Alan laughed and stumbled toward the boys. “You little bastards! You gonna beat yer daddy?”
“You’re not our daddy!” they screamed as they ran down the hall.
There was the sound of a car in the driveway, and Alan crossed the room quickly to look out the window. Relief gushed from Wanda’s heart and warmed her body. Had her mother come back? Was it the police?
No, neither. Wanda’s mother was on parole and therefore wouldn’t call the police. She had swallowed her pride and, for the first time since her husband’s death, driven to the house of his brother, in town. It was Coop who alone got out of his uncle’s truck.
Alan rushed downstairs and locked himself in the bedroom. Wanda knew Coop by his shuffling but determined steps against the gritty floorboards in the foyer. “It’s Coop,” she whispered to Katherine, and she started to crawl out of the bed.
“Stay here!” Katherine said, seizing Wanda’s arm.
Something strange was going on. It was certainly Coop down in the kitchen, but he was doing something only their mother and Alan did, something patently grown-up: he was making coffee.
“Lemme go!” Wanda said, squirming.
“Don’t go down there,” Katherine said. “Go to sleep.”
Wanda yanked her arm free and ran down the stairs. There was Coop at the kitchen table, and, sure enough, coffee was percolating on the stove. Wanda jumped into his lap, and he held her as she cried.
“Did he hurt anyone?” Coop asked.
Wanda shook her head without lifting it from his shoulder.
None of the other children came down. Relieved that Coop was there, no doubt, they still regarded him as a traitor.
After a few minutes, Wanda stopped crying. Coop got up, carrying her with him, and poured himself a cup of coffee. This frightened her a little, as coffee was the awful medicine that lifted Alan and her mother from their stupor and put into motion the day’s drama. She hated its bitter smell. The third cup always had a dash of whiskey in it. Would Coop drink until he danced, then dance until his mood turned and he hollered? Who would he holler at?
There was a scrambling in the living room as Alan dashed out to his car. The engine roared, and he was gone. Coop’s shoulder, shaking in laughter, jarred Wanda’s chin. “Son of a bitch,” he said.
Then he kissed Wanda’s head in apology for having disturbed her, but she had quickly fallen asleep, the way children do when they are safe. He freed some strands of her hair from his lips, sipped his coffee, and stared at the discolored patch in the yellow wall.
Chapter 8
It seemed that all of Enrique’s competitors had altered their projects according to Mr. Peterson’s advice except for April and Tommy. Still riding on the success of their presentation in class, they basically repeated it for the science club. “Tommy’s going to be wearing a black outfit. I’m going to stick three-dimensional representations of the germs and parasites and stuff to his body.” Tommy stood ready—smiling with his funny underbite, his feet apart and his hands slightly raised—although it didn’t seem that April was going to demonstrate.
“That’s a good idea,” said one of the high school kids, “but remember, the judging takes, like, two hours, then the public viewing lasts for two more. Even longer if you make it to State. Are you going to want to stand around for that long? It’s good to have a stationary display you can leave and come back to.”
“Good point,” said Mr. Peterson.
Stumped, April and Tommy both turned questioning expressions on their mentor, who sat at a desk in the front row. He lifted his hands and gave a nod, a gesture which seemed to mean, It’ll be all right, and perhaps, We’ll discuss it later.
Next, the volcano boys presented their project, which now focused on the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens. “We’re going to have poster boards with before-and-after pictures,” one explained, “and then we’ll set off the model volcano during the judging.”
Kevin, the president of the science club, stood leaning against the wall. “They’ve seen a million Mount St. Helenses,” he said flatly. “What are you going to do to make yours different?”
Some of the science club members rolled their eyes. Kevin, who was so mercilessly taunted by the jocks in the hall, liked to play king here.
The boys looked at each other. They had already differentiated theirs from other volcanoes. Now they had to further differentiate it from other Mount St. Helenses?
Miriam went next and stood alone before the group. For a moment Enrique wondered if her little brother was still serving as her partner, and why she hadn’t recruited one of her girlfriends to join her. But then the screen, which Enrique hadn’t noticed was down, lit up, and a picture of a fish slid onto it. Cam Pierce, Miriam’s mentor, was operating the overhead projector. “The sockeye salmon is an ancient species native to Payette Lake and other lakes around Idaho,” Miriam began. “But only seventy percent of our river species and fifty percent of our lake species of fish are native. What is the impact of the high numbers of introduced species on our bodies of water and the native species that live there?”
Enrique again felt a dim and conflicted sense of relief; Miriam had scrapped her cow project, but the one she had chosen instead was even more boring. During her presentation, the audience read their own notes or turned to the window, which afforded only a bleak view, as it was filthy and covered by a grate. One girl mercilessly clicked the buttons on a four-color pen, apparently unaware of the loud sound it made. When Miriam finished, no one had any questions, so she sat down.
Now it was Enrique and Gene’s turn. Coming up with a second draft of the project had been a balancing act. Enrique had to appease Gene, who had resisted the removal of the ants, seeming not to care if the project would be disqualified. Enrique had been too excited by the fact of Abby’s lunchtime consultation to remember afterward much of what she had said. (The lunchroom din had quieted somewhat as she walked through; Enrique imagined the faces of his tormentors burning with envy.) Gene had gone to Boise again on Sunday and returned with updated clippings from the New York Times and a science magazine. All of this served to make the project stronger, so it was with new confidence that Enrique explained to the science club what had happened that night in Cameroon.
“Were these people poisoned on purpose by rebels, as the newspapers suggested that first day? This hypothesis has already been rejected. A man-made poisonous gas would have left a residue and might have damaged plants as well as animals, as mustard gas did in the First World War. No plants were damaged in the least, and there was no odor.
“Was it a volcanic eruption? No. There was no noise reported, no explosion, no smoke, and no ash.
“Some scientists have suggested that gases stored up over years under Lake Nyos could have reached such a mass that they bubbled up out of the lake and flowed down over the villages. But what gases? Hydrogen sulfide is a gas commonly produced by volcanoes. It’s the same gas you smell when you crack open a rotten egg. At a concentration of one part per thousand in the air it can cause immediate collapse with loss of breathing after one breath.
“So, why should we here in Eula, Idaho, care?
“Two years ago, in another lake in Cameroon, the same thing seems to have happened, killing forty people. If we don’t find out exactly what happened at these two lakes on the other side of the world, how do we know it can’t happen here? Say, for example, at our own Lake Overlook?”
This was the angle that Enrique and Gene had arrived at, together, three nights before. Enrique liked the idea of creating a model, and Gene was interested in calculating the possible magnitude of the disaster in a different lake, based on volume or surface area.
Enrique now held up a large drawing, in marker, of their planned model. “The gas that escaped Lake Nyos appears to have traveled down the valleys, getting weaker as it went along. This means it’s a gas that is heavier than air. Gene and I are going to make a model of Lake Overlook and Eula. We’re going to fill Lake Overlook with
dry ice. The visible carbon dioxide mist will flow over the town.” Enrique pointed to a group of buildings in the foreground of the drawing. “At Lake Nyos, every human and animal in a fifteen-mile radius was killed. Our model will make it clear how, if the same phenomenon took place at Lake Overlook, everyone in Eula would die.”
Enrique smiled. When a stunned silence greeted him, he gave a little nod to indicate that his presentation was over.
“Enrique,” Miriam ventured, “the demonstration . . . it’s like you’re gassing our town.”
“It’s meant to be shocking,” Enrique said, “so people realize how important it is for us to solve this riddle. It makes our project very relevant.”
“It’s creepy,” said a high school boy.
Enrique could see that Abby, sitting in back, bit her lip in a pained expression. She had gently warned him and Gene at lunch that this might be the group’s reaction.
Kevin finally broke the silence. “Let’s thank our junior brethren for their fascinating presentations.” The high school kids applauded, and the meeting was adjourned.
Enrique quickly headed out, as they were late to meet Jay for their ride home, but Miriam called out his name in the hall.
“What?” he said, turning.
She marched up to him. Cam Pierce waited by the classroom door. Apparently, he was her ride. “Enrique, don’t do that project.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll never win.”
“Yes, we will win. It’s a good project.”
“Enrique, it’s a bad thing to do.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“I’m trying to do you a favor. It’s wrong, and you’ll never win by telling people they could all die.”
“You’ll never win with your stupid, boring fish!” Enrique said.
Miriam’s eyes narrowed. She inhaled to say more, stopped herself, then spun around and walked back to Cam. The oversized collar of her blouse bounced with every step.
“Come on, Gene. We’re late.” When they reached the lawn, Enrique tugged on Gene’s sleeve, indicating that this time they had to walk directly across. Gene made a grumpy, wordless noise.
“She’s just jealous that we have a neat project,” Enrique said once they reached the shade.
“She’s afraid,” said Gene.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of dying.”
“Don’t be weird, Gene. Nobody thinks this lake thing is going to happen here.”
“Why not?”
“Hurry up,” Enrique said. “Jay’s probably waiting.”
They passed between the buildings, and Enrique saw the junior high football team waiting for their rides in front of the entrance. Beyond them, Jay stood leaning against his car.
“Great,” said Enrique.
In the past week, the low murmur of taunting and name-calling had risen in volume. An anonymous catcall, En-ri-que!, sailed through the hall as he ran for class; a muttered faggot rose from somewhere in the group of boys when he dropped the ball in gym class. His taunters had an uncanny ability to strike a perfect balance: loud enough to reach Enrique’s ears and tip him over the precipice into the blackest of moods, quiet enough to be anonymous, leaving Enrique to wonder who and how many his enemies were.
Now he tucked his chin, steeled himself, and walked quickly forward.
“It’s Enrique and Gene!” said Pete Randolph, and all the boys turned. “Hey, Enrique, are you guys on a date? Are you gonna go butt-fuck?” The boys laughed. A foot stuck out from the group as they passed. Gene stumbled over it, then broke into a jog to catch up with Enrique, who was already climbing into Jay’s car.
“Let’s go,” Enrique said, but Jay remained outside leaning against the car with his arms folded. “I’m sorry we’re late. Can we go now?”
Jay paused, then launched himself from the car and walked slowly over to the group of boys. One by one they noticed his approach and fell silent. Jay stood looking down at Pete Randolph, who chuckled, glanced at his friends, and said, “Hello, can I help you?”
Jay grabbed him roughly by the front of the shirt, causing his head to whip back. “Listen, you little piece of shit,” he said, “don’t talk to my little brother. Don’t say a fucking word to him, or I’ll kill you.”
The other boys stepped backward into a large, loose ring that threatened to come apart altogether. Jay released Pete’s shirt and started to turn away, then apparently changed his mind and decided to allow himself one slug. He made it fast and hard to Pete’s shoulder.
Pete stumbled backward, then squeezed his eyes shut and held his shoulder. Without producing a sound, his mouth made the large, round shape of owwww!
Jay turned slowly away, spat into the bushes, and walked to the car.
Enrique wondered, on the way home, why Jay had done this. Did he like him after all? And would this episode make life at school easier or harder? Easier, most likely. But what if it only served to confirm that he was a sissy who couldn’t fend for himself? What if Pete sought his revenge by increasing the taunting, or even by beating Enrique up? Enrique would not be able to fight; he had never even hit anyone. He’d have no choice but to roll into a ball on the floor that Pete would kick and kick until a teacher pulled him off. For days he’d limp from class to class covered with a camouflage pattern of bruises. But even these images couldn’t diminish the delight of having watched Pete Randolph take a punch from his brother. As they descended from the overpass into the north side where the leaf-matted lawns were littered with broken plastic toys, Enrique gazed out at the passing houses to hide his smile.
Apparently wishing to change lanes, Jay looked to the rearview mirror. “Stop gawking at me, faggot!” he said to Gene.
Gene’s face knotted and dropped.
THE NEXT DAY, Connie pulled into her spot and climbed the steps. “Gene, are you home?” she called. No answer. He couldn’t have been far, though: while the screen door was closed, the front door hung open into the living room. She went to Lina’s porch and called him again.
“Yes?”
“I’m home, Gene.”
“Come on in, Mrs. Anderson,” called Enrique.
“My goodness, what are you boys building?”
The living room was carpeted with newspaper. Gene stood holding a long strip of Plexiglas that was two feet wide and nearly as tall as he was. Enrique was squatted on the floor glue-gunning the edge of the strip to another at a right angle. The house smelled of newsprint and burned plastic. With a twinge of envy, Connie glanced around the relatively spacious, wood-paneled room and saw a crucifix, a garland of silk flowers, several candles in glass cylinders decorated with images of saints. Idolatry. A seam where the house’s two parts had been joined ran along the ceiling and down the middle of the kitchen wall to disappear behind the cabinets.
“It’s our project for the science fair,” said Enrique.
“You boys are in a science fair?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is your mother okay with this?”
“Yes, Mrs. Anderson, she knows all about it. Gene, hold still. It’s almost dry.”
Connie walked back to her house. She was glad they were using Lina’s living room and not hers, but then she wondered, why weren’t they using hers? They hadn’t even asked. Was it because Lina’s was roomier, or because they felt more at ease there?
The tiny red light on the answering machine blinked. Connie slipped out of her shoes, sat down, and pushed the button. Then she began to gently work her fingers into the aching muscles of her jaw.
“Oh, hello, this is a message for Connie. This is Bill Howard. I spoke to your group last week. I work at a mission in the Ivory Coast.” How charming, that he would think he had to remind her! “Well, I was remembering your offer, that you’d be able to help me while I was in town, and wondering if I might take you up on that. Please give me a call.” He gave his phone number.
For a minute Connie was dizzy and unable to move. Could this be the Lord’s calli
ng for which she had been waiting? Finally she took a deep breath and dialed the number. She got a machine with another man’s voice, not Bill’s. He must be staying in the visitors’ apartment above the garage of the parsonage.
“Hello, Bill, this is Connie Anderson. My offer is certainly still open, and you can call me any time. I’ll be home all night. Thank you. I look forward to your call.”
She slammed down the phone and cringed. Had she sounded too eager? Then she chided herself, Settle down, Connie. You’re acting like a silly girl. But she couldn’t help it. She felt that this might be what she had been praying for.
Connie had barely had time to get to know her husband—not nearly enough to start to love him—when he took all his things (and some of hers) and disappeared. She spent years praying for someone to love, until, a little over a year ago, she had her spiritual awakening. First Church put on a week of revival meetings in the evenings, featuring a popular speaker, Reverend Raleigh Wells the Painting Preacher. Reverend Raleigh wore a small microphone on his wide lapel, and his voice was broadcast throughout the darkened sanctuary, even though these revival meetings were attended by only around fifty congregation members who, in order to have a good view, filled the first few pews. Connie still thought of them as pews even though they were comfortable padded seats whose bottoms popped up, like those in a movie theater, when you rose to sing. The unique thing about Reverend Raleigh was that as he preached he painted a beautiful picture that illustrated the sermon. The first night’s program was entitled “Scaling the Heights.” Reverend Raleigh spoke of overcoming obstacles on the steep climb toward redemption and painted several peaks that might have been the Tetons, swiftly adding snow to the slopes with a blade. Night two’s sermon was on the “Fruits of the Spirit,” and the reverend painted a peaceful apple orchard, deftly sprinkling leaves onto the waiting branches with a large round brush dabbed in green. The congregation responded to such elegant touches with an approving sigh. Each night’s picture grew in beauty and detail as the sermon built upon itself. Blank shapes that appeared meaningless were, with a few magical brushstrokes, transformed into lakes, clouds, meadows.
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