“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I guess. I mean, I don’t try to. He’s just always around like …” He thought a moment and then: “You ever see Basket Case on cable?”
“Basket Case?”
“It’s this weird movie. On cable, Cinemax or something. Only comes on late at night.” He left out the part about how he had to sneak downstairs to watch it.
Molly shook her head. “I don’t see movies.”
“It's about a guy named Duane who has a Siamese twin named Belial. Belial’s like this ugly lump of flesh with a face and two hands, and when Duane’s a teenager, his father has the doctors separate them, and then the doctors throw Belial into the garbage.”
“It sounds awful,” Molly said.
“It is,” he admitted. “But then Duane digs in the garbage and rescues Belial and …”
“So you’re Duane,” Molly said. “And your friend Seby Lee is this lump of flesh with a face.”
“He’s a bit more than that,” Kyle admitted.
“Did you rescue him from the garbage?”
Kyle considered this. “Yeah,” he said. “I kind of did.”
“And you regret that?”
Kyle did not answer but pulled a newspaper from his bag and gave it a good heave at the small one-story ranch just ten feet off the curb. The paper landed right at the edge of the porch, just above the top step, and slid up to the edge of the door, right where the customer could see it the moment he stepped out that morning.
“Not bad,” said Molly. “You do that every time?”
“I’ve been doing just that for six years,” Kyle said.
“Prove it,” Molly chided. “Do it just like that for the next three houses.”
And Kyle did just that.
* * * *
They parted ways on Amurcork Street, a few blocks from Kyle’s house. By now the paper bag was empty, and Kyle had his hand deep in the bag, holding the thermos so it would not slosh about. They stood on the corner just across from a local church that Kyle always thought looked like a KOA Campground office, and Molly cast those inky eyes up at him again.
“This was fun,” she said. “Can we do it again tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Same time?”
“Maybe a bit earlier.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I just …” I have someone I need to avoid, Kyle thought, that little clown Seby Lee I was telling you about, and if he shows up, whatever you and me have going on here will take a nosedive. “I’m just trying to get an earlier start on things,” he said.
“Cool,” Molly said. “I’ll be waiting, same place.”
“Same place.”
She blinked her eyes, and continued to look at him. The sun was just coming up off beyond Gortner Park, waking up downtown and making her face glow as if reflecting a campfire. After a moment, she placed one of those delicate hands on Kyle’s shoulder, pressed herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on his cheek. Every nerve in Kyle’s body went on full alert, and he could feel the blood flushing his face.
“You’re shaking a bit,” Molly said. “Cold?”
“Maybe that’s it.”
“See you tomorrow then.” She thrust her hands in her back pockets and began that crazy swagger down the street. “By the way,” she hollered back to him. “Be nice to Seby Lee. You may need all the friends you can get someday.”
Kyle watched her as she walked to the intersection at Taylor, crossed the street, and headed north, disappearing behind the green corner house that stood with its back stoop facing the street. He watched awhile longer after she was gone, reaching into his bag to withdraw his thermos.
Be nice to Seby, she had said. Well, of course he would. Hadn’t he been nice to the little freak all along?
Unscrewing the thermos cap, he poured about three fingers of the clear, bitter liquid into the little blue cup attached to the top. He sealed the thermos, lifted the cup to his lips, and sipped. It burned in his throat, and it was good, and after he took it down in two gulps, he felt a little bit more the hero as he made the last two blocks to his home.
His Father’s Proposal
Kyle looked for Molly all that day in school. He thought about going to the front office to inquire about her class schedule, but he knew that no one would give it to him. For awhile, he considered asking his classmates about her, but of course that would inspire mocks and insults from the likes of folk like Bran the Man and DC. Molly? they would jeer. Oh yeah, she’s hot, Winthrop, hottest girl in school, and she’d laugh right in your stupid ugly face the moment you tried to talk to her.
Kyle never found her at school, but sure enough, Thursday morning she was waiting for him on the corner of Oak and Taylor, this time wearing a black windbreaker to match her jeans, eyes, and hair. Her hair was down now, abundant and honeyed like that hot country singer Dad liked who sang “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.” They walked the route again, and he learned about as much from her that morning that he had the previous. Still, he could look at her and smell her and most of all feel her as she copped that crazy-sexy walk beside him.
She was waiting for him on Friday morning as well, and again on Saturday. Each morning, she left him two blocks from his house with her gentle kiss on his cheek, and Kyle would watch her swagger away, and he would long for her and pull out his thermos to fill the cup and prepare for the rest of the day, which would in no way be as sweet as this precious hour had just been.
On Saturday, right after Molly kissed him, she said: “There. You can go to your thermos now.”
“You know about that?” he asked.
“I know a lot about you.”
“How?”
“Just go to your thermos. I don’t like it much. But it’s your life.”
She turned on the heel of her the soft flats she wore that day and began to stroll away but stopped a couple paces short. She did not turn, and Kyle stared at the surge of black hair falling down her back, longing to run his fingers through it. Hell, she probably knew that about him too.
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I just won’t be here.” She did not turn to face him.
“Will I see you on Monday?”
“We’ll see.”
And she continued her runway stroll down Amurcork as Kyle watched, waiting for her to turn and disappear behind the green house on the corner.
On Sunday, Molly kept true to her word and did not show, but when Kyle stepped out onto the front porch at 4:30 that morning (early start because of the size of the paper), Seby Lee was there waiting for him, sitting on the front step.
“Hey, Kay-Dub,” he said.
“Hey, Seby.”
“Sorry I haven’t been here to help you,” Seby said. “My stepdad caught me sneaking out a few nights ago, so now I can only come on Sundays, when he’s sleeping off Saturday night.”
“Swell,” Kyle grumbled, and then Molly’s voice—
Be nice to Seby Lee …
—came to him, accompanied by another—
Have you asked him for it?
—voice, the one he had heard in his head Wednesday morning just before the cat showed up.
“That’s fine,” Kyle said, gnawing his lower lip. “I really don’t need help during the week, just on Sunday.”
“Cool,” Seby said. “But I can come during the week too if you want. I’ll try to sneak out and—”
“No!” Kyle said sharply, and then bit back his tone.
Have you asked him for it?
“Listen, man,” he said. “I don’t want you getting in deeper with your old man. I can handle the week by myself.”
“You sure?” Seby asked. “Because I'm here, buddy, any time you want.”
“I kind of like doing the route alone during the week,” Kyle told him. “I need that hour, you know? To be alone, collect my thoughts, go over my homework and stuff in my head. Just get ready for the day.”
“Hey,” s
aid Seby. “No one gets that more than me. Man, I don’t get enough alone time myself. Your wish is my command, good buddy.”
“I appreciate that,” said Kyle. “Now, let’s go get these papers folded.”
And that was how Kyle’s Sunday began.
On Monday morning, for the first time in two years, Kyle did his route without the thermos, although he longed for it something awful at first. But then he got to the corner of Taylor and Oak, and Molly was there, arms crossed, resting her weight on one leg with the other thrust out like a weird yoga pose. She was smiling, and when Kyle drew near she placed both hands on his shoulders, pushed herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him full on the mouth.
“There,” she said. “I had a feeling you were waiting for that.”
* * * *
“But see here,” said Dad as he carved into his New York strip. It was June 17, the day Kyle had been waiting for most of his natural life. “There has to be something you want to do, Kyle. Surely something.”
Kyle poked at his own steak, a bone-in rib eye marinated in teriyaki, and shrugged. It was his favorite entrée at CK’s, his favorite steakhouse in Wichita, and it had been a tradition with all three boys that Dad would take them for their favorite dinners on their birthdays. Eddie had always preferred the Cajun place up on Rock Road; Tony had been big on Mexican or seafood, depending on what mood he was in each year. Mom always came too, of course, continuing to dote on her boys as if they were still in grade school, but on this particular birthday Dad had brought Kyle alone, using the traditional meal as a pretense for one of those father-son talks.
“Look,” Dad said, “I promised you that when you turned eighteen you could be done with the paper route. I did promise that.”
“Yes.”
“So I am true to my word. If you want to stop getting up at five in the morning to roll papers, I'll stand by it.”
Kyle grinned. “I think I’ll keep it awhile.”
“Are you sure? I know you never liked it much.”
Kyle fought back a chuckle. It was true that in the beginning he hated the route, but as he got older and found there was zero solace to be found anywhere else in the world, the route became all that he had. He had come to enjoy the route over the past few years, and for the last few weeks he had enjoyed it even more, for obvious reasons.
“I’m good, Dad,” Kyle said. “I’ll keep the route awhile.”
Dad nodded, and offered a thin smile, his eyes flickering playfully. It was a smile reserved for those moments when one of his sons did something to make him proud. Kyle had seen Dad smile like that at Tony’s baseball games or at Eddie’s jazz concerts but had seldom seen it directed at himself. He wondered, in fact, if he was even really Dad’s son. He could not make a diving stop at shortstop to set up a double-play like Tony could, nor could he pick up a guitar and channel Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin the way Eddie had done since he was a child. His brothers had inherited their gifts from Dad with interest. Dad had been a fair baseball player, but Tony was better, and even though Dad knew how to strum a guitar, Eddie had turned it into an art form. But what gifts had Kyle inherited? What talent or trait did he possess to distinguish himself as his father’s son the way Eddie and Tony were distinguished? All of his life, he had felt himself to be a grand disappointment, and yet here his father was now, offering that thin, rewarded smile that meant he had done something right.
“That’s very responsible of you,” Dad said. “Keeping the route, I mean.”
Kyle smiled and nodded, keeping up the façade. Truth be told, if it hadn’t been for Molly showing up last month, he might have taken his Dad up on his offer.
“Which brings me to the rest of my speech,” he said. He set down his silverware and reached under the lapel his tweet jacket. With great care that matched the meticulous way Dad did everything, he slid an envelope out of the inside pocket. He placed it on the table, pushed it across to Kyle, and grinned, this time more pained than proud. “Happy birthday, son,” he said.
Kyle set down his fork and picked up the envelope. He already knew what would be in it, and when he opened it he was not disappointed.
First out was a thin little booklet no more than an eighth of an inch in thickness, bound by a white vinyl cover and held together with staples for a spine. On the front of the booklet in midnight blue were imprinted the words COMMERCIAL FEDERAL SAVINGS.
“It’s your savings passbook,” Dad said. “You’re eighteen, it’s yours. I think you’ve saved a couple grand in there, maybe more. I can’t tell you what to do with it, although I have a few suggestions. But that’s entirely up to you.”
Kyle looked at Dad and nodded. “Thanks.”
Dad offered his pained smile and folded his hands.
Next out of the envelope was a folded piece of paper, its texture almost like parchment. Kyle unfolded it and nodded at the pale blue finish, the wiry purple trim frame, and his name printed at the top with Dad’s signature at the bottom.
“The title to Grandpa’s Impala,” Dad said. “You’ve been running errands for your mother in it long enough, I guess it’s time it's yours.” He did not move but continued to sit with his hands folded.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s yours,” Dad said. “Well, the money is anyway. And Grandpa wanted one of you boys to have that car when you turned eighteen. Eddie and Tony already bought theirs, so … it’s yours, I guess.”
Kyle winced at this. Of course Eddie and Tony bought their own vehicles. In addition to being a great jock and great musician, they were also responsible with money, another thing they had inherited from Dad. And Dad had to drive that home, didn’t he? He just had to twist that knife a tiny bit more. Kyle may have the Impala now, but only because his two older (and better) brothers had forfeited their right to it.
“So,” Dad said, picking up his knife and fork again to work on his steak. “You have money and you have a car. I guess you’ll be on your way then.”
“Do you want me to leave, Dad?”
His father paused in mid-cut and looked up. “No, son. No, I don’t want that at all.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“It’s not a matter of what I want. What do you want?”
Kyle looked at the car title and passbook in his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”
“You’ve got to do something with your life.”
“I know,” Kyle agreed. “But I don’t know what I’m good at.”
“It’s not a matter of what you’re good at,” Dad said. “What do you wish you could do? It’s the question I ask my students out at the college all the time when they come in with that same hang-dog face that you have now, worried about life and the future. I say, ‘If money was no object, what would you like to be?’”
Kyle grinned. “A Jedi knight.”
“I’m serious, Kyle. This isn’t some silly movie. Think about it.”
Kyle did. He had nothing, but if he could make a wish, maybe it would be to play baseball like Tony and play music like Eddie and maybe—just maybe—his father’s smile would be more fulfilled than concerned for him most of the time. But Kyle resented even that wish, for it was entirely dependent upon his father’s approval. The fact is, he would not play baseball even if he could, and he thought the jazz Eddie played sounded sloppy and crazy. Yes, it was clear that he was loved by his father, but it would be nice if he was liked a little bit too. Still, why should he base his own wishes on making Dad happy when he wasn’t happy himself?
“What are you thinking, son?”
Kyle shook his head. What he was thinking was about the most honest answer to Dad’s question. If money was no object, there was only one thing he wanted to do, and that was spend every waking moment with Molly, smelling her hair and listening to her laugh and feeling the soft way her mouth touched his own. His head became cloudy with her kisses. If there was someone out there willing to pay a man a decent salary to kiss Molly all day, Kyle
would be first in line to fill out the application.
“I have a suggestion,” Dad said. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Dad smiled, almost that proud smile he usually set aside for Eddie or Tony but not quite there. “Out at the college,” he said, “I can get you four semesters. It's a perk they’re offering right now. Four fulltime semesters for faculty kids, you get a head start on a college degree, and it gives you two years to think about the future. What do you say?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“You just said that.”
“And I guess I’m saying it again.”
His father’s thick eyes narrowed, and his smile was pained. “I’d like it if you were a little more enthusiastic about the idea.”
“Yeah, okay, Dad,” Kyle said. “That sounds good.”
“The best part is you can stay at home with your mother and me. You don’t have to spend any of that money on rent.”
Kyle looked down at the passbook. He had not opened it yet to check the balance, but Dad had said it was two grand or more. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money, more than he had ever seen at one time. “You want to take this money back?”
“Of course not, son,” Dad said. “It’s yours.”
Kyle traced the letters of COMMERCIAL on the passbook’s cover with his finger. Two thousand dollars. And a car. He was eighteen, his life was beginning, and he could jump in that Impala and drive to who knows where. But there was Molly to think about. Would she want to come with him? What if she didn’t? What if these last few weeks were just a game to her and as soon as he tried to lock her into something serious she gave him one last kiss and sauntered off into the sunrise forever?
He could ask her, couldn’t he? Maybe not right away—it had been only a few weeks, after all—but at least Dad’s plan gave him time. And time was what he needed right now, time to spend with Molly, to woo her and charm her and maybe sweep her so off her feet that when the time came to leave there was no way she’d let him go without her. Yes, he could use that time. Dad was offering two years. There was nothing that said he needed to use up the whole two. Maybe in a month, or two or six, the time would be right for Molly, and Kyle could gather her in his arms and take her away forever.
Strays Page 9