Gilchrist: A Novel

by Christian Galacar

  There was the sound of shifting on the other end of the line, the scratch of a flint being struck, then a long pause while Tom pulled a drag off his cigarette. Peter could picture him doing it, the same way he always saw him do it—eyes closed, head at an angle, enjoying the near-instant rush of nicotine being dumped into his bloodstream—whenever they met for drinks or at his office in Cambridge to discuss a project. More often than not, their meetings were nothing more than thin excuses to get drunk in the afternoon.

  “Calm down, they didn’t change anything. It was everything we discussed last week. Just let me know when they send the check.”

  “I always do, don’t I?” Tom took another drag off his cigarette. Then, his voice taking on a more comfortable tone, he asked, “So did you miss me today?”

  “I know you like to think that writers can’t make it an hour without an agent to hold their hand, but I can handle signing my own name a few times.”

  “That’s right.” Tom laughed and made a pleased sound of agreement. There was also a soft hissing in the receiver, which Peter knew to be the sound of smoke jetting from Tom’s nostrils.

  “Listen, Tom, I need to give you a heads-up about something.”

  (my wife tried to kill herself, we can’t have a baby, and our life is falling apart)

  “Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of this already. Your tone’s all wrong.”

  “I rented a lake house over in Gilchrist.” Peter picked up a pencil and started mindlessly scratching it on a piece of paper on his desk. “Sylvia and I will be leaving for a few weeks on Sunday, and I won’t be reachable.”

  “Gilchrist? Where the hell is that?”

  “Fifty miles or so west of Concord. It’s barely a speck on the map.”

  “And they don’t have telephones there?” Tom said dubiously.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I don’t follow—why will you be unreachable, then?”

  “I don’t want to be disturbed,” Peter said. “I’ll call you with the number when I get there, but I don’t want to hear from you or anyone else unless it’s an emergency. Don’t take it personally or anything, I just need the break. I need to cut the tether for a little bit.”

  “A break? Is everything all right?” Tom coughed and cleared his throat again. Peter could hear that Tom’s posture had stiffened with concern. “This is a little abrupt, not that you need my—or anyone’s—permission to take a vacation. I just want to make sure that everything is okay.”

  “Everything’s fine. I promise,” Peter said. “Sylvia and I just need a little vacation, that’s all. We haven’t had some time away from home since… well, it’s been too long.”

  There was a moment of silence on the line.

  “Maybe you two could use this. You’re right. Go get centered, if that’s what you need,” Tom said, seeming to understand. Then, changing tones from sympathy back to business before things became too sentimental, he added: “But don’t forget about your deadline. We agreed to have a polished draft of the new book to Kingston by the end of September. That’s a short six weeks out, my friend. And I don’t think I need to remind you that publishers don’t take kindly to missed deadlines. They could ask for their advance back, and I’m sure you’d hate to have to part with that money.”

  “That’s not going to be a problem, Tom. You worry too much. It’s bad for your heart. The first draft is finished. It just needs some tweaking.” Peter glanced down at the stack of manuscript pages sitting next to the typewriter on his desk.

  “As usual, I’ll feel better when it’s in my hands and I’m reading it,” Tom said.

  “Soon enough, I promise.”

  “I have no doubts,” Tom said.

  “None? I hardly believe that.”

  Tom laughed. “A few, but not about you. When do you and the missus plan to go AWOL?”

  “I was hoping to leave Sunday morning. Get an early start.”

  “Well, if anyone deserves it, it’s you, Pete. You’re one of the good ones, my friend. Don’t forget that. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “Calhoon’s when I get back?” Peter asked.

  “First round’s on me,” Tom said. “Take care now, and tell Syl I send my best.”

  “Yep, same to Joan. Talk to you later.”

  Peter was still doodling on the scrap of paper when he hung up the phone. He looked down at what he had written: I’ve decided to go.

  It was something he did often. When he needed a push, sometimes he would write down the thing he was unsure of, as if in doing so, he was setting his decision in stone, committing to it. He even had a little slogan that went along with it: When in doubt, write it out.

  He looked at what he had written once more and nodded to himself. Dr. Zaeder’s concerns for his wife had been justified, but Peter felt this was the right choice. She needed a change, not a hospital. And so did he.

  Chapter Three

  RICKY OSTERMAN

  1

  Hooch Collins, whose real name was actually Christopher Collins, stood on the sawed-off tree limb fifty feet above the lake. He was wearing nothing but his soaking-wet underwear. His doughy body glistened gold and red in the setting sun. His dumb-wide moon-face shone out over the water like a beacon of bad ideas. In one hand was the beer he’d somehow managed to carry with him up the shoddy two-by-four ladder, which the generation of teenagers before him—perhaps even his own father—had nailed into the side of the giant oak tree, probably during a summer much like this one. In the other hand was the knotted end of the rope swing.

  Grace Delancey watched the whole scene, the lump of disquiet steadily growing in her throat. Why had she agreed to come? She hated Ricky and Hooch. Their entire vocabulary consisted of nothing more than grunting, belching, swearing, and referring to girls as wool.

  “Don’t be such a chickenshit, just go,” Ricky Osterman yelled up from the ground.

  He, too, was standing around in his wet underwear and drinking a beer. His physique was much more athletic than Hooch’s. His arms were long and sinewy, his back broad and striated with muscle. The skin on his shoulders and chest was spattered with large freckles that matched his dirty-red head of hair and made him look perpetually in need of a bath. His nonthreatening facial features—a small, flat nose; unremarkable, wide-set green eyes; and a soft jawline—suggested a person whose true nature often went unnoticed until it was too late. Grace suspected as much, anyway. That might’ve been the real reason she didn’t like him. Something about him was dangerous.

  “I don’t see you up here,” Hooch said.

  “Quit pulling your pud, and I will be. Me and your fat ass can’t be on that branch at the same time. It’d never support us both. Maybe lay off the Twinkies, chunko.”

  “Go piss up a rope, Ricky.” His face sort of stalled, perhaps realizing he was, in fact, holding an actual rope.

  “I got a better idea. You just need a little motivation.” Ricky searched the ground, found what he was looking for, then cocked his arm back and fired the rock at Hooch. It whizzed by him, narrowly missing his thigh.

  Ricky had been a decent pitcher before he’d quit the Gilchrist High School varsity baseball team last year. He’d never been much of a junk thrower, but man, could he throw straight smoke when he wanted to. Even when he was a freshman, the senior classmen didn’t dare crowd the plate when he took the mound. Mitch Shepland had once made the mistake, and Ricky had sent him to the hospital with a fractured cheekbone. Ricky had never even blinked, not even when Mitch spat out four of his teeth onto home plate as he crawled around on the ground, dazed and mumbling incoherently. An example had needed to be made.

  “Quit it, asshole,” Hooch said, his face sobering. “That ain’t funny. You want me to break my neck?”

  “That’s the point, fucko. We’re gettin bored down here. We want a show.” Ricky cackled.

  His laugh ripped the air like a rusty chainsaw. The sound made Grace’s skin crawl. As if he sensed this, Ricky glanced in
her direction and grinned, exposing two rows of small yellowish teeth.

  Lay off the cigarettes, Grace thought. Blech!

  She and Beverly were sitting on the telephone pole near the water’s edge. Sometimes kids stole the old poles from the utility department and brought them out to Big Bath to use as floats to drink beer on at night. The skilled ones, Grace had heard, were able to maintain balance well enough to have sex on them. She supposed if a couple positioned themselves properly, it might be possible, but what did she really know? She was still a virgin. She didn’t want to be. It wasn’t like she was saving it for her wedding night or anything, but she wasn’t putting up fliers or taking out ads in the Gilchrist Chronicle, either. It would happen when it happened.

  Her friend, on the other hand, seemed as though she couldn’t do it fast enough. Beverly had expressed her desire to not enter high school a virgin. It was on her Summer of ’66 To-Do List. And so was Ricky. Beverly was the reason Grace was there. She’d only come as a favor. Grace couldn’t even begin to understand Beverly’s crush on Ricky, but her friend wanted her there for support. Grace knew the real reason Beverly had asked her: Grace evened up the teams, two on two. Not that she would ever consider being with either one of those boys. Not only was she not in a rush to have sex… she wasn’t desperate, either. And Ricky and Hooch were G-R-O-S-S.

  Just like the boys, Beverly was stripped down to her underwear. She had a towel draped over her shoulders and was smoking a Viceroy she’d stolen out of her mother’s purse. She was puffing on it, trying to look cool. Her dark hair was wet and matted and hung down in clumps, sticking to the cups of her padded bra. They’d all gone swimming except for Grace, who wasn’t about to undress in front of two guys she could barely stand to be in same car with, let alone strut around in next to nothing. No, Grace was in a skirt and blouse. Dry. And she was absolutely happy as could be about that.

  “Ain’t that right, ladies?” Ricky said, wiping his forearm across his chin. “Don’t we want a show?”

  “You want a show?” Hooch called down to Ricky. “I gotta take a leak. Open up and say ahhh.”

  Ricky laughed derisively and shook his head. “What a weirdo,” he said to the girls, as if trying to sell himself as the good guy.

  Beverly took another clumsy drag off her cigarette, fingers shaking as she inhaled. She coughed out the smoke. “Come on, let’s see what you got, Hoochy. Swing for it,” she yelled, sounding forced. She picked up her beer and took a small sip. She turned to Grace. “Have some,” she said softly.

  “You’re kidding, right? My dad would lose it if he smelled that on my breath. It’s bad enough you’re blowing smoke all over me.” She scooted away.

  “It won’t kill you, Grace. Just a little sip. It’s not like you’re gonna get drunk.”

  “I don’t want any, Bev. Knock it off.” She looked up at Hooch, shaking her head. “He’s going to hurt himself. This is crazy. That’s really high up.”

  “Relax, they’re just having fun. You ever thought about trying it yourself?” Beverly said snidely.

  Grace knew it was the alcohol talking. Beverly was showing off. It annoyed her, but she understood it. People just wanted to be liked.

  “Yeah, Gracie, have a little fun,” Ricky, who’d been eavesdropping, said. “Your daddy ain’t here. You afraid the chiefy is gonna come arrest his own daughter?” He smirked at her.

  “It’s Grace, not Gracie,” she said. “And your friend will kill himself if he swings from up there. The water’s too shallow. Just thought you should know.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a sight. I’d pay to see it.” Ricky looked up. “Hey, Hooch, she thinks you’re gonna die. Maybe you should come down,” he said sarcastically.

  Hooch flipped him off and tossed the beer can over his shoulder. “Nothing can kill Hooch Collins!” he yelled, then howled like a wolf and beat his chest with his free hand. His howl echoed across Big Bath.

  “You want next? You ain’t got wet yet,” Ricky said to Grace. “I bet you’d like to get wet. You look like you could use it.” He winked at her. “I can take care of that.”

  “No thanks, I’m fine,” Grace said, her tone flat but not intimidated. “That’s a heck of an offer, though. The girls must go crazy for it.”

  She winked mockingly at Ricky to return his gesture and show him that he didn’t scare her.

  He scowled and narrowed his eyes. You smart-mouthed bitch, they said.

  Beverly nudged her. “Grace, you promised to be nice,” she whispered. “He’s only kidding.”

  Grace looked at her and rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. What’re we even doing out here?”

  Beverly gaped at Grace. It was silent friend-speak that meant: Please just give me a little longer, then I’ll owe you forever.

  Grace sighed. Friend-speak translation: Fine.

  Ricky came closer, not giving up. He wouldn’t be silenced that easily. “You don’t know how to swim, is that it?” He stood in front of the girls, and throwing his head back and pushing out his crotch, he chugged the rest of his beer. With a loud belch, he tossed his empty beer in the lake.

  Beverly giggled.

  Why is she laughing? Grace thought. It wasn’t even funny. Though, once again, she supposed she understood.

  “How lovely,” Grace said.

  “Like what you see, do ya?” Ricky gyrated his hips, laughing.

  Wet, his underpants were nearly transparent. She didn’t want to, but curiosity got the best of her, and Grace glanced. She looked away quickly, her stomach fluttering. It was one of those cases where someone says not to think about purple elephants, then whammo! your head is full of purple elephants.

  Ricky shifted his attention, having had the final word.

  “Jesus Christ, go already,” he said across his shoulder, and spun around. He went back to the base of the tree and started yelling up at Hooch. “Go, or I’m comin up there to throw you off.”

  Once more, curiosity got the best of her and Grace caught herself looking at Ricky’s butt. She could see all the muscles moving together as he mounted the tree ladder and squatted on the bottom foothold, letting one arm hang behind him like an ape. She was in no way attracted to him, but there was something about his lithe movement that drummed up a strange feeling inside her. She turned away from it.

  “Here I come,” Ricky said.

  “I dunno, I think I’m too high,” Hooch said uneasily.

  “Yeah, and too stupid.” Ricky let another blade of sharp, rusty laughter rip.

  “You sure people actually swing from up here? I’ve done it from the low branches before, but…” Hooch trailed off.

  He was starting to resemble a frightened cat stuck in a tree. The five or six beers he’d put away might’ve helped him find the courage to get up there, but they weren’t quite enough to make him forget he had a fear of heights.

  “All the time. You’re fine. Now hurry up.” Ricky jumped off the ladder and started searching the ground again. He found another rock and fired at Hooch for the second time. This one bounced off the trunk with a hearty klunk! right beside his head.

  “I mean it, knock it off, Ricky.” Hooch spat at Ricky, leaning over to watch its descent. But the blob of saliva dispersed on its journey down and was lost.

  As he tried to straighten, Hooch lost his balance. One hand was holding the rope; the other was reaching blindly for the tree trunk to steady himself. It was too late. He was going down one way or the other.

  “Here he goes, ladies and gentlemen,” Ricky said, his voice taking on showman’s quality.

  Hooch wrapped his arms around the rope and leaped out over the water, feet finding a knot on the rope. He came straight down at first, but at about the halfway mark, the rope found tension and Hooch swung out over the lake in a wide and wild arc. He was screaming and laughing the whole time. Mostly screaming. When he reached the apogee, he let go and tucked into a cannon ball. He hit the water with a loud slap and sent a geyser of water thirty feet into the air.
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  Ricky cheered. Beverly cheered. Grace watched the place where he’d hit as the whitewater from Hooch’s entry calmed.

  Hooch didn’t surface. A few seconds passed. Twenty. Still no Hooch.

  Beverly didn’t look so amused anymore. “Ricky, is he okay? Where is he? He should be up by now.”

  “Eh, I’m sure he’s just messing around. He’s fine,” Ricky said, and went to check for another beer.

  Grace stood and went to the water’s edge, starting to kick off her shoes. She was going in after him. Maybe she didn’t like Hooch, but she didn’t want him to drown, either. “I told you it was too shallow, you moron.”

  She hiked up her skirt and waded in. The water was warmer than she’d thought it would be. “Chris?” She looked in the direction where he had landed. She could see boulders under the shallow surface, any one of which he could’ve smacked his head or back on when he’d landed.

  “Don’t call him Chris. He hates that name,” Ricky said casually, searching through a rusty bucket of empty cans. “Only one left.” He pulled out the last can of beer. “We’re all out. Gotta make a run before they close.”

  Grace waded out a little farther. Her skirt was wet now. Panic was starting to squeeze her gut. She looked back over her shoulder at Beverly.

  “Do you see him?” Beverly asked.

  “No.” Then to Ricky, she said, “Are you going to do anything or are—”

  “Blaaargh!” Hooch launched himself out of the water about ten feet in front of Grace, arms waving wildly. “I’m the Creature from the Black Lagoon.” He had covered himself in mud and was grinning, white teeth shining through.

  Grace screamed, and smacked a handful of water at him. “You jerk! I thought you…”

  “What?” Hooch said, the humor fading from his face.

  Ricky laughed. “I told you he was just messin with you.” He kicked the empty bucket over, spilling the cans. He opened the beer he’d found and started drinking it.

  Amusement returned to Hooch’s face, and he started toward Grace, arms out straight like a zombie. “Come to me, my love.”