Captain Quad

by Sean Costello

  Sam flinched away, convinced that Peter had seen him—and suddenly terrified that he had.

  What is wrong with you? That's your brother in there. That's Peter.

  Sam waited until he caught his breath. Then he went inside.

  Again Peter scowled. Again he switched off his computer. "What did you forget?" he said, the words spiked with annoyance, reminding Sam of their father.

  "Nothing," Sam said, trying to shake his disquiet. He held out the rolled-up newspaper. "Have you seen today's paper?"

  Peter shook his head.

  And Sam thought: He's lying. Maybe not about the paper, but he knows what's in it. He folded the paper out, then held it open for Peter's inspection.

  What's that on his face right now? Sam thought as his brother scanned the article. What is it now?

  But the answer to that one was easy. It was satisfaction.

  "Well, ain't that a shame," Peter said. "Get it out of my sight."

  Alone in the apartment that night, Sam sat staring at the reel-to-reel. After a while he reached out and switched it on. The tape was the last of numerous copies Sam had made over the years, and at this stage the sound reproduction was so bad that even at full volume large parts of it were obscured by tape hiss. . . but that didn't bother Sam. He sat on the couch, which still bore the greasy imprint of his mother's head on the armrest, and let his mind take him back to that day, to the pride he'd felt, the unalloyed admiration. He remembered, too, the faint stab of jealousy he'd experienced when he saw Kelly dart down from the wing—just one more befuddling emotion in the hormonal soup of adolescence. . . but it had been there just the same, and now he remembered it. He remembered how his mind had tossed up a portrait of the two of them embracing back there in the dark—"trading spit," as Peter sometimes joked—and how something deep inside him had for an alarming instant been furious, green and blind and furious. The memory made him think of the thrill he'd felt when Kelly called out to him in the university parking lot, that fleeting first moment when his heart had soared and his mind had tried to convince him that Kelly had shared his feelings all these years. . .

  Sam looked down and saw that his nails had dug happy face creases in his palms.

  Truth was, he'd been thinking a lot about Kelly lately. . .

  With a child's furtiveness, Sam reached under the couch and withdrew his grade nine yearbook. It fell open to the correct page automatically: the 1983 graduating class, glossy color photos of bright, ambitious faces. Kelly's was the last of them.

  Kelly Wheeler.

  Was that who Peter had been writing about? Was that why he seemed so determined that Sam never get a look at the screen?

  He was still pondering these questions when the tape ended.

  And began to flap.

  Will was chopping vegetables when Kelly walked in. The heavy snowfall of the night before had dumped ten inches of the stuff on the driveway, and Kelly had been forced to leave her car at the top of the hill. The guy who did the plowing for her hadn't shown up yet, and as she shrugged off her coat she made a mental note to call him if he hadn't arrived before bedtime. Chainsaw had trailed her down the hill, yapping and gamboling like a pup. Now he stood gawking in through the sidelight.

  Will greeted her from the chopping block. "Hey, good lookin'," he said brightly. "Can I interest you in a stir-fry? It's from Yan's latest cookbook."

  "Which one is that?" Kelly said as she hung up her coat.

  "A Hundred New Ways to Wok Your Dog."

  Chainsaw barked.

  "Careful," Kelly said, laughing. "I think he can hear you." She kicked off her boots, then strolled in to give Will a kiss, making a show of adjusting her ring. "Been home long?"

  "Half hour," Will said, accepting her kiss but missing her cue. "You like frozen peas?"

  "Love 'em," Kelly fibbed.

  "Good. Listen. Why don't you slip into the tub and relax for a bit." He fluttered his eyebrows lecherously. "Then I'll bring in your dinner and join you."

  "Dinner in the tub?"

  "Why not?"

  "Yeah," Kelly said, flashing the ring again. "Why not?" She glanced at the neatly diced vegetables, then began undoing her blouse. "Fast food?"

  Will began chopping furiously.

  Happy, Kelly thought as she turned away.

  The tub was already filled, heaped with bubbles and breathing steam, just the way she liked it. The overhead light was on, but a candle stood ready by the sink.

  Pleased, Kelly stripped off her things and sank into the waiting tub. The bubbles sighed along with her. A few minutes later Will brought in a goblet of white wine. Kelly accepted it with her left hand. . . but nothing.

  Come on, Will. Open your eyes!

  Before leaving, Will lit the candle and switched off the light. Kelly was dozing when he came back with the grub—stir-fried shrimp with almonds and assorted vegetables. Will was a great cook and had practically taken over the job since his unofficial move-in. Kelly didn't mind. Julia Childs she wasn't. He was slow and methodical out there, blending things together with an almost religious solemnity. It was the way he went about everything, Kelly thought—including spotting this ring—and she guessed he'd never die from a heart attack.

  She watched him strip off his clothes, as always aroused by the lean hardness of his body. Once naked, he arranged the plates on the makeshift trays he'd rigged for the occasion, then slipped into the tub facing Kelly.

  "To us," he said, toasting her with his goblet of wine.

  "To us," Kelly seconded, using her left hand again, slopping wine onto her chin.

  "You gotta watch that booze, babe," Will kidded. "It's wicked stuff." He scooped up a forkful of peas—

  Then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and the peas plunked into the tub. His gaze went unfocused, striking Kelly in the vicinity of her chin, and he seemed suddenly on the verge of choking.

  "Will?" Kelly said with alarm.

  "You—" Will stammered, "you. . . mean it?"

  And then she understood. She placed her left hand in his. "I sure do."

  Will tried to hug her across the supper trays, then settled back in the tub. "God, Kelly." There were tears in his eyes. "I love you so much."

  "And I love you, Will."

  THIRTY-TWO

  Drop your cocks and grab your slush boots!" Rhett growled good-naturedly. "Just look at you fuckin' reprobates!"

  He'd let himself into Jerry's place through the unlocked front door, and now he stood in the living room archway, one fist wrapped around a frosty can of Coors. Startled from his boozy sleep, Jerry lurched off the chesterfield and swung blindly at the air. Mike Gore, slumped in the chair across from him, just went on snoring. The night before, the two old friends had settled in for some serious drinking and had passed out watching Clint Eastwood kick ass in some nameless spaghetti western. Rhett, who was supposed to have joined them, had called around ten to beg off—something about a redhead with larbos the size of honeydews.

  "You just about scared the shit outta me, Rhett," Jerry said, grinning stupidly. The animal rage that had flared in his eyes when he sprang off the chesterfield had been replaced by a look of mild bewilderment, Jerry's usual expression. He scratched his spiked thatch of hair, then kicked one of Gore's stockinged feet.

  "Wha. . . ?" the big man grunted, unblinkering his puffy eyes.

  "Wha?" Rhett parroted, and then roared with laughter.

  Gore shrugged up in the chair that had served as his bed and winced at the kink in his back. Then he squinted at his watch and winced again. His wife was going to murder him. He'd promised to call her last night if he decided to sleep over. Oh, boy.

  "Let's get it the fuck in gear, gents," Rhett said. "It's four ay-em and the fishies are waitin'."

  As if on cue, Jerry and Mike gazed in tandem through the living room window. It was pitch out there, and a gusting wind rattled the panes. Angry flecks of sleet spattered the glass like flung sand. At a glance, Mike estimated that the mercury had
plunged into the double negatives.

  "I know what you're thinking," Rhett said, not quite so good-naturedly this time, "but put it out of your minds. I didn't crawl out of the rack at three in the morning—and I was not alone, gentlemen—to listen to you two butt bandits whine. We haven't reneged on this fishin' trip in ten years, and we're not about to start now." He grinned menacingly. "So let's get on with it? Say?"

  Ignoring the muttered profanities, Rhett lobbed his empty into the general rubble and stamped back outside. He was relieved to find that Jerry had readied the snowmobiles. They sat angled on their trailer in the sideyard, snugged cozily away beneath form-fitting tarps. He found the Coleman stove beneath the cluttered workbench in the garage. The ice auger he found resting on the overhead crossbeams. The sucker was heavy, and he nicked a finger on the spiraling blade trying to muscle it out to the truck. Cursing, he corked the finger into his mouth and waited until the sting had subsided. Then he went back to wrangling the auger. A few minutes later, comically bulked up in a snowmobile suit two sizes too big for him, Jerry stumbled out to help him.

  "Where's Gore?" Rhett said with annoyance.

  "Callin' his wife," Jerry said, and both men grinned impishly.

  * * *

  They reached the halfway mark—the dead end of a dirt road about fifteen miles off Highway 17—at 5:32 a.m. From here on in, the going was strictly by snowmobile. Mike rode with Jerry, whose machine was more powerful, and Rhett hauled the lightweight sled containing their gear. As always, Jerry took the lead. Their destination, a deep-woods lake not shown on any map, had been his father's best kept secret, and Jerry had fished it all his life.

  The trip in took twenty-five minutes at a comfortable cruising speed of thirty. The hut was still there, nestled in the brush by the lake. Snow encased it to just below the roofline, and it took the three men twenty minutes to dig it out. Once it was free, they dragged it on skids to a likely-looking spot near the middle of the frozen lake.

  "All right," Rhett said once the hut was positioned. "Let's get some holes cut."

  "Fuckin' A," Jerry agreed, and stamped off to gas up the auger.

  The snowfall had subsided, but the wind had come up again, whining and bitter. As it twisted across the lake, it picked up snow phantoms and spun them in dervish circles. The sun, which had just sailed free of the trees, looked like a healing bullethole in the white belly of the sky. To Mike Gore, who numbly busied himself offloading gear, it seemed like a vision of hell. Why he abandoned the fireside warmth of his home year after year to come out here and let these assholes try to kill him was beyond him. It hadn't really been fun since. . . well, since the last time Peter had made the trip. With Peter along it had always been more of a legitimate fishing trip, just four good friends getting together to share in the rigors and rewards of a rugged winter sport. Sure, they'd downed a few cold ones in those days too, but it had never degenerated into these pie-eyed, falling-down puke fests.

  As he did every year, Mike Gore swore this would be the last time he'd make the trip. . . but it was a lie. He would keep on coming, and keep on wondering why. Pondering it now, he guessed it was probably just some juvenile attempt to keep the good old days alive. And yet, watching his two old friends degenerate so drastically over the years, he began to wonder how good those old days had really been. For Mike, these were the best days of his life. He had a wife, two gorgeous kids, and all things being equal, he'd be the manager of his own pharmacy inside of a year.

  There was a balky, ratcheting sound as Jerry yanked the ice auger's starter cord. The 8hp engine farted rudely, releasing a puff of oily smoke, then kicked over. When he triggered the throttle, the auger blade spun with an evil whir.

  "Where d'you want the bait hole?" Jerry shouted, his grin triumphant. He just loved getting that auger going on the first pull.

  "Up your arse," Rhett hollered back at him, laughing coarsely.

  In response, Jerry swung the cumbersome auger overhead, displaying a wiry strength that seldom failed to amaze Rhett Kiley. With the whirring blade pointed skyward, he fingered the throttle repeatedly, waggling his head and shimmying his body, howling like a Ward C psycho. With his brown balaclava concealing all but his facial holes, he might have been lovable ole Leatherface himself.

  "Cut the shit," Rhett warned, a little unnerved by this display.

  "Right," Jerry said, letting the auger down. "Sorry, Rhett, I—"

  "Just drill the fuckin' holes and let's get on with it. Say?"

  Looking baffled and stung, Jerry seated the auger tip in the ice and squeezed the throttle. The randy engine belched, and the blade cored down about a foot into the hard-packed ice. When Jerry drew out the blade Mike kicked the ice chips away, then emptied a clear plastic bait bag into the hole. An assortment of minnows—shiners, suckers, chubs—wriggled affrightedly in this new enclosure.

  "Now," Rhett said, assuming his customary role as foreman. "Sink a hole here"—he indicated a spot about six feet out from the shack—"and another in front of the condo. I'll rig the tip-ups while the drug dealer over here fires up the heater." He favored Gore with a grin. "Think you can handle that, Mikey?"

  "Asshole," Mike muttered. But he slumped off to perform this task.

  Once Jerry got the holes drilled, he leaned the auger against the shack and then stood there, squinting into the snowy glare. A few minutes later he hiked back to the snowmobiles, a distance of about two hundred yards. Rhett spotted him there, and hollered over the moan of the wind. . . but then he realized that Jerry was taking a whiz and left him to his business. When it came to his toilet habits Jerry was the original little girl. Grinning to himself, Rhett tramped over to the bait hole to select some bait.

  By seven all was in order. The tip-ups were rooted by their holes, the lures baited, the men seated comfortably in the hut. Through the partially open door they could watch their tip-ups: clever rigs like arms rising out of the snow, with jointed elbows that fed line from a spool and jigged up and down in the breeze, luring the fish. The whiskey was cold, the heater hot, and Rhett could almost taste that first scrumptious pan-fried fillet. Even Mike had begun to show signs of enjoyment.

  Only Jerry seemed quietly out of sorts. Rhett noticed this, but he was getting too blasted to give a shit. Maybe the dozy little wanker had a toothache. He wasn't drinking, which was weird, and he kept screwing his face into knots, as if trying to puzzle out some difficult mathematical problem. Rhett chuckled at this thought and took another gulp of whiskey. Poor old Jer. Since taking it in the head back in '83, he could barely count out change for a dollar.

  Seated across from Rhett, Mike grinned nostalgically. His post-binge ailments had diminished to a tolerable grumble, and although he was taking it easy on the rotgut, his head had taken up a comfortable buzz.

  "Remember the trip we made out here back in. . . what was it? Grade twelve? The time Jerry wandered off to take a dump behind that old beaver dam and fell through the ice?"

  Rhett snorted laughter. "Fuckin' A. Whadda dipshit. Froze just about cock-stiff before Gardner belly-crawled over and hauled him out."

  "Lookit 'im," Mike chided. "Pretending he doesn't hear us." He nudged Jerry with an elbow. "'Member that, Jer?"

  Guffawing, Rhett said, "I remember Gardner stripping down to his long johns and handing Jeter half of his clothes. . .”

  Rhett's voice trailed off, and a silence freighted with gloom filled the shack. Mike finally broke it, broaching a subject that had become oddly taboo over the years.

  "Either of you guys ever go see him?"

  "Nah," Rhett said, feigning indifference. "What's the point? The guy's crocked out, shittin' his bed, stinkin' to the high heaven. If it was me, I wouldn't want a bunch of dropouts hangin' around, reminding me of all the fun I was missing." This last was said with a trace of bitterness that was not lost on Mike.

  "You're still pissed at him, aren't you?" Mike said. "Christ. It wasn't his fault you never got picked up by the scouts."

  Rhet
t remained stubbornly silent.

  "I've been thinking," Mike said, cutting to the chase. "What if we just. . . dropped in on him, all three of us. Monday, say. What the fuck? Surprise him."

  "It's been a lotta years," Rhett said, his voice taking on a hard edge that made Mike uneasy. "How do we know if he's even still alive?"

  "We could check. I mean, don't you feel even the slightest bit guilty? Haven't you ever tried to put yourself in his shoes?"

  Rhett snorted. "Turnips don't wear shoes."

  "Fine," Mike said. "Forget I brought it up."

  "Fuckin' A."

  "I'll go by my—"

  "Why don't you just do that, Mikey?" Rhett had risen to his feet, and now he loomed over Mike like a storm cloud. "I'm sure that'd make Gardner feel a whole helluva lot better." He screwed his face into a sneer. "'Hi, Pete. It's me, Mikey. Good to see ya. I'm a big-ass pharmacist now, gettin' my wick wet every night and drivin' a two-tone Eldorado. How's things in the patch?'"

  Mike stood now, too, jabbing his nose to within an inch of Rhett's. Through it all, Jerry sat staring at his slush boots, his face still twitching and twisting.

  "You're a crude, bitter, self-centered bastard, you know that, Kiley? What the hell's gotten into you, anyway? Holding a grudge against a guy who can't even scratch his own balls anymore, and why? Because he was better than you? Big fucking deal! He'd've done anything for you, man. For any one of us. Why he even bothered hanging out with us was always a mystery to me. The guy outclassed us by a city block. He was a good egg, Rhett, and we dumped him. Doesn't that mean shit to you?"

  Rhett's hands cuffed into bloodless clubs inside his mittens. "You don't know the half of it, you ignorant ape! He stole my fuckin' girl!"