When Johnny saw Chemal shuffling over across the driveways, he did a double take. The kid was wearing gray cargo shorts that hung almost to his ankles, a pair of rubber flip-flops that he slap-dragged along the concrete as he walked, and a tattered military jacket covered in patches. The whole effect was one of a child wearing clothing at least six sizes too large. Chemal had made it almost across to Johnny’s driveway when one of the lingering frogs bounded in front of him.
“Whoa!” Chemal said. He stopped in his tracks and looked over at Johnny. “You see that?” he said. “There was a frog right there!” He looked at his feet and then turned a slow circle. “There’s another one!” he said. “Two frogs!” By the time he reached Johnny he was up to five frogs. Johnny extended a hand to him.
“I’m Johnny,” he said. Chemal took his hand and pumped it. “Chemal,” he said. He was friendlier than Johnny had expected. “Wait—should I call you Johnny?” the boy said.
“It’s my name,” Johnny said.
“Yes, but should I call you that? Or should I call you ‘Mister’ something? I mean, I just feel it’s best to ask this right up front.” This kid was weird. Johnny was starting to regret calling him.
“I mean, yo. I’ve had folks give me issues with this in the past,” Chemal said. “I feel I have a right to ask. Self-preservation, yo.”
“Some people just call me Ice,” Johnny told Chemal.
“They do?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, my God. They call you Ice. That is awesome.” Chemal was nearly shouting. He seemed to have trouble with volume modulation.
“It’s fine,” Johnny said quietly, looking around. He wondered how many of the stay-at-homers on Watchers Island were taking in this little one-act. He could imagine the Meehans across the street, for example. “Look out this window here, Diane,” Jim Meehan was probably intoning to his wife right now. “What’s Johnny doing home on a Thursday? And what’s he doing with that little criminal?”
“No, it’s awesome,” Chemal was saying. “Ice, baby.” He threw his shoulders back and cocked his head. He extended his arms in front of him and pointed his index fingers toward the ground. “You so hot, you cold. You so chill, you ice.”
“I own an ice factory,” Johnny explained.
“Oh.” Chemal looked disappointed. He dropped his arms and looked around. “Okay, so, this frog shit is whack,” Chemal said. “Five frogs. I’ve never seen so many in one place. Like, five frogs. Crazy, dude.” Still yelling.
“They’ve been here since yesterday,” Johnny said. “Haven’t you seen them?” Chemal looked at him blankly. Johnny let it drop.
“Thanks for helping me out, mate,” Johnny said.
“You from Australia?”
“Scotland.”
Chemal nodded but looked at Johnny skeptically. “Huh,” he said.
“Shall we go?” Johnny said.
“We shall,” Chemal said, bowing.
Johnny backed his Suburban out of the garage, then got out, took a deep breath, and handed the keys to Chemal, who bumped happily into the driver’s seat. Johnny got in on the passenger’s side and buckled his seat belt. “Nothing crazy,” he said.
Chemal laughed as though this was hilarious. “Oh, dude,” he said—and now that they were closed in the car Johnny cringed at the volume of Chemal’s voice—”worry not.” And, in fact, Johnny was surprised to find that Chemal could actually drive quite well; he backed out of the driveway attentively and maneuvered through the neighborhood at a reasonable twenty-seven miles per hour. One of the mysteries of the automobile that Johnny had long noted was the fact that some people were naturally just good drivers—confident, alert, nimble. Others were not. He wouldn’t have anticipated this—God, the kid was so lunky and loud on his own feet—but within just a few minutes, it was clear to Johnny that Chemal had an instinct for how to handle a vehicle. However, in light of the kid’s affect, which was registering on the weirdo scale somewhere between Gomer Pyle and Marilyn Manson, Johnny found his prowess behind the wheel only mildly reassuring.
“Where are we going?” Chemal said.
“A few stops,” Johnny said. “You don’t mind? Errands. Drugstore and stuff. And if you have time I wanted to see if you could take me out to a junkyard I know. I’m looking for some parts for a car.”
“A junkyard? Awesome,” Chemal said. “Parts for the Chevelle?”
Johnny was surprised. “You’ve seen the Chevelle?”
“Peeked under the car cover one day, dude. Sorry, couldn’t resist it. Seventy-three?”
“Seventy-two.” Johnny glanced at Chemal. “I don’t think many kids your age would know anything about that car,” he said. “You almost got the year.”
“I dig cars,” Chemal said. “Cars with power. I read Car and Driver. I watch Top Gear. You watch Top Gear?”
Johnny nodded.
“And do you know why we do this?” Chemal said. “I bet you don’t know why we do this.”
Johnny looked at him.
“It’s a coping mechanism. Males who like cars, and particularly muscle cars, like your Chevelle—they are attaching themselves to representations of power because they have trouble reconciling feelings of helplessness or vulnerability. They—well, we, I guess—can’t manage emotion well.” He shrugged. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“That’s daft,” Johnny said. “Who tells you this?”
“I read it,” Chemal said. “I think it’s plausible,” he added, a little defensively.
“I think it’s rubbish.”
Chemal shrugged. They approached the bridge out of Watchers Island.
“Well, anyway, I’m looking for parts for a Beetle. For someone else’s car,” Johnny said.
Chemal grimaced. “A Beetle? No horsepower there, dude.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What do you call a VW bus at the top of a hill?” Chemal said.
“You’re talking really loudly.”
“Sorry. I do that. What do you call a VW bus at the top of a hill?”
“I don’t know.”
“A miracle.” Chemal drummed on the steering wheel. “Badump-bump,” he said. “And what do you call two VW buses at the top of a hill?”
“I don’t know.”
“A mirage.”
Johnny allowed himself a smile. “That’s pretty good,” he said.
“But that Chevelle,” Chemal said. “Sweet car.”
“Yes,” Johnny said. “I think so, too.”
Chemal reached for the stereo. “You mind if we do some tunage?” he said. He pushed the button and the car filled with the sounds of classical music from the CD Johnny usually kept in the player. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. “Quasi una Fantasia”: “Almost a fantasy.” Chemal nodded approvingly.
“You like?” Johnny said.
“Well, I’m really a rock guy,” Chemal said. “I’m in the KISS Army, see?” He pointed at the patches on his jacket, which Johnny now saw all bore the same logo—the KISS graphic accompanied by a retro military insignia. “I’m a field marshal, in fact. Defending the cause, right?” He positioned his fingers in the thumb-and-pinkie heavy metal sign and pumped it toward the car roof. “But classical’s all right, too,” he added.
“You seem a little young to be a KISS fan,” Johnny said.
“I was just born at the wrong time,” Chemal said. He shook his head sadly. “I missed everything. KISS. Zeppelin. Ozzy. AC/DC. It breaks my heart, let me tell you.” He drove west, through the center of Watchers Island’s little business district.
“Over the bridge,” Johnny said. “Discount Auto.”
“You got it, Iceman,” Chemal said. “So, anyway, how come you can’t drive?”
“I have a thing,” Johnny said. “I’m on medication.”
Chemal glanced at him. “Are you contagious?” he said.
“No.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask that. I just feel I have a right to know.”
“Turn right,”
Johnny said. Chemal turned to the north, up US 1 toward Jacksonville. Johnny looked at him. “What’s your name about?” he said. “Is that a family name?”
“Are you saying is it a black name?” Chemal said.
“No.” God! What was with this fella? “I’m saying it sounds exotic. Your mom’s from Puerto Rico, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Well,” Chemal said. He fiddled with the air conditioner until the fan came on nearly full blast. “I think my mom wanted me to be black,” he said. “She was in love with this black dude? Only she was married to my dad? Not Jerry, my ass-wipe stepdad, but my dad. My real dad. So my mom says that when she was pregnant with me she didn’t really know if it was the black dude’s or my dad’s. I mean, if I was the black dude’s or my dad’s. And then she had me.” He held out his arm. “Whitey,” he said. “Tough break.”
Johnny had no idea how to respond to this. He realized he was freezing. “Mind if I turn this down a little bit?” he said. Then he remembered it was his own Suburban, and he felt annoyed for asking. He cut the AC down to mid-blast.
“My mom tells me shit,” Chemal continued. “She tells me all kinds of shit. She tells me stuff she probably shouldn’t tell me, you know? Like about Jerry and his limp dick.”
Johnny was pretty sure Chemal was making this up—at least the part regarding his mother’s disclosures, though not necessarily the part regarding Jerry’s reluctant johnson, about which Johnny had no opinion—but he took the bait. “That’s lovely,” he said. “It sounds like you and your mom are very close.”
“That sounds a little bit sarcastic there, Mr. Freeze.”
“Only a little bit?” Johnny said.
Chemal laughed gleefully. Johnny decided to stop the small talk.
They stopped at the auto parts store, where Johnny bought three quarts of Marvel Mystery Oil. They stopped at Staples to buy an ink cartridge for Pauline’s printer. At Target, Johnny stocked up on his prescriptions and on sugar pee strips and dropped a small fortune on an iPhone power converter and charger that would work with the outlets in Scotland. Then they were hungry, so Johnny directed Chemal to Shakey’s Fish Camp on Doctors Lake, a fan-cooled shanty of a place where Johnny sometimes took some of the factory boys for shrimp and grits. The place was nearly empty save for a couple of tables of retirees and a group of women in scrubs. The waitress, Betsy, approached, and she looked from Johnny to Chemal and back again. She raised an eyebrow.
“New friend?” she said. Johnny nodded.
“My word, the editorials in the newspaper lately. On the ice plant. You seen ‘em?” she said.
“No.”
“Probably best. You got a ruling on your OSHA thing then?”
“No,” he said. And he looked at her levelly, offering nothing else. God, what a busybody Betsy was.
“None of my business,” she said, offended. “Iced tea?”
“Belhaven,” Johnny said, and she raised her eyebrow again but said nothing.
“And something for my friend here,” Johnny said. “What do you want, a Coke?”
Chemal made a dramatic show of scanning the menu. “I might need a moment or two,” he said. Betsy walked back toward the bar to pick up a tray of drinks for another table.
“Buy me a beer,” Chemal muttered. “Iceman. Do it. Do it. Do it.” He kept his eyes on Betsy and spoke out of the side of his mouth.
“Piss off,” Johnny said. “He’ll have a Coke,” he called to Betsy.
Chemal looked stung.
“God,” he said. But he recovered quickly when he saw the television behind the bar.
“Check this dude,” he said to Johnny.
Johnny watched the television. It was a talk show, one of those daytime TV chaos scenarios in which the host and the audience members hurl insults at the guests. In this case the guest appeared to be a teen dad who was not living up to his paternal responsibilities. Every time the camera cut to the young father, a superimposed caption flashed on the screen. “Baby-Daddy Won’t Step Up!” it said.
“You need to grow up, son,” the host was saying. Chemal smiled. The camera cut to the crowd and zoomed in on an angry woman on her feet, pointing a finger at the slouching young dad on the stage.
“You need to keep your pants zipped up, slick,” the woman said. Chemal snorted. “And get a job,” she added. The superimposed caption on the screen changed. “Lives with Girlfriend, Plays Video Games All Day!” it said.
“That girl needs to kick your butt to the curb, son,” the host said. “You are a father, and you need to start acting like one or find the door, one or the other.”
“This dude reminds me of my cousin,” Chemal said. Betsy brought the drinks and set them on the table.
“That host guy?” Johnny said.
“No, the kid there. I’ve got a cousin like that. He got this girl pregnant and then didn’t do a thing about it. She had the baby, and she named him Braden Morgan Warner. Some name, huh? Like an investment firm or something. He was a cute kid, too, like, I would have taken care of a kid like that. My cousin’s a total loser. The baby’s two now, I think. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“This was in Detroit?”
“Yeah. Motor City.” Chemal looked a little wistful.
Johnny felt a twinge of sympathy. How old was this kid? Seventeen? He was a lonesome kind of fellow, for seventeen. “Tell me about the baby,” Johnny said.
“Oh, dude. Well, my cousin’s girlfriend, her name was Misty. She worked at Rite Aid and took care of the kid just fine. The family was helping her out, right? Because my cousin was in prison by this time for possession. So Misty decides she’s going to get a tattoo of her baby’s initials. Kind of sweet. When she gets to the tattoo parlor and they get going on it, the tattoo guy points out that the baby has the same initials as the car company: BMW. Misty’s like, No shit? She’s not superbright, okay? So in addition to the baby’s initials, she goes ahead and gets the BMW logo as well.”
“She got a BMW logo tattoo,” Johnny said.
“Yep.”
“Dare I ask where?”
“Across her chest,” Chemal said.
“Lovely,” Johnny said.
“Well, not on her boobs,” Chemal said. He leveled his hands in front of his chest and moved them up toward his neck. “Like, above her boobs.” Johnny found it slightly endearing that Chemal, whose repertoire surely included more colorful terms for a woman’s breasts, chose “boobs” to reference Misty’s. It was respectful, somehow.
“You don’t have brothers or sisters?” Johnny said.
“No. Well, I used to. I had a brother.” Chemal looked back at the television again. “He died.”
“Oh,” Johnny said. “Of what?”
“He jumped out of the back of a moving school bus and hit his head. He got bullied a lot. Because of a lisp.”
“When was this?”
Chemal shrugged. “I was six. He was eleven.”
“I’m sorry,” Johnny said. And then, because it somehow, ridiculously, seemed like it might make the kid feel better, he disclosed to Chemal what he had yet to tell anyone else: “I might have cancer,” he said.
Chemal’s eyes widened. “Dude,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Might?”
“Yeah, might.”
“When will you know?”
“Couple of weeks.”
“Is that the medical thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to die?”
Johnny stared at him, struck by the baldness of the question.
“Was that rude?” Chemal said.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry if it was. I have issues with that. I don’t follow social cues. That’s what they tell me, anyway. You’ve probably noticed. I’m smart, but my social skills are very bad. I saw my chart one time at the shrink’s office. ‘Marked verbosity.’ ‘Poor prosody.’”
“It wasn’t rude.”
“Like, my volume control can be bad. You
’ve probably noticed. I talk too loud.”
“I would like to think I’m not going to die.”
“I’m pulling for you, Iceman.”
“Thank you.”
Johnny pushed his half-empty glass of beer over to Chemal and stood up. “Don’t get drunk on that,” he said. “I still need you to drive me around.”
“Duuuuudde,” Chemal breathed.
“I’m going to the loo,” Johnny said.
In the bathroom, he regarded himself in the mirror. Fingerlike extensions, huh? He ran a hand along the left side of his skull, picturing the tumor just beneath the bone.
“You’re letting me down, old man,” he said. “Cut the crap now, okay?” He pulled out his cell phone and called Sharon but reached voicemail; he left a message telling her he was thinking of coming over, told her he’d email the specifics. There. Done. The first step out onto any limb, Johnny had learned, was telling somebody else about it. Once that was done, it was harder to go back.
At the table, Chemal was sipping his Coke. The beer glass was empty. The topic on the talk show had changed to Internet addiction. Now the host was chastising a young married couple who spent all their time on their computers in separate rooms, hardly interacting with each other. They even had cybersex. With each other. “Do you not see the depravity of this?” the host was saying. The people in the audience were booing and shaking their heads in disgust.
Chemal shook his head.
“Going about it all wrong,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Johnny said.
“He’s damning them for using technology to enhance reality. You see that all the time. People are afraid of tech.”
“It is a little weird,” Johnny said.
The Ice House Page 13