Snow Job

by Charles Benoit

  I’ll be honest. I was hoping she would have forgotten that part.

  It was going to be hard enough getting the two of us to Florida. Having a kid in the back seat would only make us stand out more. And I know I’m going to sound like a total asshole, but the truth is, I didn’t know a lot of mentally retarded people—not personally anyway—and the idea of driving a thousand miles with her sister made me nervous. What if Terri needed medications or wandered off or freaked out in the car? I know—total asshole—and I felt like a dick even thinking it. Still . . .

  “What about your mother? She gonna let you take your sister away?”

  Dawn smiled and shook her head. “Trust me, it’ll be better for everyone. Especially Terri.”

  “We can go first, then after we get settled, we can—”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, and that ended it. “If I go, my sister’s going with me.”

  I sighed to myself. So this is what standing by felt like. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

  She turned in her seat and looked at me, her eyes holding on to mine, a lone tear rolling down the curve of her cheek. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s the way it’s gotta be.”

  I SAT ON the cot in the basement and ran a yellow highlighter down through New York and into Pennsylvania, following the highway until it broke up into smaller state and county roads, somewhere north of Williamsport. I’d found the map in the glove box of my car, along with one of Karla’s fake IDs. The map was old and folded all wrong, and only went as far south as North Carolina. We’d need a better one when we hit the road.

  And where was Venice? I knew it was in Florida and that it was near the ocean, but that was it. Was it on the right side or the left side, up near Georgia or down at the tip? Here I was, telling Dawn how we could get a fresh start in Venice, and I probably couldn’t even find it on a map. I made a mental note to snag the road atlas out of the family wagon.

  I was staring at the hair-thin lines on the map when I heard the doorbell ring, my nieces racing to open it, some mumbled voices, some laughing, footsteps crossing the kitchen, the door to the basement open, and Steve’s voice saying, “Hey, Nick.”

  I kept it cool. Or tried to, anyway. I put the cap on the highlighter and, without looking, folded the map and tossed it on the floor behind me. Steve didn’t seem to notice as he hopped up to sit on the washing machine, swinging a green gym bag onto the dryer next to him. He might have been just Steve, but as he sat there in the basement, I realized that in many ways, he would always be Zod.

  “Damn. Living in your parents’ basement,” Steve said. “That’s gotta suck.”

  “Just for a couple weeks.” I didn’t want to give anything away, so I added, “My sister’s moving out. I’ll get my own room back.”

  “You’re making decent money now. You should get your own place.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I got school in the morning, then nothing much. Why?”

  Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I need some packages delivered.”

  I felt my stomach start its familiar roll.

  “I’d do it myself,” Steve said, “but I got bigger things to take care of. It’ll take a couple hours, tops. I’ll give you eighty bucks.”

  It wasn’t much money, but it would put me that much closer to getting Dawn out of there. “Is this for Reg?”

  “No, this is my stuff. Just weed. Too small for Reg to bother with. Eighty is generous. And you’re the only guy I trust.”

  I could picture Freddie and his wispy attempt at a mustache. There was no reason for me to know his name or what he did. And no reason for me to know that Freddie was dead. Only I did know. And I knew it would be stupid to say more, but I wanted to see the reaction, so I asked, “Doesn’t Freddie take care of that kind of stuff?”

  Steve licked his lips, looked up at the wooden joists of the kitchen floor above his head. “Yeah. But he’s . . . uh . . . he’s out of town. On vacation.”

  “Vacation? Must be nice.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, still looking away, rubbing his hands on his knees.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know. Miami, maybe. What the hell do you care?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Well, don’t be.” Steve slid off the washing machine and tossed the green bag on the end of the cot. “The addresses are inside. It’s all paid for, so you won’t need your fancy little envelopes. Don’t screw it up.” He took his car keys out of his coat pocket and headed for the stairs. “Oh. One more thing. Reg needs you on Thursday. You’re driving to Watertown. Be there at noon. Don’t be late.”

  “Wait a second.” I stood and lifted the bag off the cot. “I didn’t say I was going to do it.”

  Steve kept walking, smiling as he glanced back. “Do you really have a choice?”

  Wednesday, January 4

  I PULLED UP TO THE FOUR-WAY STOP SIGN AND TRIED TO remember if the woman at the gas station had said to take a left or a right onto Butterscotch Terrace.

  The first two deliveries had been easy. They were on the west side, and I knew the neighborhoods if not the streets themselves. I’d gotten to the first house at eight a.m. If I had gone to school like I was supposed to, it would still be first period, but since I was skipping all that, I was right on time to make the delivery. I knocked, the door opened, I handed over the package, the door closed, and that was it. The second stop was in an apartment complex where every building looked the same. The note in the gym bag had said to look for the apartment with an American flag as a curtain. The guys there invited me in to sample the goods and seemed disappointed when I declined.

  The third stop was an east-side address, and that’s when things got confusing.

  I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been out that way. And it was always as a passenger, never driving. To make it harder, the roads on the east side all had stupid names: Old Walnut Grove Way, Bubbling Creek Trail, Daisy Flour Mill Run, Bridal Path Mews. The more stupid the street name, the more expensive the houses.

  After coming to a long and complete stop, I remembered what the woman at the gas station had said, flicked the directional, and turned right, driving past the fieldstone wall, past the gated driveways. Just before the entrance to the country club, I saw the street I was looking for.

  Blue Jay Nook Vista Crescent.

  There were only four houses on the street, each with a yard big enough to land a plane if it weren’t for all the trees. I pulled up the first driveway, following the squared-off hedges around the bend to the covered porch. The front door was six feet wide and painted a rusty red. I was tempted to use the plate-size brass knocker but settled for pushing the doorbell. Inside, a chorus of chimes rolled on and on, playing long after Frank Camden had opened the door.

  At first, Frank didn’t recognize me, which made sense, since the only place he’d ever seen me was behind the counter at the Stop-N-Go. Sure, he saw me at the frat party too, but that was Drunk Nick, and over the years I’d seen enough beer-soaked Polaroids of myself to know I looked a lot different sober. Frank stood there—one hand on the doorknob, one hand on his hip—his eyes darting as he tried to place the face and the dumpy car. I waited for the light to click on behind his eyes, and when it did, Frank smiled a bright, white, Hently Private School smile.

  “Come on in.” Frank pushed the door open. “It’s Mike, right?”

  “Thanks,” I said, not bothering to correct him. “I would have been here on time, but I guess I got lost.”

  Frank pressed the tiny button on the side of his Texas Instruments digital watch. “My mom’s gonna be home in few, but we got time.” He led the way into the house, cutting through a TV-less living room, around a formal dining table, and into a wood-paneled family room, showing it off without saying a word. The Christmas tree was still up—artificial, silver and blue—and three fluffy stockings still hung above the
massive fireplace. Frank sat on the edge of the leather couch, motioning for me to take the recliner. I set the gym bag on the coffee table between us.

  “So you’re working for our buddy Zod now, huh?”

  I smiled to myself at that. “I’m just dropping this off, that’s all.” I unzipped the bag and handed Frank the package.

  Frank held it in his hand. “Anybody but Zod, and I’d weigh this. He’s never screwed me over. But there’s always a first time, right?”

  “Probably.”

  Frank froze. “Whoa, dude. I’m only joking.” He forced a laugh. “Don’t go telling him I said that.”

  I zipped up the bag.

  “Seriously,” Frank said. “Don’t tell him I said that, okay? He can be a little, you know . . .”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  “Zod’s cool, though,” Frank said, everything sounding forced now. “Real cool. Like cool on a whole other level.”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, how about that Camaro he drives, huh? You been in that thing? Is that thing bitchin’ or what?”

  I thought about my rides in Steve’s devil-red Camaro, the places it had taken me. “It’s something else.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Another nervous laugh. “Hey, he still with that super-hot chick?”

  Given Steve’s charming personality and goonish looks, I couldn’t picture him with a girlfriend. Hookers, yes, but not a girlfriend. “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Damn, bro, she’s hot. Nice bod, dark eyes, almost as tough as him.”

  “Uh-huh.” I grabbed the straps of the gym bag. “Like I said, I haven’t—”

  “Blackest hair I’ve ever seen on a white chick. Wears it real short.”

  I paused.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Frank said, stumbling over his words. “It looks good on her. A little punky, but—”

  “Punky, huh?” I took my time, pulling the bag onto my lap as I listened.

  “Yeah, you know. Like that chick who plays guitar with the Runaways. Not Lita Ford, the other one.”

  “Joan Jett?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Frank said, snapping his fingers. “Zod’s girl looks like that.”

  I kept my eyes on the gym bag. “Do you know her name?”

  “No, but—”

  “And you’re sure they’re together?”

  Frank shrugged and tried to smile. He checked the digital display for the time. “So, uh, anyway, my mom’s gonna be home soon . . .”

  It could be a coincidence.

  It wasn’t like she was the only one in the world with dark eyes and short, black hair who was smart and tough.

  So yeah, it could all be a coincidence.

  Or it could be something else.

  I slung the bag over my shoulder. It was lighter now, one delivery left to go, back over on the west side.

  I’d have a lot to think about on the ride.

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, I pulled up in front of the last house on the list.

  I didn’t need directions. I’d been there before.

  There was a doorbell, but I knew that it didn’t work, so I pulled open the screen door and knocked. It was a school day, but he was expecting the delivery, so he’d be home, and I could hear the stereo, Boston’s “Long Time” cranked loud. I knocked again, harder this time, then the door flew open. Jay glared at me and said, “What do you want?”

  I hefted the gym bag. “I got a delivery from Steve.”

  “Who?”

  I sighed. “It’s from Zod.”

  Jay smirked. “You work for the Zod?”

  “No, I’m just dropping this off for him,” I said. I could have left it at that, but for some reason I wanted to say more. “I work for Reg.”

  Jay’s eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open. I guess it was the reaction I was hoping for. I jiggled the bag. “You want this or not?”

  Jay blinked. “Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry. Come on in.”

  Inside, nothing had changed. I would have been surprised if it had. I’d been hanging out at Jay’s house since tenth grade, and other than the occasional holiday decoration, it always looked the same. The furniture never moved. The walls got repainted the same colors. Jay’s baby pictures stayed in the frames on the shelf. It should have felt familiar.

  Jay turned down the stereo. “So where’s Freddie?”

  Dead, I thought, but I stuck to the lie I’d been told. “Vacation.” I unzipped the gym bag and tossed the package to Jay. There was nothing left to say, so I turned to leave.

  “You hear what happened to Sperbs?”

  I shook my head. The last time I had heard about any of them was when Geralyn had dropped by the Stop-N-Go to say how much they all hated me.

  “He was at Cici’s, up in her room. You been there, right?”

  I nodded. Everybody had been there.

  “They were getting busy,” Jay said, “and her frickin’ dad walks in.”

  We both laughed at that—it was funny—and for a moment it was like it used to be, like it had been for years, like it could be forever.

  “I gotta get going,” I said.

  Out by the car, Jay said, “If you’re not doing anything Friday night, stop by.”

  I looked back at Jay, at the house, at the room where I had spent a thousand hours, at the life I had left behind. “I’m kinda busy,” I said, then—who knows why—I said, “But I’ll think about it.”

  THERE WERE DAYS when I got lucky and had the house to myself.

  This wasn’t one of them.

  When I came around the corner and saw my sister’s rusted Nova and my father’s Chevy Caprice Estate station wagon in the driveway, I was tempted to keep going, but I pulled in anyway, too hungry to care.

  After my deliveries, I’d wandered the mall for a couple hours, stopping every lap at the same row of pay phones to dial the number Dawn had given Penelope at the Stop-N-Go. I’d let it ring ten, fifteen times, then I’d walk around some more before trying it again. If Reg or one of his crew had answered, I would have hung up, but it just rang.

  But even if Dawn had answered, I wasn’t sure what I would have said.

  I knew it shouldn’t have bothered me that she might have been seeing Steve before she moved in with Reg. That was all in the past. Or it would be when we moved. And besides, I had hardly led a virginal life myself. So what if she had slept around a bit? She was going to be with me now, and that was all that mattered.

  Or it was supposed to, anyway.

  I came in through the garage entrance to the sound of my nieces shouting that they hate—hate—beef stroganoff, a dish I had watched them devour many times before. I kicked off my boots and hung my coat on the back of the door, took a deep breath, and braced myself before walking into the kitchen.

  My mother spotted me first. “Oh, now you show up. Get a chair from the family room. Here, move this. Scoot the girls over. Just do it, please. We have to make room for your brother.”

  I would have preferred eating in front of the TV, but I knew how that would go over, so I wrestled a folding chair from behind the couch and sat at the table between my father and my sister.

  “Get a plate,” my mother said. “I’m not your maid.”

  I stood up, got a plate, a fork, and a glass and sat back down.

  My father looked over to the clock on the stove. “He shouldn’t get anything. He knows what time dinner is.”

  I knew. And I was still ten minutes early. But my mom made killer stroganoff, so I kept my defense simple. “Sorry.”

  My sister passed me a dish of noodles. “Don’t take a lot,” she said. “It’s the only thing the girls will eat.”

  I leaned forward and smiled down at my nieces—both with mounds of noodles on their plates—before serving myself a child-size portion. I waited until everyone had a chance at the stroganoff before ladling some onto my plate, passing on the steamed carrots but taking extra slices of bread.

  For a few minutes it was quiet, everyone busy eating.
/>   It didn’t last long.

  Jodi declared that she hated these stupid noodles and wanted Grandma to make her real pasghetti, and Connie announced that she was full and insisted that Grandpa take her outside, my mom saying it would only take a couple minutes to boil the water, and my dad telling Connie to get her boots on. Next it was Eileen’s turn, telling our mother to stop pampering the girls, shouting to Connie to sit back down this instant and finish eating, the grandparents exchanging eye-rolling glances. It took a minute for everything to settle to a familiar, uncomfortable silence.

  Then they remembered I was there.

  “You better not have parked behind me,” Eileen said. “I have to do some shopping, and I don’t want to have to be waiting on you to move your car.”

  “It’s not just your car that needs to move,” my mother said, pointing her fork at me as she spoke. “You can’t be living in the basement forever. It’s not healthy. You need to get with some of your friends and start looking for an apartment now if you plan on moving out after graduation. Unless of course you’d rather pay rent . . .”

  Clearly she’d forgotten what I’d said about moving to Florida. Or she knew me better than I thought I knew myself.

  “Graduation,” my father said, spitting the word out. He reached over to the counter and picked an open envelope out of the stack of mail, dropping it next to my plate. It had the school district logo in the corner, and across the entire front, in blocky capital letters, my father had added a wise and helpful piece of parental advice.

  SHAPE UP, MISTER.

  I folded the envelope and stuffed it in my back pocket. It wouldn’t say anything different than the last letter. I focused on eating before I lost my appetite.

  “I’m sick and tired of this,” my father said between mouthfuls. “You’re going to be eighteen in June.”

  April.

  My sister said, “I was pregnant with Connie, and I still managed to finish high school.”