Initiation

by Phil M. Williams

  “Your part-time job doesn’t even cover your fuckin’ makeup. My retirement check pays the bills around here.”

  “It barely covers the essentials.”

  “No, it barely covers your shoes, and clothes, and makeup, and your dumbass tannin’ bed sessions. You’re not foolin’ anyone. You look like a fuckin’ old lady.”

  Carter heard the garage door open and shut, followed by light steps and three taps. He opened his door. Alyssa stood, soaked, in a tight mini-skirt and halter top. Her makeup was streaked down her face.

  Carter frowned.

  Alyssa stared at the white carpet, her blonde hair dark from the rain. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

  Carter took a deep breath and walked to his dresser. He pulled out a T-shirt, some sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Alyssa took the clothes and went into the basement bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

  “No, you wanted this,” Jim said. “I said this area was too expensive. But like always, you got your fuckin’ way. Oh, now you’re gonna cry?”

  Alyssa exited the bathroom, her face clean, her body draped in Carter’s sweats. She looked like a twelve-year-old again. She held a folded towel, her tiny clothes hidden inside. She stood at Carter’s doorway.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  Carter nodded. She shut the door behind her. The room was sparse, the walls white and barren. A single mattress with no bedframe sat near the window. A futon couch in front of the bed faced a twenty-four-inch TV/VCR that sat on milk crates. A paperback, Night Train Lane, was on a battered foot locker. Alyssa plopped down on the futon.

  “Sorry, I didn’t want to go up there with them fighting,” she said.

  “That the only reason?” he replied with raised eyebrows.

  She shrugged and took a deep breath. Her eyes were red and puffy.

  Carter sat on the foot locker catty-cornered from his half-sister. “Where have you been going?”

  She looked down. “Just been hanging out with some girls from the neighborhood.”

  “Girls don’t dress like that for other girls.”

  She shrugged.

  “You’re twelve.”

  “I’ll be thirteen next week.”

  “Still.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “If it’s not a big deal, why are you sneaking in and out and hiding your clothes from Mom and Dad? I should tell them what’s going on.”

  “Who do you think bought the clothes?”

  Carter looked hard at her. “No way.”

  “She did. She just told me not to let Dad see. He wouldn’t understand.”

  Carter frowned.

  “Go ahead and ask her.”

  “Just be careful, okay?”

  “Yes, Dad.” She grinned.

  Carter shook his head with a smirk.

  She looked around the sparse room. “What are you doing in here anyway?”

  “Reading,” he said, tapping the book sitting on the foot locker next to him.

  She furrowed her brow, her button nose twisting. “What’s a night train?”

  He laughed. “It’s a nickname for the greatest defensive back in NFL history. He has the record for interceptions in a season with fourteen. This is from the time when a season was only twelve games. He was also a big hitter …”

  Alyssa’s eyes glazed over.

  “Anyway, I was just reading.”

  “They didn’t hook up cable down here, did they?”

  “No.”

  “You got any good movies?”

  “What do you wanna watch?”

  She pulled her feet up, and sat cross-legged. “Do you have any Disney movies?”

  Carter chuckled. “What do you think?”

  “I know you like ’em.” She smiled. “I wanna watch The Little Mermaid, but it’s upstairs.”

  “Then go get it. You can watch it down here if you want.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Then I’d have to go up there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It should be on top of the VCR.”

  Carter crept up the basement steps, the volume of the argument increasing with each step.

  “You sit around here all day getting fat,” Grace said.

  He heard heavy steps.

  “Let go of me!”

  “You need to shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jim said.

  Carter stood in the kitchen, watching. His parents were in the family room, only a few feet from the VCR. His father gripped his mother’s upper arms and shook her as he spoke, as if shaking her would make his words stick. Carter snuck around the kitchen counter toward them. His mother saw him first, her eyes flicking away from her husband to focus on Carter. His father followed her gaze. The big man turned, his face a mask of barely-controlled fury.

  “Get your ass downstairs,” he said.

  Carter marched to the TV and grabbed The Little Mermaid. His stomach sank at the lightness of the case. He pressed the power button on the VCR.

  “I said, get your ass downstairs,” Jim said. Carter pressed the eject button. Jim moved within inches of Carter, his breath hot on the back of his neck. It took a moment for the machine to spit the tape out.

  “Did you hear me?” Jim said.

  Carter grabbed the tape as it appeared. He sidestepped his father, who glared down at him. His mother stared at the floor, avoiding Carter’s eyes as he marched past.

  * * *

  The click of the mouse and the tapping on the keyboard put Carter on full alert. He left his bedroom and turned into the hall. The basement living room had a couch, a glass round table, wicker chairs in the corners, and a computer desk. Bright framed Panamanian molas hung from the walls. The red, orange, black, white, and yellow multi-layered fabrics were sewn together as fish, birds, and turtles. His father turned away from the monitor and glared.

  “You need to cut the grass,” he said.

  “Can I do it later in the week?” Carter asked. “The grass is wet from the rain last night.”

  His dad clenched his jaw. “It’s a hundred degrees out. It’s dry. Do it now.”

  “I’m going to Ben’s. Can I do it when I get back?”

  The chair squeaked in protest when his dad stood up. Jim marched closer to Carter until he was within grasping distance. “I’m gonna say this once. Don’t make me say it again. Get your ass outside and cut the grass.”

  Carter bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

  He entered the garage. Boxes were piled to the ceiling. The bench press and squat rack held Olympic bars, loaded down with weight. Carter opened the garage door, and rolled out the push mower. He primed the engine, set it to choke and yanked on the cord. The motor cranked to life, and he eased the choke to run. He mowed the front and back lawns and, afterward, parked the mower back in the garage. He brushed off his calves and his knee-length mesh shorts. He shook the grass out of his shoes.

  Carter looked up at the sun, high and bright in the sky. The heat felt comfortable now that he was out of his football gear. He shut the garage and walked down the sidewalk towards Ben’s house. He climbed the steps two at a time and pressed the doorbell. Mr. Wheeler appeared with a grin. His pointed chin, large forehead, and beady eyes made him look half alien.

  “Carter, come on in,” he said.

  “Hey, Mr. Wheeler,” Carter said, stepping inside. He slipped off his running shoes.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I was mowing. I don’t wanna track grass on your white carpets.”

  “You played great in the scrimmage yesterday.”

  Carter shrugged. “Thanks. I’m still second string.”

  Mr. Wheeler patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t know much about football, but from what I saw, you were better than any of those kids, first string or not.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mr. Wheeler grinned. “Your dad must be proud.”

  Carter looked away.

  Mrs. Wheeler called out from the kitchen. “Carter,
honey, could you come here for a moment?”

  Carter followed Mr. Wheeler to the kitchen. It smelled like bananas and cream. Mrs. Wheeler stood behind the white laminate counter wearing an apron. A half-dozen small bowls of creamy dessert sat on the counter.

  She smiled. “I need you to be my guinea pig.”

  Carter grinned.

  “My little sister has a baby shower next weekend and I’m supposed to make the desserts. I was thinking of serving this banana caramel cream recipe that I found. I want you to try it, but you need to be brutally honest. So, if it’s not good, you need to tell me.”

  “Okay,” Carter said.

  “I told her they were excellent,” Mr. Wheeler said.

  “You’re biased,” she said with a wink.

  Carter took the bowl and dug a large spoonful of caramel, vanilla cream, and graham cracker crumble.

  “I’m with Mr. Wheeler on this,” he said. “That was excellent.”

  Mrs. Wheeler smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. “It’s settled then.” She glanced at the empty staircase beyond the kitchen. “I have one more thing I wanted your help with.”

  Mr. Wheeler shook his head. “Stay out of it, Jill.”

  Mrs. Wheeler waved him off. “Oh shush.”

  “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Mr. Wheeler said as he walked away.

  “Are Sarah and Ben dating?” she whispered to Carter. “I mean, I can never tell these days, it doesn’t seem like anyone actually goes out on a date what with all the hanging out you kids do.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you think Sarah likes Ben?”

  Carter rubbed the back of his neck. “I think just as a friend.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

  Carter shrugged. “I think so, but … what do I know?”

  She took a deep breath and pursed her lips. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t be asking you these things. Please don’t tell Ben, he’d be mortified.”

  Carter nodded and glanced at the staircase. “Is he in his room?”

  “Sarah’s in there. You might want to knock.” She winked at Carter. “You never know.”

  Carter climbed the carpeted steps. Soft music spilled out of Ben’s room. An angelic voice sang about the myriad of chores he was going to do as soon as he got home from work. He put his fist to the door and let it hang there for a moment. He brought his hand back down. He turned and started toward the stairs. Ben’s door opened, the music instantly louder.

  “Where are you going?” Sarah asked.

  Carter stopped and turned around. “You two probably want some –” he paused, groping for the right word. “Time.”

  She strutted toward Carter. She wore a light-blue sundress with a wide red belt cinched around her waist. The dress was loose, but the belt hinted at the tight curves underneath.

  Sarah laughed. “Time for what?”

  Carter shrugged.

  She doubled over laughing. “Oh my God, you think me and Ben?”

  Carter held his hands out with his palms up.

  “Hey, Ben,” she called out. “Hey, Ben.”

  Ben appeared at his doorway, with a scowl on his face.

  Sarah said, “Carter thinks we were—”

  “Sarah,” Carter said, shaking his head.

  “What,” Ben said, “hooking up?”

  Sarah grinned. “Yeah, he was going to leave and give us our privacy.”

  Sarah grabbed Carter’s hand and pulled him into Ben’s room. She shut the door behind them. Ben sat in front of the television watching the Redskins with the volume muted.

  “Turn that shit off,” Ben said, turning up the volume on the television.

  Sarah hit the power button on the stereo. She gazed at Carter. “So let’s do the play-by-play. Carter comes to the door and hears Babyface on the stereo and he thinks Ben’s gettin’ some.” She giggled.

  Ben ground his teeth, pretending to focus on the preseason game.

  “That’s not …” Carter blushed. “I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “But you had to have a mental picture of what you thought was going on,” she said. “Where were we doing it?” She walked over to the bed. “Here?” She patted the bed.

  Carter shook his head. “Sarah, stop.”

  She grinned and sauntered over to the computer chair. “How about here?” She put her hand on the back rest. She brushed her straight red hair out of her face and adjusted her glasses.

  “I wasn’t …”

  “You weren’t what?”

  Carter exhaled. “You’re right. I was thinking you guys were having sex on the bed, the chair, the floor, the TV, in the closet—”

  “The closet.” She laughed. “Isn’t that for you and Ben?”

  Ben frowned at Sarah.

  She plopped down in the chair next to Ben. She looked up at Carter with a crooked smile, her full lips barely parting. “You get the floor as penance for your dirty mind.”

  Carter walked behind the pair and sat on the floor in front of the bed, his back resting on the wooden bed frame. He straightened his legs out in front of him. Sarah pushed the rolling office chair backwards with her bare feet as if she were Barney Rubble driving his car. She spun the chair around to face him. Carter reached forward, touching his toes.

  “He’s stretching again,” Sarah said to Ben’s back.

  “Flexibility’s important,” Ben replied without turning his head.

  “Are you first string?” Sarah asked Carter. “Have you crushed Noah’s dreams of football glory yet?”

  Carter looked up, his blue eyes narrowed. His brown hair was wavy and slightly disheveled, with a cowlick in front. “I’m still working on it.”

  “When’s the first game?”

  “Not this Friday, but next.”

  She swiveled toward Ben. “What about you, Ben? Are you first string yet?”

  Ben looked over his shoulder with a scowl. “What do you care? I thought you hated football.”

  “I do, but you guys are obsessed with it, so I’m just trying to be a good friend. You know, be supportive. Or we could talk about journalism or the book I’m reading.”

  Ben exhaled. “No, I’m not starting yet. But I will next year.”

  Sarah frowned. “Next year? You guys haven’t even played a game yet and you’re already talking about next year?”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m getting screwed this year at cornerback, but I should play on kickoff and punt … not that we ever punt.”

  “How are you getting screwed?”

  Ben turned back to the television, showing his tan neck and neatly combed hair. “Ask Carter,” he said without turning around.

  Sarah swiveled around to Carter with raised eyebrows.

  “I don’t know anything,” Carter said.

  Sarah swiveled around to Ben. “He said he doesn’t know anything.”

  Ben exhaled, still facing the television. “I heard him.”

  “Why did you think he would know?”

  “Sarah, leave it alone,” Carter said.

  Sarah turned to Carter. “Leave what alone?”

  Carter mimed cutting his own throat.

  “You guys can’t keep this from me. I thought we were friends.”

  “So did I,” Ben said.

  Sarah stood up. “What does that mean?”

  “Ask Mr. Perfect over there.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes at Carter.

  “Ben, what are you talking about?” Carter asked, sitting up straight.

  Ben stood and turned around, his eyes red, his mouth open, his overbite exposed. “Like you don’t know,” he said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Ben eyed Sarah. “Do you remember how I told you last year that the coach said I’d be first string this year?”

  “I guess,” Sarah said. “I don’t see what that has to do with Carter.”

  “I was gonna get a gold jersey when Williams got injured, but they just moved a free sa
fety to corner ahead of me. Guess who got the gold jersey.” Ben crossed his arms.

  Sarah looked at Carter, then back to Ben. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s a competition, not a personal attack.”

  “Fucking transfers shouldn’t be allowed to play. I’ve been busting my ass for three years and they just waltz in and steal positions. Fucking Devin’s not even that good. Coaches only like him because he’s black.”

  Sarah threw up her hands. “Who’s Devin, and what does he have to do with Carter?”

  “Devin earned that starting spot,” Carter said.

  “You think he’s better than me?” Ben asked.

  “Yes,” Carter replied.

  “Get out of my house.”

  Carter exhaled and shook his head.

  “I said get the fuck out!”

  Carter walked out of the room and down the stairs. He stopped at the side door and slipped on his running shoes.

  “Are you going home already?” Mrs. Wheeler called out from the kitchen.

  “Thanks for the dessert,” Carter said.

  He trudged down the sidewalk, his head down. He heard the pitter-patter of quick steps behind him.

  “Carter,” Sarah said.

  He stopped and turned around. She walked toward him, her flip-flops snapping. She pressed out her lower lip and slid her arm between his.

  “Want some company?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She smiled, her dimples on display. “I know just the place then.”

  They strolled arm in arm along the sidewalk, passing endless rows of identical townhouses.

  “Nobody ever goes outside here,” he said.

  “Well, it is ninety degrees out.”

  He shrugged. “In Panama, on a weekend, the whole neighborhood would be out until dark. Granted, there was no television.”

  “You didn’t have a TV?”

  “We had a TV, but there wasn’t anything good on. There was only one English station – SCN, The Southern Command Network. It was terrible. Everything was so old and they had the lamest commercials, if you could call ’em that. They were more like public service announcements.”

  “That’s so random.”

  “There was this one that was like, ‘You tell one lie and it leads to another – you tell two lies and then you’re in trouble’.”