’s throat with his left hand. The boy with the cold took this as a cue to seize the back of Teddy’s neck. Like anybody was going anywhere. His hand was wet and hot. Fist Head used his free right hand to yank Joel’s visor from his head and Frisbee it toward some bushes. Then he put a finger right between Joel’s eyes.

  “Say it, bwoy.”

  Joel tried to shake his head but could only move it once before Fist Head punched him in the face. It didn’t look like a very hard blow to Teddy. But then Joel’s nose was bleeding.

  “Just say it, Joel,” Teddy pleaded.

  “No,” Joel croaked.

  Fist Head looked like he was going to punch Joel again but then, almost as an afterthought, registered Teddy’s words. Still holding Joel’s throat, he turned his attention to Teddy.

  “Ass right. You say it. Show this nigger where it’s at.”

  The boy with the cold smacked Teddy on the top of the head, causing his glasses to slide forward to the end of his nose.

  “Say what?”

  “Tell this motherfucker he a Tom.”

  Joel’s eyes slid over to Teddy.

  “Don’t” he croaked.

  Fist Head punched Joel again, a crooked blow against his ear. It made a sound like fingers snapping.

  “Shut up, bwoy.” He turned back to Teddy. “Say it.”

  Another slap landed on the back of Teddy’s head. His glasses fell to the concrete. This is ridiculous, he thought. These were words they were talking about here. Meaningless epithets.

  “He’s a Tom,” he said. “All right?”

  “Tell him.”

  Teddy looked at Joel, telling him with his eyes that this was nothing. Joel shook his head. But he was just being stubborn. He’d realize later how little this all meant.

  “You’re a Tom,” Teddy said.

  The boy with the cold laughed for a few seconds. He was the only one. Joel was look
ing at the ground now. Fist Head continued to hold him by the throat. Teddy had hoped the words would serve as their abracadabra to freedom. But he was beginning to sense that maybe it wasn’t going to end quite so easily.

  And then a voice both familiar and strange was speaking.

  “Let him go.”

  Everyone turned to see John Truax standing a few feet away, looking very large among the long shadows. No one seemed to know what to make of his presence. He’d arrived so quietly. And there was an authority in his voice that made the snarled threats and curses of the last few minutes seem like nursery chatter.

  Finally, Fist Head released Joel and started moving toward Truax, though the jaunt had left his stride, replaced by an ill-concealed wariness. Teddy was struck by the feeling that he was making a fundamental mistake.

  “The fuck you?”

  Truax ignored him. His eyes were instead on the boy with the cold, who continued to grip Teddy’s neck.

  “Let him go,” Truax repeated.

  Fist Head stepped in front of Truax, blocking his view of Teddy.

  “Man, you must want to get your ass—”

  There was a sourceless gasping sound and then Fist Head was lying on the ground. His long arms cradled his stomach. His eyes were closed in a look of intense concentration. Teddy couldn’t remember the part about him getting hit. It was as if someone had snipped those few frames from the film. After a few long seconds a sound like a dentist’s suction emanated from his thoracic cavity. Everybody was looking at the downed boy except Truax, who had taken a step toward Teddy and the boy holding him.

  “Let him …”

  There was no need for him to finish the command. The hand released Teddy’s neck. Its owner and his two friends bolted, running as fast as they could toward Newton Pike. Fist Head continued to lie on the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Truax asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” Teddy said.

  Fist Head was on his knees now, moving as slowly as something on the ocean floor. Teddy pointed at the fallen boy.

  “Jesus, what did you do to him?” Teddy asked.

  Truax looked down at the boy, his face bereft of emotion. After a moment he reached down with his ungloved hand and grabbed the scruff of his neck, pulling the boy to his feet. He might have been lifting a sack of laundry. Fist Head shot Truax a quizzical look, then fled after his friends in a hunchbacked gallop. Truax didn’t watch him. He’d already turned his attention back to Teddy, ignoring Joel, who was dabbing at his bloodied nose with the end of his shirt.

  “You should get home.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  Satisfied, Truax turned and began to walk toward his car. Teddy watched him for a moment, then picked up his glasses. They weren’t broken. He put them on and looked at Joel, who continued to stand perfectly still, his eyes on the ground. He’d stopped dabbing at his nose even though there was still blood coming from it, a thin trickle that smeared his upper lip.

  “You believe that guy?”

  Joel, eyes downcast, said nothing.

  “Hey, Joel? You all right?”

  He finally looked at Teddy through narrowed eyes.

  “You shouldn’t have said that.”

  “What? Oh, come on. They were about to kick our asses.”

  “You shouldn’t have, man.”

  “It’s just a word.”

  Joel looked away. He seemed to remember that he was bleeding. He dabbed at his nose with his sleeve’s end.

  “Look,” Teddy said. “This is ridiculous. Did you really expect me to stand here and let us get our butts whipped?”

  The headlights from Truax’s Cutlass washed over them.

  “I don’t expect anything from you anymore,” Joel said quietly.

  With this, he turned and walked away, heading toward the bike path at the bottom of the plaza. The shortcut back to Mystic Hills. Teddy watched him for a moment. This was so stupid. He’d just saved his friend from a bad beating and now he was supposed to have done something wrong? Forget it.

  “Joel …”

  He kept on walking. Teddy realized he planned to walk all the way home. He set off after him, catching him just before he started down the asphalt path.

  “Wait,” he said as he stepped in front of him. “Wait!”

  Joel stopped, though he wouldn’t meet Teddy’s eye. His nose wasn’t bleeding so bad now.

  “I’m sorry,” Teddy said. “All right? I saw that guy wailing on you and so I just—”

  “That’s not the problem,” Joel said.

  “What is?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Joel …”

  But he was already walking, weaving around Teddy and plunging into the darkness. Teddy thought about going after him but knew it would be useless. Joel could be fairly fucking stubborn about these things. As if anybody cared. Tom. Dick. Harry. Let’s grow up a little bit here, boys and girls. He watched until Joel disappeared into a copse of trees, then headed back to Newton Plaza. Time to report the incident to his dad. This shit was getting ridiculous. They had to get some more pigs in this place. Pronto.

  But just before he reached the lobby he remembered Joel’s visor sailing into the bushes. For a moment, he was tempted to leave it where it was. Do Joel a favor. Though giving it back would be a good way to make up for what had just happened. And so, wishing that somebody could see him doing this, Teddy delayed his meeting with his father to tramp around in thornbushes while savages lurked nearby. Just to get some stupid leather hat.

  Because that’s the kind of friend he was.

  15

  Earl Wooten slept late. Although his plane wasn’t until four, he would not go to work today. He didn’t want to get involved in any crises or impromptu meetings that would draw attention to his departure should he have to leave quickly. Besides, he had other business that needed to be taken care of before he headed off to Chicago. Something that had nothing to do with work.

  It felt strange to slumber in his king-sized bed while the city he’d built carried on around him. He’d wanted to take the phone off the hook but Ardelia wouldn’t allow it—she had a couple hundred kids in summer school as well as a handful of teaching posts to fill. So she was under careful instruction not to put anything through to him, even if the lake should burst its shores or Newton Plaza crumble to the ground. The story they were telling was that there was a family illness down in Atlanta requiring his presence. He wouldn’t be back at work until Monday. He hated lying about kin being sick but he couldn’t think of anything else that would explain his sudden absence from the city. Especially when Austin called.

  As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Wooten realized that this was the first time he could remember taking a day off. Ever. Good God, had it really been thirty years since he’d simply taken a day? Thirty years. Which was how many hours? He’d need a computer to figure that one out. Three decades of solid work. He’d started before his voice even broke with the real backbreaking stuff. Digging and cutting. The sort of work you never saw anymore, what with unions and modern machinery. Twenty-seven cents an hour, twelve hours a day, six days a week—and you best believe one of those days was a Sunday. After that came the minor skills. Dropping plumb lines or pulling the ornery levers of some big Caterpillar. Hour after hour, day after day, until he finally realized that there was more to him than back muscle and hand callus. With his transformation from mule into driver, one sort of difficulty gave way to another. Ditch digging yielded to four-hour meetings with bankers to discuss the purchase of improvable basin land. Long days drywalling turned into sessions with accountants to structure payrolls, backhoeing to siteside huddles with engineers about drainage strategies. Things a man who’d only finished fifth grade was never supposed to be able to do. But he’d taught himself that kind of work, just as he’d schooled himself how to fix the pneumatic motor of a jackhammer when it went down in the middle of nowhere. Hour after hour, day upon day. All of it leading up to something, a p
rize even greater than the things he’d already won—the perfect wife and sturdy home and beautiful children, the money and respect. A prize wrapped up in a big box currently being held in Chicago. Waiting to be opened in a mere twenty-four hours.

  One of the twins started to cry downstairs. There was exasperation in Ardelia’s voice as she asked what was wrong. Time to get up. Though it was not yet nine, he felt like he’d slept ’til noon. Ardelia would soon be taking the girls to their nursery, leaving Joel alone in the house. He still knew nothing about Chicago—they’d agreed to tell him that his father was going to Atlanta on unspecified family business, just in case he talked to Teddy. Not that Joel would care what his father was up to. Since Sunday, when Wooten had told him that he would no longer be able to see Susan, Joel hadn’t said word one to him. Not even Monday night, when he came through the front door with a bloody nose. Wooten and Ardelia had followed him up the stairs, asking him what had happened. He’d slammed the door in their faces. Fearing that there had been trouble with the Truaxes, Wooten spent a restless night waiting for the phone to ring. But then Tuesday morning Ardelia got him to admit that he and Teddy had been in some sort of fight down by the lake. Evidently there was bad blood between the two friends because of it. He’d tried to talk to Joel about it Tuesday night but had been met by a stony, shrugging silence.

  As he dressed, he knew that he would have to talk to his son once again. Sunday’s discussion had been a disaster. Although Wooten had left the Truaxes steaming with anger, by the time he’d arrived home Ardelia had shown him how it was Irma he was really mad at. The boy hadn’t done anything wrong but love the girl too much and too foolishly. To make their separation seem like punishment would further confuse his already baffled heart.

  Wooten agreed. He’d gone lightly to the boy’s room, patiently explaining that he would not be allowed to see Susan for the rest of the summer. He admitted that it sounded harsh but there was nothing else to be done. The girl’s folks were adamant. The thing to do was tough it out until it was time for Bucknell. A stiffly chuckling Wooten guessed that once Joel got a look at those college girls, Susan would become little more than a memory. A fine memory, yes, but a memory nonetheless. It was for the best, he told his son. It really was.