The searing argument that Lina had practiced, the scolding hand gestures, the indignant tone—all of this was lost. She hadn’t planned what she would do if he didn’t say anything.
They kissed and held each other. With a kind of distanced fascination, Lina realized that this event—sex with this married man—was going to happen. She was going to let it. She was going to watch.
Slowly, without releasing each other, they made their shuffling way onto the bed. Mr. Hall got up and closed the blinds. Then he pushed a button on the wall, and slats over the skylight buzzed closed, darkening the room. Lina had never noticed that button before. Then Mr. Hall returned to the bed and said, “Lina, are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Can we undress under the covers?”
They pulled up the comforter and wrestled out of their clothes. Now she was naked with this man. They kissed again and again, because they needed to.
Everything they did felt completely different from what Lina had done with Jorge, the father of her sons—so different that it seemed to be another act entirely. This was lovemaking. Although Jorge had disavowed the Catholic faith and all its rules, his approach to sex still bore Catholicism’s regimented mark. He refused to use condoms. He claimed to have a physical need to ejaculate every other night, and Lina usually had sex with him to avoid the displeasure of lying there in the dark listening to the persistent wet thud of his masturbating. It sounded, she couldn’t help thinking, like a dog licking a wound.
This felt different, but she would wait and list the ways afterward.
Mr. Hall went down under the covers. Lina shifted a little and squirmed, embarrassed (although he surely couldn’t see) of how hairy she was down there. He rested one hand on either of her bulging, dimpled thighs. He put his head between her legs and started to lick her. She knew some men did this to women, but Jorge had certainly never done it to her. It tickled. This was too much. She tried to pull him back up, but he clutched her soft flesh. The licking tickled more, but in such a way that, to make it stop tickling, she had to let him do it harder. So she held the back of his head and crushed him into her.
WHEN ENRIQUE AND Gene arrived at the meeting of the science club in room 204 of Building D, Miriam was already seated next to Cam Pierce, and they were conversing with ease. Enrique figured that Cam was a friend of one of Miriam’s older siblings. Miriam interacted with members of her family’s wide-reaching circle, both kids and adults, without formality, rivalry, or discomfort. They didn’t trade in cool. Enrique was learning that cool was the gold standard in high school. One had to act cool. “Is he cool?” kids would ask each other, meaning, Do we accept him? They would glance at each other to take a quick vote. “Yeah, he’s cool.” Or, more often, “No, he’s lame” or “gay” or “retarded” or “a spaz” or “a shit-kicker,” which meant that he was a farm kid and therefore not cool. Enrique and Gene were not and would never be cool; the question was which of its many opposites they would be.
But, Enrique noticed as he and Gene joined their classmates in the corner, neither were these members of the high school science club cool. Some were outright nerds, but others were regular smart kids who were neither popular nor unpopular but had managed, as it were, to dodge the draft. Liz Padgett was here, the twin sister of Winston, Jay’s best friend, but the others Enrique didn’t recognize and hardly remembered having seen before, they kept such a low profile.
“Ahem, I call to order this meeting of the Eula High School Science Club,” announced a boy—one of the true nerds present—after the room had filled with fifteen or twenty high school kids. Mr. Peterson and Mrs. Christiansen, the high school science teacher, had taken their seats near the junior high kids in the back. The boy speaking had feathered hair that fell over his ears and down past his collar. Even Enrique knew this style was hopelessly out of date. His horizontally striped Izod shirt was tucked too firmly into his tightly belted jeans.
“I am Kevin Fry, president. Our main item of business today will be planning next weekend’s trip to Craters of the Moon National Monument. But first, we have present with us some seventh- and eighth-graders who will be taking part in the Snake River District Science Fair. Can we take a moment to welcome our junior brethren?” Laughing at Kevin’s choice of words, the high school kids turned and applauded. Enrique’s spirits were actually lifted by this. He imagined for a moment being inducted into this secret society: learning powerful chants in ancient languages and receiving a special ring. “Each team has been assigned a mentor,” Kevin continued. “We’re going to break into small groups now. You can meet your mentor and explain your project, then you’re free to go, since the rest of our agenda doesn’t concern you. Ten minutes, all right?”
A few of the high school kids stood and approached the junior high kids, who remained frozen in their seats; the rest leaned forward over desktops attached to chairs to chat with each other.
“Hi, are you Enrique?”
The girl smiling down at him had straight hair the color of cardboard. Her solemn face was long and narrow, as was her body. If it weren’t for a beak-like nose, she would have been pretty. Her round, heavy-lidded eyes were set in their sockets like those of a doll that sleeps when you lay her down. Their weary expression seemed at odds with her lips, which smiled freely.
“Yeah,” said Enrique.
“I’m Abby Hall,” she said. “And you must be Gene.”
Slumped sideways in his seat, Gene nodded and gazed away at the floor. It looked as if his round head would roll off his shoulders.
Enrique saw in Abby’s expression that she was registering the oddness of this boy. He had witnessed this look many times before. Abby turned back to him. “You’re Jay’s little brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I know your mom.”
Enrique understood: his mother cleaned her house. Abby was trying to be polite by not mentioning just how she knew her.
“Oh, right, the Halls,” Enrique said.
“Why don’t you tell me about your project?” Abby said, sitting down.
Enrique took out the special Trapper Keeper he had devoted to the science-fair project and, with a loud rip, opened its Velcro flap. From a hot-pink folder he took several newspaper articles. He handed these to Abby, who lifted them one by one carefully, as if they were pieces of lace. He told her what had happened at Lake Nyos.
“I remember hearing about this last summer. Wasn’t it Agent Orange or something?” Abby asked.
At this Enrique perked up. “That’s what everyone thought, but that’s definitely not it.” He explained the theories of poisonous gases from the lake.
“Wow,” said Abby, handing the clippings back to Enrique, “good research.”
“Yeah, Gene’s been going to Boise for articles.”
Abby took on a mock-stern expression and gave Gene a thumbs-up. Enrique could see she was one of those girls who would try different methods of reaching Gene. He liked those girls.
From a chartreuse folder, Enrique took Gene’s sketches and handed them over. “Nice,” murmured Abby, sifting through the drawings as Enrique explained the project: “We’re gonna make a model in a Plexiglas box. We were gonna have ants in there, and demonstrate how the poison worked by uncovering a jar with fingernail-polish remover.”
“But,” Abby said, “no ants.”
“Right.”
“Plus,” she added, “no one wants to see a bunch of ants killed for no reason, even though they’re just bugs.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s kind of macabre.”
“See? Macabre,” said Enrique to Gene, who responded by tightening the fold of his arms.
“So, it looks like you’ve got good information, you just need to figure out another way to demonstrate it. Do you have any other ideas?”
“We haven’t gotten that far,” Enrique said. “Mr. Peterson said to try to make it about Idaho. But this happened in Africa.”
“I suppose y
ou could try to tell what it would be like if this happened in Idaho, as a motivation for solving the mystery.” Abby lowered her voice and added, “You could also ignore what Mr. Peterson says.”
Enrique and Gene both smiled.
“What else could you do? You could show the different theories of what actually killed those people, the right and the wrong ones.”
“Or we could find out other lakes where this could happen,” Enrique said.
“We can solve the mystery!” said Gene.
Abby appeared surprised by his soprano voice.
“How are we going to do that, Gene, go to Africa?”
“People? People?” Kevin called. “Can we reconvene?”
“You guys are on the right track.” Abby took out a pen and wrote down her phone number.
“Our junior brethren are free to leave at this point,” Kevin said. “You are invited to our meeting two weeks from today to present rough drafts of your projects to the club.”
“Call me if you want to practice,” Abby said, pushing the paper toward Enrique as she stood. “This is going to be a cool project.” She went back to her seat next to Liz Padgett.
“She was nice, huh?” Enrique said to Gene as they walked toward the junior high along the wall of the gymnasium in order to avoid crossing the naked lawn.
“Yes,” Gene said.
“What did you mean, we could solve the mystery?”
“I meant that we can find out what actually happened.”
“Before the scientists?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sure, Gene! How are we gonna do that? They’re in Africa, and we’re in Idaho.”
“We’ll use the scientific method,” Gene said.
They passed between the junior high buildings and went to the parking lot. Enrique looked at his digital watch and saw that it would be nearly an hour before Jay came to get them. The boys put down their backpacks and sat down on the curb in the shade.
“I’m going to join the science club when I’m in high school,” Enrique said. “Did you hear? They go on field trips and stuff. Are you going to join?”
“I don’t know.”
“It sounds like Boy Scouts, but better. I wish they let junior high kids join.”
They sat quietly. Enrique picked up a leathery yellow leaf and folded it into tiny squares, while Gene traced a pattern on the concrete with a stick. Then Gene became restless. He got up and walked a strange walk, two short steps, then a long one, balancing atop the short wall that held the bank of landscaping against the wall of the school. Enrique got up and followed, kicking off the yellow leaves. Then he heard laughter and looked up to see a group of boys walking toward them. Junior high football practice had just gotten out.
“Let’s go this way.” Enrique turned Gene around by tugging on his shirt. They hopped off the wall and walked away from the approaching boys.
“Enrique!” one of them sang in falsetto. “Sweetie!”
The other boys whistled and made kissing noises.
“Come on, Gene!” said Enrique, and they walked faster.
“Hey, Enrique, come here!” yelled one of the boys. It was Pete Randolph.
Enrique outwalked Gene, who remained in the shade, apparently confused by the boys’ attention.
“Enrique, I want to ask you something!”
Enrique slipped between the cars out into the parking lot.
“Hey, fag, are you deaf? I said, come here!” By the sound of Pete’s voice, Enrique could tell that he was running to catch up with him. Then Enrique felt a hard shove from behind. He hit a car and fell onto the pavement. Pete stood over him. “Don’t be a pussy, all right? When I call you, you come!” The look of anger on Pete’s face was less that of a bully than a disgusted parent. He seemed to want to discipline Enrique, to teach him a lesson, but one Pete himself didn’t know. “Fuckin’ Mexican fag,” he sputtered in frustration. He kicked Enrique’s shin. It was a half-hearted kick, but strong enough to hurt.
Enrique would see, when he examined his shin in the bathtub that night, a gray smudge with dots of red where the tiny soft hairs grew out of the skin. Holding his knee close to him and examining the bruise and remembering Pete Randolph’s face would make Enrique’s penis start to grow, and he would quickly do it—masturbation—letting his seed, as Father Moore had called it, squirt under the water, unfurl and drop to the bottom.
Enrique lay on the pavement until he was sure Pete was gone. Then he got up and brushed himself off. Gene came around the car, pulling the bill of his white cap low over his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Enrique.
“Did he beat you up?”
“No.”
“Did he hit you?”
“I’m fine, Gene. Stop asking.”
They walked back to the curb.
“We should go to the office,” said Gene.
“Shut up,” said Enrique, and he heard the whine in his voice. It sounded girly. You must change your voice, he told himself.
“Where’s our stuff?” Gene asked.
“Oh no, did they steal it?” Enrique said. Then he saw his backpack, and Gene’s, empty, hanging in the bushes. Their books were scattered. “Those buttholes!” Enrique said. (He still followed Lina’s rules about bad language; he didn’t say “asshole,” even when she wasn’t present.)
They gathered their things and put them back in their backpacks. The Trapper Keeper containing the project remained safely Velcro-sealed. Nothing was damaged.
Then they sat back down on the wall and waited.
Finally Jay pulled up in his car. It was a cool car, a Maverick with racing stripes. The Van Bekes had bought it for him when he was fourteen and learning to drive.
“Hey, faggots,” said Jay.
“Screw off,” Enrique muttered as he got in.
Jay smiled.
AT THE NURSING home, an old woman named Adele Burnham sat in a wheelchair angled toward the white wall. She pushed, but her curled foot just turned her more toward the wall. Adele’s breath quickened and, like wind catching a sail, took on tone to become a whimper. With each gust of breath the whimper loudened, becoming a grunt, then a bawl.
“Mrs. Burnham, there’s no reason to make a ruckus,” said the new aide, turning her away from the wall. “Look, hon, now you can see what’s goin’ on.”
Adele continued to make her short, hoarse calls.
“Sweetheart, you’re gonna upset everyone if you keep this up. You’re fine. Are your feet cold?” She placed the free foot onto its rest and tucked the blanket around it.
Adele’s bawling only became louder.
“Sweetheart,” she said, laying her hands on Adele’s shoulders, “I need you to quiet down a little. Oh, now look. You’ve upset Mr. Ellis.”
The man limped down the hall toward them with an expression that asked what he could do. He stopped short of them and put a crooked hand to his brow.
“Hush now, Mrs. Burnham,” the aide said.
“She likes to be put in the light,” Connie said. She took the handles and wheeled Adele down the hallway. The new aide followed. Adele furled her voice and breathed. Connie wheeled her to the crafts room and put her into the warm light before the sliding doors.
Adele tipped her head to the side so that despite the permanent crook in her neck the light struck her eye. Here, in the light, she could remember running up the sloped lawn after the picnic, tripping on the hem of her skirt—a bright green stain punctuated with brown dirt, darn it! And walking down the dirt road between yellow walls of grass, frightening a grouse who exploded into flight, causing other grouse to explode into flight, and they all flew, warbling as they went, over the irrigation ditch and back into the grass. And opening the curtains of her children’s room on the first day of summer vacation to let the sun wake them, and sneezing.
Adele’s voice warbled and her head nodded. “You learn these things over time,” Connie said with a stern look. She’d have to keep an eye on this
girl. Aides who showed so little restraint in placing their hands on the shoulders of their charges might shake them roughly before long. Connie had seen this happen, and worse.
The new aide nodded and looked around for an escape.
A WASP, IN silhouette, slowly, lethargically climbed the window blind. Lina was always vacuuming up dead wasps. There must have been a nest under the eaves or in the attic. The wasp took flight and went from one window to the next, its body swaying like a heavy bag.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Mr. Hall said, stroking her hair.
Lina said nothing, but moved her hand under the covers to find a part of him. The part she found was his soft thigh. She squeezed it.
“When do you have to be home?” he asked.
“Today’s Thursday? Five.”
“Good. We have a little time.”
“Do we?”
“Abby has a club meeting. Sandra is in Salt Lake.”
“Well, Mr.— I want to call you by your name. What is your name?”
Mr. Hall pulled away. “You don’t know my name?”
“No.”
“How could you not know my name?”
“How could I know it? You never told me.”
“But what do you call me?”
“Don’ be stupid. I call you Mr. Hall.”
“I . . . I never noticed.” His expression, which was so easy to read, went from wonderment to amusement to a deep remorse. It occurred to Lina that somewhere in becoming an adult most people put on masks. How had he avoided this? Then his face changed again and he pulled her to him. The strength with which he did this surprised her, and she gasped. He put his hand to the back of her head, drew her near, and, in a low voice directly into her ear, said, “What do you think my name is?” It tickled.
“I don’ know.” Lina laughed and tried to push him away.
“Guess,” he said.
“No. Lemme go.”
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