by Brady Udall
He would show them how to make fire, and how to get free Dr Peppers from the vending machine in front of Platt’s Market in town, and in return they would do his bidding, which would include kidnapping Parley and tying him to a juniper tree and practicing some Mexican torture techniques on his genitals, after which he would look Parley in his face and say, Who’s the faggety-fag now, Señor Muchacho?
Of course, his father and Aunt Beverly would come out to his desert stronghold and beg him for mercy, asking him to come home, the family needed him, they were falling apart without him, especially his mother, who hadn’t eaten a bite of food since his disappearance, and the Mexicans would terrify Aunt Beverly with their sharp spears and painted faces but Rusty would hold out his hand and say, Please, gentlemen, and the Mexicans would back away, and with great sadness he would inform them in artistic Spanish that he had to go home because his mother, his señorita mamacita, was dying of sadness without him, he hoped they would understand, and as he rode away on his bike they would cry their Mexican eyes out and do some mariachi singing and trumpet-playing and shout, Adiós, amigo Rusty! Adiós!
It was about at this point that he forgot to watch where he was going and ended up skidding into the irrigation ditch. His front tire bit into the soft sand at the bottom of the ditch and Rusty went over the handlebars and landed not in the soft sand of the ditch but on the other side where there were rocks and stickers and pieces of broken beer bottles. Ahrrg, what a gyp! Look at this: he’d scraped the dookie out of his elbow and there were rocks and glass stuck in his palms and his front tire was all bent up, plus he had bit his tongue. Heck yes, he cried. He jammed his hands into his eyes and did some serious howling.
He was so busy howling he didn’t hear the truck pull up.
“Oh wow,” somebody said. “You okay, kid?”
He stopped howling and said, “Uh?” There was a guy with his arm hanging out the window of an old green pickup, a young guy with a weird adam’s apple and red beard that wasn’t really a beard at all but about thirty-five curly red whiskers sticking out of his face. His forehead was so sunburned his skin was peeling off like wallpaper. What an idiot.
“You need a ride home?” the guy said.
Rusty hiccupped and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He didn’t need a ride from some sunburned idiot with a sorry red beard. Then he thought about walking all the way back to Old House, dragging his mangled bike and possibly dying from thirst or being ambushed by Mexican bandits.
“Can’t go home,” he said with a sniff. He explained he was running away from his cruel parents who had locked him in his room for nothing more than being curious and having an inquisitional mind, and if he went home now with a busted bike and blood on his shirt there’s no doubt that his mother, an extremely evil and unfriendly person named Beverly, would whip the snot out of him with her liontamer’s bullwhip, and his father would come home and scream the kind of cuss words that Rusty would rather not repeat out loud.
“Well, uh,” the guy said. “I don’t know what I can do about that, but yeah, I think I can probably fix that bike.”
The guy helped him off the ground and put his bike in the back of the pickup, which was filled with trash and wire and rusty tools and a coyote pelt that looked like it had been taken off a coyote not all that long ago. When they got in the pickup the guy shuddered like a ghost had touched him.
“It’s my feet,” Rusty said. “You’ll get used to it.”
They drove for a mile or two, then turned off on a dirt road so full of potholes and boulders they spent more time driving next to the road than on it. The guy didn’t say anything, didn’t look at Rusty, or even try explaining where they were going, just held his index finger up close to his nose. There was nothing but cedar trees and red-rock cliffs, and just when Rusty became certain the guy was taking him out into the boonies so he could murder him in some freaky way that would end up in the newspaper, they came over a rise where two silver-painted Quonset huts sat side by side like igloos on Mars.
Maybe this was a secret military installation where this mysterious sunburned guy was experimenting with ultra-secret death ray isotopes and was going to use Rusty as a human guinea pig? Or maybe he wanted Rusty as his trusted loyal henchman, which wouldn’t be so bad either.
“Home sweet home,” the guy said, and made a girly little laugh. He led Rusty into one of the huts, which was decorated something like a house: rugs on the cement floor, an easy chair next to a table with a ham radio, a cowhide couch, an enormous Frigidaire that hummed and shuddered.
The guy washed Rusty’s hands and arm in a utility sink and put iodine on his scrapes and a gauze bandage on his elbow.
“I was wondering what your name was?” he said.
“Lance,” Rusty said.
“Lance,” the guy said. “That’s a, uh, pretty good name. Yeah. My name’s June Haymaker.”
Rusty snorked, which was, for once, appropriate.
“A lot of people don’t know that June’s a man’s name,” June said, looking wounded by the snork. “You know there was a general, in the Civil War, named June? Definitely a, uh, masculine name.”
“I have a sister named June,” Rusty lied. “She’s three and a half.”
June put away the bandages and iodine, slamming some cupboards in the process, and then led Rusty out to the other Quonset hut, which he called his shop. The shop was filled with tools and machines and shelves stacked with boxes of rusty screws and bolts. Fluorescent lights hung from chains made everything, including June’s peeling face, look pale green.
June put the bent bike tire in a bench clamp and yanked on it with a wrench. He said, “I’ve seen you riding your bike before, I think. On Water Socket Road. You live in one of the houses? By the river?
“No,” Rusty said. Even though everybody in the valley knew that the Richardses were a polygamist family, and that anybody who didn’t know could tell he was a plyg kid just by looking at his crappy shirt, Rusty, along with his brothers and sisters, had been taught from day one never to talk to strangers about their family situation, never to mention they had more than one mother and more brothers and sisters than any normal person should be allowed to have. They weren’t supposed to lie, their parents and teachers taught them, they just weren’t supposed to tell the truth either. You figure it out.
They were reminded often there were people out there who did not understand their lifestyle and wanted to do them harm. Rusty figured a weirdo with a name like June had to be one of these people.
“So, uh,” June said. “You’re from one of the plyg families?”
“Yeah,” Rusty sighed. Seriously, what was the use anyway? “My dad’s Golden. He builds houses and stuff. Most people around here know him.”
June nodded and finished straightening the spokes with a pair of pliers. Once he had the wheel all fixed and back on the bike, and the chain and sprockets greased, he said, “You, uh, hungry, Lance? I keep a mini-fridge out here with, you know, snacks. If you want. Then I’ll drive you back home.”
“I could maybe eat something,” Rusty said. Locked away in the Tower he had gone without lunch, which was bad enough, and now it was getting close to dinner and he was ready to start fainting at any moment. June brought two cans of Pepsi, Slim Jims, a sleeve of crackers, and a box of Ding Dongs to the workbench, all of which Rusty put away while making little murmurs of appreciation. Instead of shoving the last Ding Dong into his mouth as he had the others, he savored it, really making sure he tasted it, knowing that as Aunt Beverly’s prisoner he would not be enjoying dessert for a very long time. Once the food was gone and he had a minute to consider things, he decided June Haymaker wasn’t too bad after all, even with his screwy name and out-of-control Adam’s apple.
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” Rusty said. “You building something?”
“Actually,” June said, “I’m…yes. Building something. Yeah. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”
Rusty pointed at June’s head. “I
was thinking maybe you should wear a hat, though. A hat helps with the sunburn.”
“Oh?” June said, pointing to his own face. “Yeah? This? No. Not sunburn. I had a little accident. Nothing, you know, serious. I should put some lotion on it.” He looked around as if searching for lotion, but there was only a grease gun and a can of Lava soap. “Yeah. Okay. Anyway. Before I take you home I’ll show you something, though. Real quick.” June rummaged around in some drawers and came back with what looked like a cardboard paper towel tube with a string hanging out of it. They went outside, where the sun was down and the sky was purple and pink and the red cliffs in the distance looked like they were on fire.
June dragged some kind of welded metal contraption out from under a tarp and set it up so that a metal pipe, about three feet long and sitting on a base of plate steel, was pointing straight into the dark sky. He took a lighter from his pocket, lit the string on the cardboard tube, which began to spit sparks and was, Rusty realized, a fuse. A fuse. Which meant that the cardboard tube thing was some kind of bomb.
“Okay,” June said, dropping the bomb into the pipe. “Back up a little why don’t we.”
You didn’t have to tell Rusty—he was already hauling his fat butt around the back of the pickup, hands over his head. He heard a noise that went thoonk and then a loud hissing and he looked up to see a flash that seemed to break apart into a thousand pieces overhead. It took him a moment to figure out that it wasn’t a bomb but fireworks, like the Fourth of July. Not the rinky-dink fireworks you buy at the roadside stands but the real ones they set off at the rodeo grounds. This one exploded not all that high above them with a bang that Rusty felt in his chest, and shot off fat orange and yellow sparks that lit up everything and trailed down in slow arcs until they landed on top of the Quonset huts and bounced on the ground and one of them landed in June’s hair, so that he had to smack himself with his palms to keep his head from going up in flames. Once he was sure his scalp was out of fire danger, he looked at Rusty and said, “Oh boy. You like that? I make them. Yeah. Fireworks. For a hobby.”
Rusty said that he liked it very much and would like to see a few more, please. June said, “Oh, yeah, maybe another time. We need to get you home.” He gave his smoking head one more whack. “Before your parents. Before they get worried.”
A SAFE RETURN
On the ride back home, Rusty imagined he could hear bloodhounds baying in the darkness and helicopters crisscrossing the night sky searching for him with their powerful spotlights and there was his family at home with a dozen police cars parked out front, wringing their hands and talking to the television cameras, We’ll do anything to get him back, anything, a two-hundred-dollar reward for his safe return, why don’t we go ahead and make it two-fifty, we’ll do whatever it takes, we just want him back, while his father ran through the willows in the river bottom all muddied and worried-looking, shouting, Rusty! Rusteeeeee!
But when they pulled up in front of Old House it was so quiet it looked like nobody was home and Rusty remembered that his father was not even around, but still in Nevada building a home for old fogies where he would hardly notice if Rusty disappeared and was found murdered and decapitated out in the desert by some lonely freako like June here.
June helped Rusty take the bike from the bed of the pickup. “Okay, then,” he said. “It was, uh, nice…”
“Don’t you want to come to the door with me?” Rusty said. “Maybe my mother won’t get mad if you’re there to explain things.”
“Oh? Uh,” June said. “All right.”
Before they made it up to the porch, Aunt Beverly opened the front door. The light behind her made her look black as a shadow and nine feet tall.
“Ma’am?” June said. “I was helping your boy here, uh, he crashed his bike—”
“And who are you?” Beverly said.
“My name? Yes. Ah. Ju—uh, Mr. Haymaker.”
Rusty had to try extra hard to stifle a snork. “I wrecked on my bike,” Rusty said. “This guy helped me.” Wincing pitifully, he made use of his bandaged arm to point at June, who held up the repaired bike as further evidence. June looked terrified, which was how anybody who had to face Aunt Beverly for the first time looked.
“Then I thank you, Mr. Haymaker,” she said. “Rusty, you’ll get inside the house right now. I had to call your mother and she’s sick with worry.” Rusty turned away from her witchy-woman stare, but June, who didn’t know any better, was looking right into it. He started to back away but then stopped and patted Rusty on the shoulder. “Lance here, yeah, he seems like a pretty good kid.”
Aunt Beverly said nothing, just increased the voodoo wattage of her stare, and finally June turned away and practically ran across the yard to his pickup, leaving Rusty to face the a-holes of Old House all alone.
BEEP BOP BOOP
Later that night his father showed up, as he always did, looking confused. It was after dinner, and Rusty was locked up in the Tower not eating dessert. His father made a little knock on the door, saying, Hey Rusty? Got a minute? as if Rusty had anything else to do, sitting up here in the Tower on his crumbly foam mat while downstairs everyone was having a good time and enjoying the heck out of some Apple Crisp Delight and vanilla ice cream.
Rusty’s father stepped into the bedroom, looking around as if he’d never seen it before. His eyes were bloodshot and his shirt wrinkled and when he settled his big behind on the bed something inside it broke with a muffled snap. Home from Nevada only half an hour and already Aunt Beverly had sent him up here to tell Rusty things he’d heard many times before: that his actions were disappointing and not even a tiny bit appropriate, that he was trying everyone’s patience and was a bad influence on the other children, and why couldn’t he just behave?
His father put his hands on his knees and shifted his butt around on the broken bed, but didn’t say anything. This was only the third time Rusty could remember being alone with his father. The first was when his father took him to the hospital after he’d fallen out of the back of the pickup and split his head open on the asphalt, and the other time was when they’d had a private talk of a serious nature after Rusty went around telling everybody the joke he’d overheard at a high school basketball game, the one involving two midgets, a banana, and somebody named Dolly Parton.
In fact, the only time his father ever spoke to Rusty was when he was in trouble, like when Rusty had acted dead in the hearse and his father had screamed at him with his eyes bugging out, as if acting dead in a hearse were not a pretty normal thing for a kid to be doing.
And there was also the time, the really bad time, when they told Rusty he was going to be the next lucky contestant in the interfamily exchange program, and that he would be going to live at Old House, with Aunt Beverly and all her a-hole children. The day they came to take him to Old House Rusty ran into the bathroom and held on to the towel bar with his invincible Bruce Lee grip. They tried to pull him away, the bigger boys and then some of the sisters and then Aunt Beverly and Aunt Nola, yelling, Let go, Rusty, let go! Or you’re going to be in some very serious trouble! and trying to pry his hands free, but nobody could deal with his kung-fu power. The night before, his mother had come to say good night and he told her he didn’t want to go to Old House, he hated it there and it wasn’t fair, and she stroked his hair and was nice to him, which she did only late at night when nobody else could see, and she told him he wouldn’t have to go if he didn’t want to, but there she was the next day, right there in the bathroom next to Aunt Beverly, sniffing a little and saying, Please let go, Rusty, you’re making a scene, this is for your own good. Finally, they called his father, who was at a church meeting, and his father tried for twenty minutes to talk Rusty into letting go of the towel bar and then said, The heck with this, and pulled the bar right out of the wall, yanked it out by the screws, and Rusty started screaming and kicking while his father picked him up and put him over his shoulder with Rusty still gripping the towel bar like nobody’s business and the bro
thers and sisters clapping and shouting, Hooray! And his father took him over to Old House in his pickup and they locked him up here in the Tower like he was some kind of criminal from olden times, like the Count of Monte Cristo or Hitler.
Now his father didn’t look mad at all, just tired. He stared at Rusty for a long time, moving his lips a little like he was trying to come up with a word he couldn’t remember.
“Rusty,” Rusty said. “My name’s Rusty.”
“Rusty. I know that. And I think you know why I’m here, Rusty. Aunt Beverly tells me you’ve been in all kinds of trouble this week. Can you tell me why you were in the girls’ underwear?”
“Because I’m curious?” Rusty said. “Because I’m a normal curious kid?”
“All right. Okay. What I’m having a difficult time with is the report that I got from Aunt Beverly that you were, you know, wearing the underwear. That’s what I’m having trouble with.”
Rusty shrugged. “Maybe because I have bad underwear and theirs is all nice and everything?” He got up and selected a random pair from the cardboard box he kept his clothes in.
The underwear were stretched out. They were full of holes. They were a color that wasn’t even close to white. They were what his teacher at school would call a highly effective visual aid. His father stared at him and his underwear and sighed. Obviously, his father didn’t understand him one bit. Was it because Rusty was not a human at all, but the last survivor of a race of intergalactic robots who had sent Rusty to earth in the form of a human to find out if it was a good planet for starting up a whole new race of robots that would one day blow up the universe? Possibly. And being an intergalactic robot, Rusty was new to earth ways and customs and that’s why he was having trouble communicating with the earthlings, especially the Richards family, who were all a-holes?