She’s walking my way, allowing me a full view of incredibly nude body. Sharon stops only a few feet away and leans over to smell a flower on the butterfly bush the Daniels’s have planted beside the birdbath.
The stupid bushes are blocking my view.
Sharon stands, a butterfly perched on her forefinger, and she’s facing me, but her eyes are locked on the winged caterpillar. She looks amazing. Perfect. This is the most amazing moment of my entire life. It’s the—
She looks up and locks eyes with mine, and it’s like there is no fence. Or a peephole for that matter. It’s like I’m standing naked in front of her instead of the other way around. My blood freezes, my heart stops and my knees cramp. Then she winks. She actually winks. It’s only a tiny gesture as if not to give herself away to Ritchie, but it’s definitely a wink. She knows I’m here. But instead of freaking out or getting mad or flirting or waving, she just stands there looking at me while allowing me to look at her. She holds that pose for what feels like forever before she turns and prances toward the house. She pulls open the slider, steps inside and disappears. I stand back, barely able to breathe. I can die now. I can die a happy man having lived a full life. I just walked on the moon.
Ritchie approaches and slaps me on the back while shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you believe what just happened?”
“You’re forgiven,” I answer.
Ritchie runs his fingers through his curly black hair. “Damn right I am.”
Damn right. Damn right he’s forgiven, damn right he’s my best friend, damn right Payton is my hometown, Sharon is our angel and Kristie is my princess. Teenagers can spend entire summers killing time doing dumb stuff like this. The sun never sets, the leaves never fall, and youth lasts forever. We’re rebels with a one-track mind. We’re lost when it comes to logic. Beer, girls and friends. That’s what it’s all about.
“Come on,” Ritchie says. “We need to celebrate.”
Damn right we do.
Part III
“Where we goin’?” I ask, following my friend back along the rusty old tracks.
“I got beers.”
“And I gotta study. And since my books are ruined, thanks to you, I have to start all over.”
“You are such a baby,” Ritchie snaps. “I ain’t got better than a C-minus on any tests yet this year, and here we are, both on the verge of graduating at the same exact time. Imagine that.”
I can’t imagine that, but I also can’t argue with that, and I can’t help but grin as I follow my best friend back to his place. We sneak into the basement where Ritchie unveils a stash of bad beer he’s got hidden under his dad’s workbench. He tosses me one, and we start drinking while playing video games on mute as his parents shuffle around upstairs. I’ve known Ritchie since we were eight, but I’ve only met his parents a couple of times. Ritchie doesn’t bring me here. He doesn’t bring anyone here. He doesn’t often talk about his parents, and on the rare occasions that he does, he doesn’t have a lot of nice things to say.
His mom is sheepish—all painted smiles. She’s the kind of woman who makes the best of a bad situation. And even when she knows things are bad, she’ll turn the other cheek and ask that the rest of us do too.
Ritchie’s dad is different story. He’s tough. I don’t think he likes kids. I’m not even sure he likes his own son. He definitely doesn’t like me. He doesn’t even pretend to. Ritchie and I met back when we were kids as I was getting pummeled by two other guys. Ritchie took my back and changed the game. His dad knows this, which means—in his eyes—I’m weak, and he doesn’t tolerate weakness. He was a Marine, and now he’s a truck driver, and to him, I’m just the neighborhood ‘wimp’ who can’t take care of himself.
From down here in the basement, we can’t actually hear what they’re saying up there, but we can hear enough to know they’re arguing, and as the beer settles in, I’m starting to feel all giggly, and it’s hard to keep quiet.
“Keep it down,” Ritchie hisses. “My dad catches us down here, and he’ll whoop both our asses.”
“I though you said your dad was your hero?”
“My dad’s an asshole, and if he catches us down here drinking his beer, he’ll kill us both.”
“He won’t kill us.”
“Actually, he might.”
“Then why are we here?”
Ritchie grins. “’Cuz sometimes it feels good to be bad.”
“I’m leaving,” I say, setting the controller down.
“You’re staying. Just keep it down.”
“You’ve told me things about your dad, and I don’t think I need to see it up close.”
“Just be quiet, and we’ll be fine. He never comes down here.”
“What if this time he does?”
“Just be quiet!” Ritchie hisses. He shakes his head as he returns his attention to the game. I sit motionless, not sure what to do. Ritchie looks over. “You gonna play or not?”
“Not sure.”
“Just ‘cuz he’s up there don’t mean we can’t have fun down here.”
I smile and reengage. What a day. What a perfect day. First Kristie, then Sharon and now Ritchie. My girl, my fantasy and my best friend. Not even Hollywood could script something like this. When you’re seventeen, the world is limitless—even in a shithole, going-nowhere town like Payton.
“You don’t wanna leave,” Ritchie mumbles, tearing me from my moment of self-actualization and returning me to his basement and this lousy couch that has to be at least fifty years old. The fibers feel like they’re attaching themselves to my butt.
“What?” I ask.
“Leave,” Ritchie responds while keeping his mind and his eye on the game. He’s contorting his face and moving his arms around as he manages the controls as if the added animation will make all the difference in the world. “When we graduate.”
“This again?” I look at him a moment before coarsely returning my attention to the game. “I told you, it’s not like I won’t be back.”
“For what, Christmas?” he shakes his head. “Don’t give me that. You ain’t comin’ back.”
“I’m coming back. This is still my home.”
“Then why even go? I mean, why go off to college if this is where you want to be? You don’t need a fancy degree to be successful here.”
“I’m coming back to visit. I never said anything about staying.”
He frowns, shaking his head. “I’m just—” Then suddenly, his face contorts, and he grimaces, closing his left eye and turning his head. He slaps at the right side of his skull before shaking it off.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I get headaches.”
“What kind of headaches?”
“Headaches.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“It’s cool.”
“It’s not cool.”
“I take aspirin.”
“And that works?”
“What do you care?”
I shake my head. “God, Rich, grow up, will you? I have a chance to actually do something with my life. Why can’t you be supportive? As my friend?”
“But this is home. You even said it yourself. This is home. This is where we’re supposed to raise our families. Here you don’t gotta worry about things like money. You don’t need a fancy degree to live the dream.”
“But there’s a whole world out there.”
“Yeah, but this is home. Here I’m somebody.”
“I’m not talking about you.”
“I’m the best pitcher in five counties.”
“Ten.”
“I can’t leave.”
“No one says you have to.”
“But I don’t wanna stay if you’re not gonna be here.”
“Look, even if I go, you’re still my brother. I’ll drag your hairy ass with me.” I shower the enemy with digital bullets, bringing dire consequences to my opponents who ‘oof’ and ‘
grr’ in digital death.
“Yeah, you say that now.”
“I don’t get you. You’re not stupid. So, take some courses at the community college over in Lawton. Get your grades up, and come with me.”
“I wouldn’t shit in that town.”
“That’s a colorful image.”
“My future’s plain as ice. I’m—”
“Rice.”
“Huh?”
“Plain as rice.”
“My point is, I’m gonna work for Taylor Collision all my life, and that’s just the way it is. They’re already prepping me for when Jeff retires, and I already do 60% of the runs as it is.”
“You should be thinking about applying for baseball scholarships. Any school in the nation would be stupid not to look at your numbers.”
He considers for a second before again shaking his head. “I can’t do it out there. This is my town. These are my fans. Here I’m somebody.”
“I don’t get it. You can—”
“No, you don’t get it.” His eyes are welling. “You’re not even…” He turns back to the TV.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“I’m not even what?”
“You’re always saying I’m not stupid, but I am.” He slams the controller on the couch cushion beside him, the words ‘Game Over’ flashing on the screen. “They tested my brain, man, and those tests say that I’m three points above being legally retarded. That means I’m smart enough to know I’m stupid. Payton is all I’m capable of. I’m not a big league pitcher. I can barely drive a tow truck. But it’s enough to afford a little house and a coupla kids, and people will still want to buy me a beer even when I’m old and fat because at one time, a long time ago, I was pretty good at throwing a baseball.”
“You’re not retarded,” I repeat. “If you were retarded, we would have nothing in common and we wouldn’t be friends, but we do, and we are. We’ve been best friends our whole lives. Besides, those tests are rigged. I scored low too.”
“Whatever.”
“The hell with the tests. You’re not stupid. Don’t let them get to you. You’re tougher than that. And you’re the best pitcher anyone around here’s ever seen. Stop whining like a pussy, get off your ass and make them pay attention. Jesus, Rich, let them see you.”
He pouts.
“You know what I mean,” I grumble. “My vulgar, blasphemous language aside.”
“I just don’t want to lose my best friend.”
“You’re not losing your best friend.” This is weird. My great day has suddenly turned into something sour. I’ve never seen Ritchie like this before. He doesn’t lean on anyone—especially like this. He sounds weak, and I don’t know how to support him.
“You’re movin’ to another state,” He murmurs.
“Yes, I’m moving to another state. For a little while. I’ve been working my ass off these last twelve years so I’d have the opportunity to move to another state. UGA opened their arms to me, so I’m flying south.”
Ritchie looks depressed.
“Look,” I say, knowing any explanation I give won’t explain a thing. Not to him. “I want a lucrative future. I want something more than Payton County. Payton is nice. Payton’s like a…like a…” I struggle to come up with a proper analogy. “Payton’s like an Oreo cookie. An Oreo cookie is nice and good and all that, but if you had to choose between an Oreo cookie and a whole cake, an entire cake with the works—white frosting and chocolate chips and all that, which would you choose?”
Ritchie sits quietly.
“You’d pick the cake,” I say.
“I might not.”
“Trust me, you’d pick the cake.”
Ritchie says nothing. He just stares at the TV.
“Payton doesn’t have much,” I try. “It’s a population nothing, prospects zero small town out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Can’t you at least stay through the summer?”
“I can’t. I already accepted that job at the university bookstore.”
“But you already got a job here.”
“The university pays more, Rich, and the job starts in June. If I work through the summer, my first semester is already paid for.”
“But school won’t be over yet.”
“For us seniors it will be.”
“The baseball season won’t be over yet.”
I bite my tongue, considering my words carefully. “And I’m sorry about that. I mean it. I’d love to be able to hang around long enough to see you finish out the season, but I can’t. But if we make the state championship, I’ll come back and watch you pitch. I promise.”
“Don’t make no promises you can’t keep,” he murmurs. “Bro.”
“Don’t guilt-trip me.”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ of the sort.”
“Are we going to play or argue like little old women?”
“We’re playing,” he grumbles.
“Good, then let’s play.”
“Fine,” he snaps, picking up his controller and turning his attention back to the TV. This is such an odd conversation, and not a pleasant one either. He nods, and I feel like I’m looking out for a little brother. Not that I have a little brother, which just amplifies the weirdness especially when it’s usually Ritchie looking out for me. Ritchie thinks for a moment, his eyes distant even though fixed on the screen across the room. Finally, he swigs from his beer, burps and nods. “Are we playin’ or what?” he snaps.
“We’re playing.”
“Well, you got the thing,” he argues. “Press ‘play.’”
I smile as I turn back to the screen and resume action. The battlefield livens and we are tossed back into the action, our guns blazing as we shower our opponents with bullets. Digital blood smacks the screen and we are amazed by how far graphics have come in only a few years.
“Wow,” he whispers, this glow all around him—an innocence, and for me, it’s a revelation. Not the game or the beer or even Sharon Daniels. But Ritchie. Underneath his tough-guy persona there’s a little boy who’s terrified of everything; school, work, life, girls—the whole world. Even me. He’s afraid of growing up, despite how much he hates his parents and the shackles they hold him back with. No disrespect to God or anything, but Jesus Christ, that’s a lot to deal with at that age.
Five
Today
“Nothing works out the way you want it to,” she says, sifting through her salad while still chewing. Lifting her eyes, she holds her fork upright, a bit of chicken perched upon the prongs. She wags the fork at me as if to make a point. “I learned that lesson at the tender age of twenty-one.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.” She snags the bite of chicken from her fork and begins to chew. “It’s a fact.” Then she shakes her head. “No, not a fact. It’s a fairytale.”
“What is?”
“All of it. All that crap they cram down your throat when you’re a kid about growing up to be whatever you want to be. It’s a fairytale. It’s like blowing on the white feathers of a dandelion. They tell you to make a wish, but it’s an illusion, and pretty soon all you’ve got is weeds.”
“So, what happened?” I ask. “When you were twenty-one?”
She lifts her eyes and studies me a moment before returning her attention to her salad. “That was the year my dad was injured in an accident.”
“At the plant?”
She nods. “It’s also the year I got pregnant and gave birth to a still-born baby boy.” She looks at me, and I can see the fatigue in her eyes. “I named him Anthony.”
“I’m…sorry.” I don’t know that I am, but it’s awkward as hell.
“I think I cursed God about a hundred times that year. Maybe more.”
There’s a blob of chewy meat in my mouth that I can’t bring myself to swallow, and I’m looking across the table at a girl who apparently named her dead kid after me. I don’t know who her son’s father was, and I don’t really care to
. I didn’t even need to know that she had been pregnant. Ironically, my eyes drift to her left hand. There is no ring.
She smiles, lifts her hand and wiggles her ring finger for a better view. “Jeff Taylor,” she says.
“Jeff Taylor?” I’m stunned. “The guy whose dad owns Taylor Collision?”
“Owned,” she answers. “Past tense. Jeff ran it into the ground. If you ever want to see the face of ADHD, well, there you go.”
“What did you see in him?”
“I was young and lonely,” she says, washing her meal down with a sip of ice water. “He was sweet.” Her glance is accusing. “And he was around.”
Guilt trip.
“Anyway,” she continues, her eyes returning to her meal. “He’s out of the picture.” She chews for a moment before looking up again, catching me staring.
“It’s none of my business,” I mumble.
“You’re acting like it is.” When I don’t answer, she continues. “Anyway, by the looks of things, you’re doing just fine.”
“By the looks of what things?”
“Where do you live now?”
“Atlanta.”
“Can’t be cheap to live in Atlanta.”
“I do all right.”
“Got a nice apartment?”
I smile. “I have an average apartment.”
She matches my smile. “Suits you.”
“Nothing suits me.”
“An apartment does. You can just pick up and go at a moment’s notice.”
Guilt trip #2. I’m not taking the bait. I didn’t fly across the country just to be reprimanded for a decision I made half a lifetime ago. I don’t remember everything that happened, but I know enough to know that it wasn’t all my fault. “Why did you stay?” I ask. “Here, I mean?”
“You mean after she disappeared?” She pauses, looking at me hard enough to make me feel uncomfortable. “Why’d I stay?” she asks. “Why’d you come back?”
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