Unforgettable Summer

by Catherine Clark

  I see him over at his desk, eating a sub from next door for lunch and eyeing us carefully, as if we’re going to walk out with a crib while he’s chewing his cold-cut special. Or maybe he’s just worried that Mom’s going to go over and start discussing water retention again.

  Mom keeps wandering around, rubbing her giant pregnant belly, describing things like a math logic problem with no solution. “Let’s see. Dorothy could move in with Torvill, so then the baby could move into Dorothy’s nursery. . . . Then Dean can move into that small room at the end of the hall—”

  “Mom, that’s a closet,” I say.

  “No, it isn’t. We just use it as a closet. It’s actually quite large,” Mom says, sounding a little defensive.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s not big enough for Dean. But look—he can have my room,” I say. “I’ll move up to the attic.”

  “What? No! Peggy, no.” Mom shakes her head. “I will not have you living in the attic.”

  “The basement then,” I say, though the second I suggest this I regret it, because the basement has a damp, forgotten-laundry smell that will seep into my clothes, my skin, my life. “No, the attic. And Mom, it won’t be for long—I’ll be leaving next year, anyway,” I remind her.

  Suddenly she starts bawling, right in the middle of Sleep City. Her face is pink and puffy and she sinks onto a rollaway bed with her head in her hands, and the bed screeches as it rolls under her weight.

  I glance over at the salesman, who’s staring at us, an onion slice hanging from his lip. He immediately looks away, embarrassed.

  What’s the matter? I want to say. Haven’t you ever seen a woman who’s nine months pregnant break down before?

  “Mom, it’ll be okay,” I say, my throat tickling with emotion. I put my hand on her shoulder and she grips it tightly, making me worry about how hard she’s going to squeeze me during her labor.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” she manages to get out between crying gulps.

  I feel like I’m about to start crying, too. This is bizarre because I don’t cry in public, and I don’t want to start now.

  “I . . . what am I going to do without you?” my mother wonders out loud.

  The way she says it, I can’t tell if she’s talking about missing me . . . or missing all my help.

  I open her purse and hand her a tissue. Then I go and tell the salesman we’ll take the Funky Bunk.

  It’s Only Lindville

  It’s Friday night, I’ve just finished making dinner for Dorothy, Torvill, and Dean, and am rushing to get ready to go out when my parents finally come home from the mall. Mom had a fit this morning and decided she finally needed actual and brand-new maternity clothes for her ninth month. Now I won’t even have time to take a shower before Mike picks me up. I hate that.

  I brush my hair, replace my spaghetti-sauce-stained white T-shirt with a black tank, pull on clean shorts, and quickly put on some mascara and lip gloss. I brush on some blush, too. Working at Gas ’n Git is not exactly helping to create a sun-drenched summer look.

  I run downstairs and almost lose one of my black slides and wipe out on the way. When I regain my balance at the bottom of the stairs, I see my father sitting in the living room, taking Western clothing out of familiar-looking red plastic bags and laying them on the sofa. There is country music on the stereo.

  This isn’t exactly a typical evening for Phil Farrell. What’s going on? I wonder as I look at the gingham shirts, bandanas, jeans with a rope belt, and brown suede pants with fringe.

  “Is that stuff from Western Wear Bonanza?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Yes,” Dad says. “Mr. Stinson wants me to evaluate them.”

  “Evaluate?” I ask. “Why would you want to?” My father’s style is definitely not Western.

  “I need a costume. They’ve asked me to put something together for the Rodeo Roundup Days. Mr. Stinson’s on the board of directors, so he’s outfitting me.” Dad picks up a red gingham shirt and holds it against himself. “I know you won’t skate with me, but could you help me figure something out? Am I a red gingham or a blue gingham kind of guy?”

  “Um . . . neither? Dad, I don’t understand.” Or maybe I just don’t want to understand. I’m getting this horrible sinking feeling. “You don’t mean . . . skating at the rodeo. Do you?”

  He nods.

  I can’t believe this. “That’s where you wanted me to skate with you?” My father must not be getting enough sleep. He’s going insane or something. Like I’d ever skate with him at a rodeo? In what universe?

  He nods and then he loops a bolo tie around his neck and tries to shorten it. “They’re trying to bring in different types of events this year, to attract a wider audience,” Dad explains. “And if this goes well, there’s a chance that Mr. Stinson and some others will sponsor me for my comeback. They very strongly hinted that they’d support me, if I helped them out with this.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The plan is insane. “Excuse me. Dad? Ice skating? Where are they going to do this? It’ll be ninety degrees—in the shade. We can barely keep ice frozen in the freezer in July.”

  “Listen, I’m with you, P. F. I told them it’s not going to work, especially when we only have three weeks to prepare, but they begged me. They’re converting the town rink—you know it’s right next to the fairgrounds. They’re closing it off and air-conditioning it. And they’re bringing in a walk-in meat freezer expert from Majestic—they say he knows how to keep the surface frozen. If it’s good enough for steak, it’s good enough for me. I don’t know.”

  “Dad. If it doesn’t work . . . your reputation . . .”

  “It’s only Lindville,” he says as he sets a black ten-gallon hat on his head. “And they’re going to pay me. Quite a bit of money, actually.”

  “But Dad, you don’t have to do this,” I say. “You’re good. You’re an artist.”

  “P. F., I’ve worn smelly fur costumes and dressed as cartoon characters. I’ve played Tweedledee. Being in the Rodeo Roundup Days isn’t that much of a stretch.” He takes off the black hat and throws it onto the sofa with a flourish. “P. F., there comes a time when everyone has to—”

  “Make sacrifices,” I finish the sentence for him, then sigh. “Okay, but this one?” It’s going to be so embarrassing. My father is talking about skating at the rodeo. And he’s actually going to do it.

  “Peggy, you know what they say. Every cloud has a silver lining.” Dad yanks off the bolo tie and throws it on the coffee table, then walks out of the living room.

  Even Lindville clouds? I wonder.

  I pick up a suede vest and hold it up against me, inhaling its leather smell. I try to picture my father skating with Justin boots fashioned into skates. I try to picture the two of us out there, together. My mind goes blank.

  A car honks outside, and I drop the vest as if it’s radioactive.

  “Be home by ten!” my father calls from the kitchen as I hurry out the door.

  “Eleven!” I yell over my shoulder as the door closes.

  “What’s your favorite thing about the rodeo?” Mike asks me as he parks the Geo under a sign in front of the stadium that says RODEO FANS ONLY.

  We’re in the middle of what will soon be rodeo bedlam. Right now it’s empty booths, banners announcing different events, and chained-off areas ready for petting zoos and carnival rides.

  “The day it’s over,” I say as Steve, Jacqui, and I climb out of the car. Especially this year, I think as I notice the skating rink on the other end of the stadium, which looks like a construction zone with tarps and scaffolding. Ray and Charlotte are parking right beside us, in Ray’s pickup—we all met up at the Lot about five minutes ago.

  “What are they doing to the rink?” Steve asks, apparently following my gaze.

  “Closing it off, because—” I start to explain, then stop. I don’t want to tell everyone about this—I don’t want anyone except Charlotte to know. “Actually I’m not really sure what they’re doing,” I
say.

  We head for the picnic tables already set up for the food concessions, with two pizzas that Mike brought from work. There must be about a hundred tables.

  I don’t know how I feel about this. I get to hang out with Steve, but only if I do it when Jacqui and Mike are there. It’s like a very sorry logic equation on the SAT. The answer to “What do I like about this?” is “None of the above.”

  I wonder if Steve gets jealous seeing me with Mike. I hope he does. Not that there’s anything between me and Mike, but if I can make Steve think there is . . . maybe he’ll feel as terrible seeing us together as I do when I see Steve and Jacqui. Maybe he’ll come to my rescue the way he did at that St. Patrick’s Day party.

  Somehow I doubt it, but isn’t it worth a shot, at this point? Nothing else seems to be working, and we are constantly being thrown together on this awkward pseudo–double date.

  “You know what I like?” Steve says. “I like seeing all the RVs and horse trailers and amusement rides pulling out of town. Because then we get the town back.”

  “Hmm. Do we want the town back?” I joke.

  Steve starts to laugh, and I look at him and think, You know, we could be having this much fun, like, all the time. If only you’d get rid of the girl with the plastic facial features and no brain.

  “Wouldn’t we rather be in the trailers, leaving?” I ask Steve.

  “Definitely. Stowaways.” Steve grins at me. “But I don’t know if we want to go cross-country with horses.”

  So he does remember what we talked about, our vague plan to pull a Jack Kerouac.

  “You’re riding across the country on horseback?” Jacqui asks, coming up beside Steve and taking his hand.

  “No,” Steve says, shaking his head.

  “Then what?” she asks.

  “Never mind,” Steve says. “It’s not important.”

  Yes, it is! I want to scream. It’s incredibly, vitally, excruciatingly important. And you are letting Jacqui get in the way of all of it.

  I walk over toward Charlotte.

  “Does the parade wind up here, at the end?” she asks me. “And then everyone parades around the stadium over there?”

  “Usually,” I say. “It goes down Main Street and then—wait a second. You’re not still planning to be in the parade, are you?”

  “Of course I am,” she says. “You’re still thinking about it, too, aren’t you?”

  “No!” I glance ahead at Steve, remembering the streaking conversation at IHOP, and how embarrassed he got. “I mean, sure, I’m thinking about it,” I lie loudly, hoping he’ll hear me and be impressed. “But I’m not sure I’m going to do it,” I tell Charlotte. One major humiliation in the family during Rodeo Roundup Days is enough.

  “You’re not?” Charlotte asks. “Not even if I can find a way for us to escape afterward?”

  “We’d have to escape really, really far away,” I say.

  “What are you guys getting away from?” Mike asks, tuning into our conversation as he opens the top pizza box and tears off a slice. Suddenly everyone is looking at us; everyone is tuned in.

  “We need to get away from a situation,” Charlotte says. “Well, not now, but a few weeks from now. We’ll need to be picked up and whisked away.”

  “Don’t keep saying we. I’m not doing it,” I tell Charlotte. I glance over at Steve. I’m not sure if he remembers Charlotte talking about streaking, that day at IHOP. He may have blocked it out.

  “You’re doing it, Fleming,” Charlotte insists. “It’s going to be the highlight of the rodeo.”

  “What is?” Mike asks. “What are you guys doing? Barrel racing or something?”

  “Or something,” I say.

  “Whatever. You guys are weird,” Ray says.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte says.

  We all wander around, waiting for someone to pick a table for us to sit down at.

  “My favorite part of the rodeo is the games,” Steve says. “I could play those all day. I will, actually.”

  “I thought you quit gambling,” Jacqui says.

  “Hey, shooting at a metal duck is not gambling. Throwing a dart at a balloon is not gambling,” Steve says.

  “Yeah, they don’t give you any money,” Mike points out. “Just stuffed animals, and how many of those can you use?”

  “You’d be surprised. Last year I donated about twenty to the hospital for kids,” Steve says.

  I am about to tell him how cool that is when Jacqui grabs Steve’s arm with both her hands. “That’s so incredible,” she says. “Wow.”

  “Not really. They were pink and blue and they smelled funny,” Steve says.

  “Still,” Jacqui insists, tugging at Steve the way Dorothy tugs at me when I’m on the phone and she wants attention.

  Steve suddenly decides we should sit at the table that’s right in the middle of all of them. He and Jacqui sit on one side, while Mike perches across from them. I sit down next to Mike, scooting a little closer to him than may be necessary. When Steve sees me getting close to Mike, his jealousy will have to kick in, the way mine kicked in weeks ago when I saw him kissing Jacqui. Not that I’m going to kiss Mike. But we are spending time together—and that has to get to Steve eventually. Doesn’t it? Kick in, kick in, kick in, I think, as if I’m Torvill. Please.

  But nothing seems to get to Steve, because when he and Jacqui are together they create this disgusting force field of happiness that rebuffs any approaches. Especially mine.

  I gaze across the table at Steve as I eat a slice of pizza and try to ignore the fact that Mike has slipped off his flip-flops and is trying to play footsie with me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He’s good-looking and he has nice feet. But still, this has to go down as one of the worst Friday nights in history.

  I found out my father’s going to embarrass me in public, and that Steve still wants to be with Jacqui and not me.

  They’ve both got to be considered insane.

  Protection

  Denny taps a book of matches against the glass-top sales counter. It’s been a slow Saturday night, so slow that we’ve run out of things to talk about and for some reason I feel compelled to confide in him about my dad’s rodeo plan. After we have a good laugh about that, we start discussing our work history, the jobs we’ve loved, the jobs we’ve hated, the jobs we’ve lost.

  “So, okay, can I ask you something?” I say. “Why aren’t you working at a music store? Or a CD store? I mean, that seems more like where you’d want to work.”

  “You’re a genius. You know that, right?” Denny snaps.

  “Hey, forget I asked.” I start to walk away.

  Denny doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and I’m kind of glad. Talk about a short fuse.

  Then he walks over to me. “Remember how I said people end up here? Because of something that happened, because they have a story?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  “Okay. So, of course I used to work at a music store,” Denny says. “I mean, come on. I worked at the stupid Disc Barn for like a year.”

  “In the mall?” I ask. I can’t picture it. “You?”

  “Yes, me,” Denny says. “But I was too opinionated. I kept telling people they shouldn’t buy stuff,” Denny says, “and I couldn’t stop, not even after the manager told me to. Like if someone was buying a really awful CD by a good band, or anything by a horrible band, or anything I didn’t like. Which is a lot of things. Anyway, so about a year ago I got into this confrontation with this guy about which band was going to be considered more influential in like a hundred years.”

  “Let me guess. You said U2. And he said . . . ?”

  “Velvet Underground. I was shelving discs in the U-V-W section. And I told him, I know Velvet Underground is really, really important—they’re crucial—and I could see his point, but I said U2 is just as crucial, and then he said Zooropa was crap and called Bono a bleeding heart, just because he happens to be involved in the most important humanitarian cause
s on the planet—” Denny’s voice gets strained so he stops himself, shaking his head. “Anyway, it turned into a huge fistfight. And he won, and I got fired.” Denny points to his nose. “This used to be straight, okay?”

  I start laughing. “Okay. Wow.”

  “But working here? How can I have an opinion on what kind of potato chips people want, or whether they should get Regular or Premium gas, or the Silver carwash or the Gold? I mean, I really don’t care.”

  “Good point,” I say.

  “So then I can save my brain for my time off. And my writing.” Denny opens his leather bag and starts to show me a notebook filled with lyrics and poetry. Of course, for all I know it could be copied U2 lyrics, or lists of Bono’s favorite colors and foods and some of his best quotes, but I’m thinking it’s original material and I’m about to tell Denny that I’m impressed, when we both hear tires squealing outside. We look up and see a car screeching out onto the highway.

  Denny swears and takes off from behind the counter, and sprints out the door. He comes back a minute later, panting. “Another drive-off,” he says, as if he has to explain. He picks up the phone and calls Jamie and then the police to report the theft. While he talks on the phone, I make a fresh tank of decaf for a couple on a date, who ordered and then went over to the circular beef jerky display to make out.

  Denny slams down the telephone. “I hate drive-offs.” He stares out the window for a few minutes. “And I hate Saturday nights,” he says. “They’re never what you think they’re going to be.”

  “Really,” I say in agreement as I deliver the decafs to the happy couple while Denny turns up the radio really loud and sits down behind the register, munching on a bag of fried pork rinds.

  My father comes to pick me up from work at 11:15. He knocks on the locked door, and when I look out, I see he’s wearing skin-tight workout pants and a sleeveless muscle T-shirt. He waves at me and smiles and then gulps from his sports drink. He looks like a runner who’s just finished a marathon—especially with the giant brace over one knee.