Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “No thanks,” Jimenez said. He didn’t look at her and got into his car. “I had a big breakfast.”

  Walczak drove to the office, wondering what his parents would think about the mess he was in. They were exacting and demanding in the extreme. He remembered them cross-examining him because he got a 94 on a calculus test. His argument that it was still an A only earned him derision and a curfew. His mother and father were both attorneys. They drove matching Jaguars, had their assistants buy little Stanislaw’s Christmas presents, and exuded all the warmth of a grand jury subpoena. They didn’t realize the worst thing they could do to their son was ignore him. A driver dropped him off and picked him up from school. A housekeeper who spoke little English made his meals but didn’t read him stories or tuck him in at night. On Christmas Eve, his parents went to parties, his gifts piled up under the perfect tree, put there by people who did that for a living. He opened his presents alone, his parents hungover. On Thanksgiving, the housekeeper made him turkey sandwiches. She abused him when he took a bath and he defiled her in his dreams. He imagined himself living with the Yamamotos next door. He imagined himself living with the Brady Bunch, he watched the reruns all the time. He wondered what it would be like to be greeted by his mother when he came home from school or to play catch with his father. A real family had lived in his imagination for all those years and a family was all he’d ever wanted.

  He called Patty. She and Noah would be back Saturday morning as planned. If Walczak had everything wrapped up by Sarah’s Friday deadline, it should all work out. It was close, though. Too close.

  “Stay another day or two if you want to,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “My parents are coming, don’t you remember? They adore you, you know.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Grace worried TK would treat her like a nuisance and didn’t know what to expect when she came down from the loft, the dog leading the way.

  “Mornin’, Grace,” he said. “Want some coffee? I ran out of sugar, but I got some of that powdered cream.” She liked how he looked. A rangy, gnarled tree branch stuck into grimy coveralls and topped with the dirtiest cap she’d ever seen. His large eyes had a film over them as if at any moment he might start to cry, though she doubted he ever did. His smile was weary and amused, like there was nothing in the world you could say or do that would surprise him. They sat on rusty lawn chairs set up in the shadow of the warehouse. Ruffin was relieving himself on one of the wrecks.

  “See that?” TK said. “He likes to piss on Japanese cars. He’ll walk past a whole row of Chevys to piss on a Toyota.” She sipped her coffee. It was good, tasted just like her own.

  “As long as I’m here, is there anything I can help you with?” she said.

  “Prob’ly not. Mighty rough work for a girl.” She gave him a look. “What?” he said. “That ain’t nothin’ against your feminism.”

  “You’ve seen me work on my car.”

  “Oh, now, don’t get all lezbo on me.”

  “Lezbo?” she said with a laugh.

  “I got no trouble if you like your meat off the bone. It’s the men who make me nervous. Two dicks in the same bedroom is one too many.”

  She helped TK dismantle a Dodge pickup. Her dad had taught her a lot about cars. When she was fourteen, he bought her the GTI on the cheap. It had been totaled in an accident and was registered as salvage. Between tours, he helped her rebuild it and she helped him build his own project. It was one of Grace’s happiest memories. Working alongside her dad, handing him tools, talking about school, Mom telling funny stories about his growing up, stopping for an egg salad sandwich and a Coke and listening to him explain about timing belts, fuel pumps, injectors, and roller bearings and showing her how they worked with his nimble hands and strong eyes.

  Once, she’d asked him why he’d joined the army. He said he was young and directionless and getting into trouble. He said his father told him over and over again that he would never amount to anything and he was afraid that might be true. He also knew he would never get anywhere by himself. He needed structure and limits and unyielding demands and that was what the service gave him. It forced him to be a man.

  “One thing I learned?” he said. “Never back down, sweet pea. Fight for yourself because no one else will.”

  Her dad loved Steve McQueen. Sometimes, they’d stay in the garage, sitting in his car and watching McQueen’s old movies on a laptop. Mom thought it was weird but it didn’t seem that way. They watched The Thomas Crown Affair, Tom Horn, The Getaway, The Great Escape, and Bullitt. Especially Bullitt, sometimes twice in a row. The car chase through San Francisco was the best ever. Better than all the new movies with their special effects and actors that looked like they’d come straight from the spa. Every time they watched it, she’d ask him, “Think you could do that, Dad? Drive like Steve McQueen?” And every time, he’d answer her with a shake of his head and a playful smile. “No problem, sweet pea. No problem at all.” She was too young to get a driver’s license but he’d take her up to Kern Canyon Road in the GTI, a twisty stretch that wound through the foothills all the way to Miracle Hot Springs. He showed her how to drive fast. He said she had talent, that she could drive professionally, but she had no interest in it. She did it for him. She missed him so much. She ached for him.

  After her mom fled Bakersfield, Grace stayed with her grandmother but the old woman’s health was failing and she was nearly blind. Child Services placed her in a foster home. Gordon and Margaret Markle were empty-nesters, their two sons off at college. They lived a hundred miles from Bakersfield in Fresno, somewhere between a small town and a big one, the truck route running through it, arid except for green patches of almonds, grapes, and tomatoes and vast poultry farms, thousands of chickens imprisoned in warehouses rank with ammonia and hormones. Margaret was scrawny, cheerful, and energetic. She sold real estate and was forever loading and unloading FOR SALE signs in and out of her car.

  “It’s going to be great,” she said like she was showing Grace a finished basement. “We’re going to get along fine, aren’t we?”

  Gordon was also scrawny, cheerful, and energetic. He had a gap between his front teeth and big eyes that reminded Grace of Mickey Mouse; wide open and continuously delighted. In another context, he’d look high. Gordon was an accountant for a grain company. He worked from home a lot and whistled off-key while he crunched numbers on his laptop.

  Grace’s room was upstairs. It was pleasant and had a view of cattle munching on hay bales. She liked to listen to them moo. School was school, boring and unending. The boys said nasty things, the girls stayed away. She spent most of her time in her room, reading, drawing, and crying.

  Margaret was at an open house and Grace and Gordon were sitting in the breakfast nook. He’d made ice tea and his special tuna sandwiches. “Did you notice the dillweed?” he said. “I like a little relish in it too. Margaret hates it, of course.”

  “It’s good,” Grace said, wishing she could spit it out.

  “So the social worker told me you’re an artist,” he said.

  “I’d like to be.”

  “Hard way to make a living,” he noted. “You should have a backup plan.”

  “I’ll think about that, Mr. Markle.”

  “Mr. Markle is my father,” he said like he’d made that up himself. “Call me Gordo. Everybody does. Hey, I want to show you something.” They went out to the garage and he ushered her in with a warm hand on her back. He’d converted the place into a workshop where he made things out of leather. For some unknown reason, orange cowhide seemed to be his favorite, burned, stamped, carved, and gouged with garish designs. Different-size daisies, stars, and happy faces on a ladies’ purse; lassos, spurs, and anatomically incorrect horses on a man’s belt. They were among the ugliest things Grace had ever seen.

  Gordon beamed. “Beautiful, huh?”

  “Yeah, really,” she said. She wondered who would put down r
eal money for an orange wallet sewn with leather shoelaces.

  “Marketing’s the problem,” he said with a serious nod. “When I find a distributor they’ll go like hotcakes, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He smiled knowingly. “You want the purse, don’t you? Here, take it.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  He thrust the purse into her hands. “I insist. The kids at school will love it.”

  Fresno days were longer than Bakersfield’s. She couldn’t believe she’d only been with the Markles a month. She had to get out of there. Had to. She hid the hideous orange purse behind a dumpster before she went to class. One day it went missing. Grace was happy to be rid of the thing but as soon as she came home Gordo said, “Hey, kiddo, where’s the purse? I thought it was your favorite.”

  Escape seemed unlikely. She had no money and her only living relative was Uncle Alex, who wore suspenders and wasn’t all there. Home, she thought. I have to go home. I can be where Mom and Dad used to be. I can listen to their voices and talk to their ghosts.

  Gordon made the time even more interminable. He took her to the mall and tried to buy her clothes but she refused. He insisted on playing badminton with her to keep her figure trim. He wanted to talk about her love life. “Got a boyfriend?” he said.

  “No.”

  “No hot guy at school you’ve got an eye on?”

  “No.”

  “I bet they’ve got an eye on you,” he said, Mickey’s eyes ogling her. He bought her art supplies. “I know you really like art,” he said solemnly. “I want to encourage you all I can.” He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “I get you, kiddo. I really do. You ever need to talk, I’m here.” She didn’t need help with her homework but he helped her anyway, leaning over her, his face near her hair. She could have sworn he was smelling her. “It’s good to have a friend, don’t you think?” he said.

  “Yeah. It’s great.”

  She tried to keep away from him but he was always there. When she cleaned the kitchen, when she went outside to draw or read. When she did her laundry or vacuumed the living room. Sometimes, he’d knock on her door and say, “I made lunch for you,” or “Let’s go for a drive,” or “Hey, there’s something great on TV.” She had to accept a few of his invitations, she was living in his house, after all. He complained about Margaret. She’s always busy. She doesn’t listen. She’s letting herself go.

  They were in the breakfast nook having another tuna fucking sandwich. “She’s a good person,” he said. “But she’s not fun, she’s not easygoing, she doesn’t know how to chill.” He put his hand over Grace’s. “Like you.” Grace learned Margaret’s schedule, leaving her room when Margaret was around and skulking about when she wasn’t. Gordon was perfunctory with his wife and when she nagged, which was frequently, he’d sneak looks at Grace and roll his eyes.

  Another oppressively hot day in Fresno; the smells of cow dung and alfalfa hung like drapes in a barn. Margaret was in bed with her allergies and Gordon ushered Grace into the garage, that hand on her back again.

  “What are we doing, Gordon?” she said. “I have homework to do.”

  “It’s Gordo. Remember?” He rubbed his palms together. “Okay,” he said, like at last he could get rolling. “I just wanted to show you a few things.” He found a scrap of cowhide and held it up to her like a theater ticket. “This is vegtan. Veg because it’s dyed with vegetable dye and tan because it’s tanned. Do you know what tanning is?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He seemed not to have heard her because he went right on with his spiel. “Tanning means it’s treated with chemicals, so it doesn’t rot and smell bad, and let me tell you, this stuff stinks to high heaven.” He kept talking and gesturing too much. He’s nervous, she thought. This was a pretext for something. He blathered on awhile before finally, finally, getting to it. “Okay,” he said decisively, “that’s enough of that.”

  “Great.”

  “Hey,” he said, brightening. “Why don’t we have a little party?” He went into the fridge and brought out a bottle of premade margaritas. He poured two drinks into plastic cups and gave her one.

  “Our little secret, right?” he said, a creepy twinkle in Mickey’s eyes.

  “I don’t drink.”

  He looked astounded. “You don’t? Oh come on now. Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud. I thought you kids liked to party.”

  “No, really, I don’t drink.” Gordo kept smiling like she would change her mind but she didn’t respond.

  “Okay,” he said with a disappointed shrug.

  She asked for a lock on her door but he never got around to it. She installed a dead bolt herself but he removed it, saying it was a fire hazard and he needed access to the room in case of an emergency. Grace asked Margaret about it. “Don’t ask me,” she said, “that’s Gordon’s department.”

  Margaret was at the hairdresser when he showed Grace the metal box he kept hidden under the workbench. He looked like a kid with a hidden stash of candy. “Look what I’ve got,” he said. He opened the box with a key. “Come on over here. Don’t be shy.” He held it close so she had to stand shoulder to shoulder. There were tidy stacks of cash bound with rubber bands. “My mad money,” he said like it was buried treasure. “Margaret doesn’t know about it. How much do you think is in there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He grinned proudly. “Going on five grand. I put a little in every month. Been doing it for years.” He nudged her, Mickey’s eyebrows going up and down. “What do you think of that?”

  “It’s great.”

  “You know what? Margaret’s going to a conference next week. Maybe you and me should take a little trip. How about it, huh? San Francisco, say? It’s a great place. We’ll have fun.”

  “I have school.”

  One afternoon, he barged into her room unannounced. She was sitting on the bed in boxer shorts and a sports bra reading. “Woops,” he said. He grinned, put his hand over his face, and peeked through his splayed fingers. “Sorry.” He backed out of the room, taking his time as he closed the door. “Hey. Want to go get a burger?”

  That’s it, she decided. That’s enough. She heard her dad’s voice. Never back down, sweet pea. Fight for yourself because no one else will. It was Tuesday. Margaret would be home around five. At four-thirty, Grace went into the garage and left the door open. She sat on the workbench, swung her legs, and waited. Gordon came in. “Oh!” he said, like he hadn’t watched her from his office. “How you doin’, kiddo?”

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  She looked directly at him. “Waiting for you.”

  He smiled and said in ascending notes, “You look like you’re up to something.”

  She gave him her mischievous smile. “Do I?” She slid off the bench. “I wonder what that could be.” He stood close and breathed into her eyes.

  “You’re really cute, you know that?” She gave him the direct look for another two seconds and said gaily, “Take some pictures of me!” She gave him her phone.

  “Great idea,” he said.

  She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and vamped, hand in her tousled hair, her lips pooched out.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Very sexy.”

  “Booty shot!” She turned around, stuck out her butt, and looked seductively over her shoulder.

  “Very nice, very nice,” he said, taking picture after picture.

  “Let’s take some selfies!”

  “Great idea!”

  He pulled her in until their heads were touching. They grinned like idiots. “How’s that?” he said.

  “Take another one,” she said. She stuck her tongue out like she was going to lick his ear.

  “Oh, that’s great!”

  “You do it.” He obliged her, his tongue feathering her earlobe.

  “Want that drink now?” he said, with that creepy twinkle.

  “Our little secret?” s
he said, twinkling back. He got out the booze and poured the drinks. They sipped, looking at each other over their cups and smiling. It was quiet except for the cows calling to each other. There was sweat on his forehead. If Minnie saw Mickey’s eyes, she’d put on lingerie and get out the condoms.

  “Okay!” he said, like it was time to take action. Manfully, he tossed his cup aside and did the same with hers. “Come here.” He pulled her in for a kiss. She leaned away.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t think so.” She pushed his hands off her and stepped back.

  “Why?” He was truly surprised. “I thought we could have a little fun.”

  “Fun for who, Gordo? Me or you?”

  “Both.” He thought a moment and sneered. “Oh, I get it. You’re a little cocktease, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But I am curious.”

  “Curious about what?” he said, his tone a little harder.

  “About why a forty-seven-year-old man is trying to seduce a fifteen-year-old girl.” His turn to step back.

  He scoffed. “Nobody’s trying to seduce you.”

  “You thought you had me pegged, didn’t you?” Grace said. “A loner, no parents, the new kid at school. Naturally I’d want a substitute father, and why not good ol’ understanding Mr. Markle? The friendly authority figure who lets you call him Gordo.” She huffed. “You thought I didn’t notice you looking down my shirt? That I didn’t know why you asked me about my boyfriends? That you wanted to know if I was fucking yet? And what’s with all the touching? You don’t touch Margaret half that much, and by the way, she’s a much nicer person than you’ll ever be.”

  “Margaret has nothing to do with this,” he said stiffly.

  “Did you really think I’d be impressed with your five thousand dollars? What a doofus.” She chuckled. “You know what was really lame? Giving me the art stuff because you really get me.” She clutched her chest melodramatically and looked at him like a starving kid in India hoping for a tuna fucking sandwich. “It was so, so moving. Honestly, Gordo. It was.”