by Jo Ann Beard
“Why her?” the woman says over and over again. “Why her?”
The man tries to pet her head like she’s a dog. “Honey, don’t,” he says each time she asks why her. Honey, don’t, honey, don’t, honey, don’t. And then they kiss, staggering sideways. We seem to be standing in some unflowering rose bushes, absolutely still in the darkness, like a black and white photograph of two girls who have done this before. Something hits my arm and buzzes, I look down and see a June bug flapping around. Another one hits my cheek. I take Elizabeth’s elbow and try to pull her away. She resists and glares at me, points one finger toward the people standing in a blue pool of moonlight twenty feet away. I grab her arm and yank her onto the driveway and run through the next yard and the next, her panting fast and loud behind me. We’re laughing silently and hysterically. A ravine appears on the right and we run for it, diving down the hill, where we lay, gasping.
“You queeb,” Elizabeth whispers. She punches me in the arm. “Why did you do that?”
I pause. “There were June bugs smacking into me,” I tell her gently.
She immediately stops laughing and squeezes her eyes shut. A moan escapes from her lips. “I can’t,” she says without opening her eyes. “I can’t keep going if there are June bugs.”
“There aren’t,” I say. “It’s not even June — those two are the only ones.”
She still has her eyes closed. “No sir,” she says in a small voice.
I try to think for a minute. Finally I say, “Don’t wreck everything because of two June bugs.”
She opens one eye and looks at me with it. “What about if there were worms, you wouldn’t even walk in case one might touch you.” I consider this a low blow and remain silent. “And you know it,” she finishes.
A minute goes by, both of us staring through the ravine trees at the black sky. “You know it,” she says once more. We get up slowly, like old people, readjust the toilet paper rolls that are tied around our waists on pieces of rope, and set out, subdued, to complete our mission.
A woman friend stops over to visit me one afternoon. She is lonely, melancholy, and at loose ends. Do you ever feel like this? she asks me. That’s how the entire world feels, I say. Sit down, have some chips, have some dip. She’s not one of my favorite people, but I’d rather talk to her than write, which is what I was doing when she dropped by. She’s having husband troubles apparently, and winds up telling me she’s thinking of having an affair.
“Have you ever done that?” she asks. Her head is tilted to the side quizzically, a trace of sour cream is adhered to her lower lip. I feel immensely warm and slightly guilty all of a sudden, and the walls of the room step in an inch or so, crowding me.
“Oh, Kim, it’s not good to do that,” I tell her. And I mention some lovely traits her husband Bruce has, not the least of which is that he’s my own husband’s best friend. She takes that for what it’s worth and drifts back through the front door, gets in her little yellow car, and peels out.
Danny Garcia’s house is on a cul-de-sac it takes us forever to find. By this time we are walking in the no-June-bug zone in the middle of the street, and talking in normal voices. As it turns out, his house has no trees, so we’re momentarily at a loss. There are small bikes and wrecked toys in the front yard, and a sign that says Koolade 4 Sale. We caucus for a minute, crouched next to a blue sedan parked at the curb.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” I say. Elizabeth stares up at the split-level ranch house and thinks. She outlines a plan that involves only what we have available — if there are no trees, there are no trees. Simple, really.
Twenty minutes later we have draped giant strands of toilet paper over the roof of the house, seven of them, from one end to the other. We had to hurl them, unraveling whitely against the night sky, one of us in the backyard and one in the front. Our contingency plan was if a light came on or if anyone came out, we would run in two separate directions and meet at Renee’s house, five blocks away. The strands are anchored on either side of the house with trikes and dump trucks. We meet in the shadow of the blue car to survey the situation.
“It needs more,” I whisper.
“I’m too tired,” she whispers back.
“We walked all the way over here and it only looks like about two strands,” I insist. “Let’s just get rid of the rolls.” So we patiently unwind them, leaving pools of white against the pavement. We travel back up into the yard and, carefully holding the ends, throw the rolls over the roof, one after the other. The last two don’t make it, our arms are too tired, and they land with a thud and roll back down the roof and into the bushes in front of the porch. In an instant a light goes on, the door bursts open, and Danny and Stuart Garcia are running barefoot, sixty-five miles an hour. Elizabeth and I are half a block away by this time, and we veer off suddenly, one to the left, one to the right, like a dividing amoeba.
The yards are hard to navigate, there are things lying around everywhere, lawn mowers, rakes, bicycles, and, in one case, a tied-up dog who runs out to the end of his chain and stands up on his back legs, wagging his tail and pedaling his front paws. I can’t tell which Garcia followed me, but I can hear him crashing around, one yard over. I stop and crouch under the awning of the dog’s plywood house. The dog climbs in beside me happily and we both sit in the straw, me listening for the sounds of a Garcia, him biting a flea. There is a pale light burning in the kitchen of the house, illuminating an ornate clock and the corner of a fridge, harvest gold. Pots of African violets, a mound of spilled potting soil and a pair of gloves are sitting on a table by the back door. The dog, a beagle mix with long silky ears, leans up against me and yawns. I put one arm around him and we’re buddies together, in the shade of his little abode. You can tell he doesn’t get many visitors in here, but he’s a good host. A gnawed-on bone is tucked in the corner. I hold it out and he tilts his head quizzically, then takes it only when he’s sure I don’t want it, and begins absentmindedly chewing.
From inside the plywood shelter we watch the night tick along. After fifteen minutes or so I hear voices, and I pull my legs farther inside and scrunch up into the black corner. Through the yard amble Danny and Stuart, wincing on their bare feet, talking in whispers and making little aggressive gestures toward imaginary enemies. The dog fades out into the night and stands on his hind legs again at the end of his chain. Stuart stops for a second and lets the dog rest his front paws against him. All I can see are their legs and hands, they can’t see anything of me. Stuart lifts the dog’s ear and touches the soft part inside. The dog stops wagging and holds himself very still, in paralyzed pleasure. They walk on, whispering, and the dog gets a drink of water from a dishpan and then wanders back into his shelter. I’m sorry, but I have to go. He’s pretty philosophical about it, following me to the end of his chain and then stretching out on the damp ground, back legs stuck out terrier-style, tail moving slowly back and forth.
I walk through backyards until I get to Renee’s block and then I walk in the street. One time Elizabeth, Madelyn, and I walked around this block with our shirts off and tied around our waists. It was about three in the morning and the houses were dead and silent, the streetlights shone yellow spots on the pavement. We walked and walked, with our arms over our heads, letting the night air get on our skin. I’m not in the mood for any of that nonsense tonight. There she is, sitting on Renee’s front porch.
“I thought they got you,” Elizabeth whispers hoarsely. Her hair is going eight different ways and her cheeks are pink, her voice is croaky.
“I went in a doghouse with a dog,” I say. “And they came right past me, and are they pissed.” I tell her some of the words Danny and Stuart were whispering.
“Eek,” she says.
Since there are no parents on the premises, we decide to wake Renee up and tell her what happened. Through the front window we can see the two littlest kids asleep on the floor in front of the snowy TV screen. Stacy has on a diaper and socks and has her head resting on a bed pi
llow without a case. Amy has on a T-shirt and no pants whatsoever, and has her head resting on a skanky stuffed dinosaur. Renee is asleep on the couch under an afghan, a book open across her chest. We tap on the window. Stacy stirs and puts a thumb in her mouth. Amy rolls over so her face is against the dinosaur’s face.
“Seems like a shame to wake them up,” I say, and then tap louder. Renee startles awake and the book falls off her chest.
“Don’t wake the babies,” she whispers as she lets us in. She has drool on her from sleeping on the couch, and we don’t want to point it out but we do anyway. “Oh,” she says, wiping it off. We follow her out to the kitchen where she sits at the table, yawning. I sit on the counter and Elizabeth looks in the refrigerator.
“We would have been dead if they’d caught us,” I tell Elizabeth. She concurs. We tell Renee what happened. She confirms what we already suspected: Stuart Garcia is dangerous. And she’s in a position to know — she went steady with him in grade school.
“He wanted to drop me and go with Maria Valdez,” she says sleepily. “So he threw a steak knife at me and it hit a tree. He got about forty swats with the wooden paddle from the principal.” I repeat for her in great detail the words I heard him saying while I was jammed into the doghouse. It was an altogether stunning display of swearing, and we can’t help but be impressed. Stuart and Danny have suddenly put themselves on the map.
“Those guys will say anything,” Elizabeth remarks. She’s having a bowl of cereal, using milk that is thin and watery with a faint blue cast.
“How’s that breast milk taste?” I ask her. She stares into the bowl for a second and then shrugs, takes another spoonful.
“What would you’ve done if they caught you?” Renee asks. In some ways Renee is the perfect friend, she’s genuinely nice and asks you just exactly the questions you are prepared to answer. She is also pretty, with thin shiny hair and round brown eyes and a mouth that smiles even when she’s just reading or listening to a teacher. The boys love her, too, and cluster around her, which works out well for her friends, who are neither nice nor friendly.
“I would’ve just started screaming,” Elizabeth answers. And it’s true, we all know it.
I make a slow-motion kicking gesture with my foot. “Right in the old codpiece,” I say. Elizabeth makes a snorting noise and then has a nose attack right in Renee’s kitchen. It’s when she can’t breathe through her mouth — she’s still eating cereal — and her nostrils slam shut. She has to reach up and pry them open manually so she can get air.
I try to help her and we wake the babies up accidentally.
“Shit-fuck,” Renee says wearily. The babies wander out to the kitchen, blinking their eyes in the brightness and whimpering. They both try to climb on Renee, who stares patiently at the ceiling for a second and then helps them up on her lap. They look at Elizabeth and me with blank, defensive eyes, Amy with her thumb jammed in her mouth, Stacy with her hand down her diaper.
“Do you have to go on the big-girl potty?” Renee asks her. She shakes her head no and closes her eyes. Suddenly we’re all tired, even Elizabeth and me. We take the kids and Renee leads the way upstairs. She pokes her head in all the bedrooms: B.J. is asleep on Renee’s bed, Alex is asleep on the rug beside his bed, Cindy is sleeping in B.J.’s bed. I have Amy, who’s as heavy as a sandbag and smells like sour milk and baby shampoo. We finally put them on the king-size bed in the parents’ room. There’s no sheet so we cover them with the funky, crumpled-up bedspread and tiptoe out. B.J. is seven and weighs a ton so I take his feet and Elizabeth takes his arms and we carry him like a hammock between us and dump him into Cindy’s bed so Renee can sleep alone. She whispers good night and we’re gone, back into the cold spring air.
It takes about two blocks of freezing cold before we decide we have to ride instead of walk. We find a boy’s bicycle with a long banana seat in somebody’s backyard and take it; Elizabeth pedals standing up and I ride on back, with my legs stuck straight out on either side. When she gets winded I take over, but I sit while I pedal, which scrunches her. I can’t help it; I’m tired.
When we get to the big hill we leave the bike leaning against a tree and trudge ourselves straight up for one block and then it’s two blocks of flat ground, and then we’re at her house, sneaking back in.
I go first in case somebody’s up; at least we know they won’t throw a pop bottle at me. The coast is clear. Elizabeth steps into her bedroom and suddenly we’re wide awake again. We debate about calling up the Garcias, and then, in an unusual display of restraint, don’t. Instead, we go out to the kitchen and prepare a cake mix we find in the cupboard. We take it back into the bedroom and lie on the bed in the dark, eating cherry chip cake batter with big wooden spoons. We’re wound up now, it’s impossible to think about sleeping.
We discuss the Jeff Bach situation for a while. We come to the conclusion that it’s hard to like someone so blond. “I like dark-haired guys, I think,” Elizabeth says. I can see the shadow of her profile in the bed, she’s gesturing with her wooden spoon.
“Me too,” I say.
There is a long silence. It’s late, four A.M. or something. We’re finally getting tired again. She puts the batter on the floor next to the bed; I hand her my spoon and she drops it into the bowl. A few minutes pass.
“I might like Danny Garcia,” she says tentatively. Another minute goes by.
“I might like Stuart,” I say. She thinks this over. I turn on my side and she cuddles up right behind me; we sleep like two spoons whenever we’re in the same bed.
“Stuart’s dangerous,” she whispers.
“I know it,” I say softly, into the darkness, and then we’re both asleep.
It’s nineteen seventy-something, summer, nighttime, black country road running through rural Illinois, the sky is immense. Three miles ahead are train tracks that can be sailed over if you approach them right, all four tires will leave the ground at once. We’re heading for our house, a two-story farm job with a big garden out back, a bunch of pigs that are not our responsibility, a summer kitchen with spiders and mice, and two dogs who wait patiently all day for us to get home so their lives can begin. I’ve thrown my lot in with the guy in the driver’s seat, and he with me. We’re both certain we’ll never amount to anything, which only bothers us when we think about it. Right now we’re high on dope and each other, and the night air smells like rain. The road is white where the headlights hit it, and everything else is pure black. The car is old and bumperless, with a plywood fender that has a dent where an agitated friend of ours karate-chopped it. The tape deck is not for the faint-hearted; the sound inside the car is huge and all-consuming. Right now it sounds like someone is playing a guitar using a razor blade for a pick, and the question being asked is Are you experienced? The answer is No, we aren’t, but we’re working on it.
Coming up on the long stretch before the giant Dip in Pavement and the subsequent railroad tracks, Eric glances over at me for an instant, assessing my mood, then pushes the lights off and we streak through the blackness down the center of the highway, dark moving inside of dark, our faces faint in the dashboard light. It sounds for a moment like the guitar player is saying Areyouanidiot? and then I decide to be into it.
I put one arm out my window, to feel the night air and create some drag. He presses harder on the gas. The sky is distinguishable from the ground only because it is blue-black, and the land is black-black. There are stars. This is what they mean by barreling down the road. Not only could this be certain death, but we may take somebody else out, too, which is troubling. He isn’t thinking of any of that; in fact, he’s got his eyes closed, or else just the one I can see — he’s trying to freak me out. That settles it. I put my foot on top of his and press it to the floor. I close my own eyes and imagine myself leaning into it, certain death. Darkness and his girlfriend, Darkness, are out for a ride through the countryside in the summer night. We hit the dip and are airborne for a breathless millisecond, then there’s that long
, terrible dope-inspired instant that stretches out forever, where you don’t know if there’ll be a train on the tracks or not, whether you’ll get to continue living.
This time we do.
“They clean your room and cook your meals so you can write about Stuart Garcia?” Elizabeth asks incredulously. She’s at her job in Chicago.
“Apparently,” I reply. I’m in the wilds of upstate New York, at an artist’s colony, sitting in a phone booth drawing pictures and talking to her while she formats something on her computer, which keeps beeping.
“You should say he was dangerous,” she suggests.
I hate it here; why did I come here? All there is to do is write.
“You always go through this,” she reminds me. There is the sound of a tiny bomb exploding, a ding, and she exhales loudly. “I just crashed my whole computer,” she explains.
“I just crashed my whole life,” I tell her mournfully. I’m afraid she’s going to try to hang up. “Who even cares about the boys of my youth? There weren’t any, it was all imaginary. I’m making it up as I go along.” I draw a picture of a pit bull on the phone book in the phone booth. It has pointy ears, bowed legs, and giant teeth. “Now I’m drawing a giant-toothed dog,” I tell her.
“That’s good,” she says. “Remember that time you went to Florida to write and became troubled?”
“In the category of freak-out, that was the real thing.” I draw a palm tree with coconuts hanging off it next to the pit bull.
“I made you eat a banana that time,” she reminds me. We muse on that for a moment, until her computer comes back on line and says hello to her in a voice from outer space. We hang up.
As a matter of fact, there happens to be a banana in my lunch. Every day they give me a lunchbox with a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a cookie in it. I eat the cookie, think about the sandwich, and put the fruit on my writing table, then I go back to staring out the window of my studio. This is how professional writers work.