Kickdown

by Rebecca Clarren

  23

  THE GLASS DOOR OF the diner swings back and forth, ringing its two-note bell, as a parade of muddy boots, sneakers, sandals, corrective shoes, a muted landscape of practical footwear, enters and exits. Tim and Jackie sit across the table from one another in a booth near the front.

  Cheryl, the waitress who has worked the lunch shift longer than Jackie has been alive, is a powerhouse of efficiency; she glides her solid frame between the crowded wooden tables in her white high-tops. The room is filled with people who knew Jackie’s dad, old ranchers eating pie and hash, their hats on the chair beside them, their confidence about how the world works intact.

  “I’ll take a Coke and your banana cream pie,” says Tim.

  “You got yourself a sweet tooth, honey,” says Cheryl, her voice the sound of cigarettes before breakfast.

  He looks at Jackie across the table and winks. “Yes ma’am.”

  Jackie rolls her eyes at Cheryl and orders the salad bar and french fries.

  Tim smiles at Jackie and then nods hello to Alan Gibson, who is looking at them from the next table over. She’d heard Gibson used the money he got from the gas royalties to buy a Zamboni and turn his backyard pond into a hockey rink for his kids.

  “Nice to see your shining face, Dunbar. Now, what can I do you for? You sounded strange on the phone.”

  She frowns. “Something weird is happening to our water and it’s got us all a little spooked. I can’t get you that gas lease by the end of the week when it’s due.”

  “What kind of weird?”

  She leans across the table and lowers her voice. “Divide Creek is bubbling and my sister is real worried that it has to do somehow with the fracking up-valley. We’ve had the state out to test the water but no word back yet on the results. Susan’s convinced we’re being poisoned.”

  “Poisoned sounds like a stretch.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not naive. You can’t tell me that kickdown was normal operating procedure.”

  “Definitely not. But you have to think about it like a doctor would. How often do patients come in worried they’ve got some rare parasite and it turns out to be the flu?”

  Jackie nods. Don’t hunt for a zebra, that’s what her attending had said just last November. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t take it seriously.”

  “Of course. You know I love your creek. I love all the creeks around here. I’m not in this business to watch things get wrecked.”

  Jackie fiddles with her fork. “Susan’s not budging on the contract.”

  “Listen, I don’t have a dog in this fight. Sign the contract. Don’t sign it. I get paid either way.”

  “She doesn’t think we can trust the people you work for.”

  “Here’s what I’ll do and hopefully it can bring your sister around. I’ll see if my company can get you all drinking water delivered. That’s just being a good neighbor; it’s good for their PR, they’ll like that.” Tim bounces his knee under the table, so fast the water sloshes in their glasses. “And I’ll personally call the folks at the state and see about coordinating with their results, make sure everyone’s talking to each other. And let’s say there is something weird going on, there’s things we can do. There’s charcoal filtration systems and aerating devices, whole bunch of things.” He takes a long sip of water. “If I were you, I’d want an extension on that contract until this hoopla settles down, yes?”

  Jackie nods and exhales the crimp in her chest. She settles back into the booth, lets it hold her.

  “Consider it done.”

  Jackie squints at him as if he were a puzzle she was trying to solve. “Don’t tell me you’re actually a nice guy.”

  “Watch out, Dunbar, you might have yourself a friend, despite your terrible personality.”

  Jackie smiles and heads to the salad bar, scooping bean salad, macaroni salad, and potato salad onto her plate. Across the room, Cheryl delivers Tim his pie and he takes a huge bite, his top lip becoming covered in cream.

  What she has wanted, when it comes to relationships, is not something she has ever understood. There was the snowboarder who had dropped out of college, with the great arms and nothing to say. There was the aspiring novelist with the job selling vitamins, who was moving, and then did move to Buenos Aires as soon as he saved enough money. There was the medical student with Aspergers who would only see her on Friday nights from seven to nine.

  She has always picked people she is certain to avoid falling in love with. A defense mechanism that always fails: she has never managed to completely sidestep hurt.

  She slides back into the booth.

  “I want to thank you. I mean it, it means a lot to me to have your help.”

  Tim waves his hand as if it were nothing. He points his fork at her plate.

  “How is that a salad? There’s no lettuce.”

  “How is that lunch?” She nods at the last bite of congealed syrup and store-bought crust on his plate.

  “This is fruit, dairy, grain; it’s practically a model of the USDA food chart.” He cocks his head to one side, laughter in his eyes, searching her face. “Explain to me how you don’t have a cell phone. You’re impossible to reach.”

  “There’s no point. They don’t work up at the ranch. I put my plan on hold.”

  “You put your plan on hold. That sounds like a metaphor.”

  She laughs at the surprise of again misjudging him.

  “Want to go to Farm and Home after this? I need a new post hole digger.”

  “That sounds romantic.”

  “Yeah well, romance has always been slightly lost on me.”

  “Another thing I like about you.”

  They grin at each other through the din of the doorbell, of silverware clanking against earthenware plates, through the talk around them of weather and feed, through the smell of coffee, bleach, and bacon. Neither of them moves to pay the bill; they let the minutes pass unused, squandered on the pleasure of being together.

  24

  THE UNEASY FEELING STARTS early in the day for Tim, as he is riding single-track cut into the side of a river canyon. His full suspension bike is already splattered with mud, a sign of a good ride. Juniper blur at the edge of his sunglasses. On his iPod is Killer Whale, the most awesome band he’s heard in a long time, a band that should, under normal circumstances, especially on such a technical ride, clear his head. Killer Whale, or the Orcas, as their true fans call them, were originally out of a small logging town in Washington, three guys, heavy loops, and Tim knew when he first saw them a few years back in a tiny smoky bar in Casper that they’d make it big. Now, just like he’d predicted, they’re playing Radio City, living in LA, dating models. Tim focuses on this and sees how he has always been good at making a good bet, especially on people like himself, people who come from not much.

  At the bridge, he opts to ride through the shallow stream, mud from his tires splattering his face and calves, a sign of hard work, of someone who keeps after it. He had considered inviting Jackie to join him for the weekend but is relieved he hadn’t. He needed the time to think, to consider what to do.

  As he hits the steep section, he grinds up the trail, pulling his body forward off the bike; he listens to the same track, “Day Fight,” over and over. There is a part in the song, where the verse slows, where the music becomes predictable, almost boring, but then, there’s a pause and the chord changes and the rhythm picks up, and suddenly the song is saved. Tim marvels at the upbeat, at the guts it took to write a chord progression where its near miss with failure is its setup to success.

  Without wanting to, his mind wanders back to Jackie. She hadn’t gotten around to listening to the CDs he gave her and he didn’t like that. In fact, he can’t remember her ever knowing that much about music. To move away from the country and classic rock stations of rural America was as much the central motivating idea of his adolescence as his longing to squeeze the juice out of life. Would Jackie embrace the moment before the pickup? Would she know what that m
eans? She rarely talks about medical school. It’s no longer obvious to Tim that she is the same person, the one who would do what needs doing, see things from a no-nonsense distance, in order to achieve her personal goals. Like most people, she probably only tracks the lead singer. Doesn’t notice the bassist, the one communicating between the drums and guitar, the one holding it all together. Although at some point, she had noticed him.

  She had come by herself one time to watch Chewbacca’s Foot, his high school band that everyone had said was certain to make it big. He’d been impressed by how unafraid she was of being different, of not traveling in a pack like all the other girls he knew. After his set, she’d been shy and awkward, not someone he would normally go for but then he’d made her laugh and he’d been surprised at how satisfying it was, how special it made him feel. So when Don got into meth and Bunny got pregnant and the sixteen labels they’d sent their demo to never responded, it didn’t matter as much because he was dating Jackie. She wanted things from life, things that no one had ever told him it was all right to ask for. Without her influence, he never would’ve taken the SATs and surprised everyone including himself with his high scores. If they hadn’t dated, he might never have gone to college, gotten such a good job, been able to help his family and certainly to help himself.

  Her message on his voice mail the day before had been sweet, but he had blown it off. And while she certainly took her time returning his calls, that didn’t mean he had to be a tit-for-tat sort of person, he didn’t want to be that guy. He had woken up this morning, sunlight streaming through the tent, warming his bag, with nothing but the sound of the creek, which should’ve been the start to a perfect day, but he found himself worrying about Jackie, about what he’d seen at work the day before, about his confidentiality agreement. And he doesn’t like to worry. That’s not his jam. He turns the music up and hammers out the last pitch, his lungs burning, his legs heavy, until he clears the crest and his thoughts narrow to the gravel under his tires.

  Driving back toward town the next day, he idles on the frontage road to call his folks, just to give himself a boost, because today, they should be happy with their baby boy. If they were anyone else they definitely would be.

  It takes a minute for his dad to pick up the landline.

  “How’s it look? Is it amazing?”

  “We missed you this weekend. Your mother thought you’d be in town. We were expecting you back for church.”

  “I see you all the time, Dad. Did the dishwasher come?”

  “Hold on a minute, son. I’m just finishing gluing this mast; let me pass you to your mother.”

  Tim winces. Ever since his dad had to close the mill, he’s built model navy ships, the kind used during his Vietnam tour. A completely dull, useless, old-fashioned hobby. His mom dusts those damn toothpick boats every week and never says a word.

  “Hi, honey,” his mom picks up. “Tell me everything.”

  “Mom, how’s the dishwasher? I thought they were delivering it yesterday.”

  “Oh yes, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you. It’s just wonderful, honey.”

  Tim frowns. It’s just a dishwasher, he wants to say. Everything with his mom is always the most wonderful, the most beautiful, so much so that it can’t possibly be true. But then, wasn’t he hoping for this kind of reaction? Wasn’t the point to please them, to hear them go on and on about his generosity? The money Tim gives his parents every month has been the only reason they’re still in their house. And he doesn’t want them to feel like they owe him anything, except maybe he likes it that they owe him, that they depend on him, and what does that say about his character? He yanks the parking break, annoyed with himself for going down what he has taken to calling The Doubt Spiral.

  “How did the install go? Did they get out of your way pretty fast?”

  “Well, um. It’s still in the box. Your father will set it up when he has the time. We just love it so much.”

  Tim slumps against his seat. On the road, he never gets this squirrelly feeling like the one he has now. He sighs.

  “Mom, I paid extra for them to set it up for you.”

  “You know your father. He didn’t want to waste money on something like that. But he just loves it, Tim. We both do.”

  He should let it drop, right there, but pathetically, he can’t. He tries one more time.

  “The color was good, right? I thought you’d like the silver.”

  “Oh yes, honey. It’s just perfect.”

  Then his mom wants to talk about the weather and about her neighbor’s new peonies, about how the dog has learned to roll over. Tim stares vacantly out the window until he can interrupt her to tell her he loves her, to say goodbye. They’re not bad people, they’re just not like us. Their dreams for their lives are pocket-sized. Jackie said that once, before they left for college, and it was something he’d remembered and retold himself again and again over the years.

  The thing he has always liked about Jackie is how she tells it straight. This point is troubling and he throws that in the pro column. Then he considers the cons: his lack of real choice, all the people counting on him. Clearly, Jackie can relate to the constraints of obligation. He banks on that and the more he thinks about it, the surer he becomes. He drives to the office. There is no need to think about it again.

  25

  ON A CLOUDY MAY afternoon, Jackie walks through the Kum and Go gas station on the edge of town by the highway, berating herself for being there, but sometimes procrastinating to the point of self-loathing is the only way to truly buckle down. She stares for a long time at the four shelves of gum, which for a town of two thousand people seems like way too many choices.

  She had woken up that morning, resolved to complete her research proposal, resolved to ignore the specific anniversary of the day. But Susan bowed out of work, something about her deadline. And then the ditch needed burning, and there was a cow with an impacted and infected udder that needed to be put in the squeeze chute and nursed out, too much for Ray to handle alone, and there was three hours gone. They had needed more wire and she’d offered to run to town, thinking she could sneak in an hour of uninterrupted research time at the library before heading back. But on the drive, her head kept nodding off to one side, which has been happening lately, every time she stops working the fields.

  She picks up a pack of Trident, sets it back, reaches for Juicy Fruit.

  “Don’t overthink it, Dunbar.” Tim appears at the end of the aisle, by the cold case. He couldn’t look more relaxed, a sort of Teflon-human, his smile is slack, his skin tan. A twitchy, high-pitched thrum fills her blood. Her breath is stale. Her breasts are too small. She waves hello and drops the gum on the floor. Then kicks it, awkwardly, weirdly. She doesn’t know how to be and she doesn’t have time for another thing she doesn’t understand.

  “How was your weekend?” She crosses her arms over her ribs. She should’ve said something else, something that took the conversation far away from the fact that she’d noticed he’d been away, that she’d left him a message that he had never returned.

  “Fine enough.” He speaks really fast, smiling his big broad easy smile, going on and on about the sick single-track in Durango. “I got your message. Something about good news?”

  “Fisk called,” Jackie tells him. “The water samples came back in normal range, maybe on the high end of normal but still, nothing to worry about. He says it’s probably biogenic methane, just extra peat in the river. You’re nodding. Did you hear?”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling good about it.” His smile is strange. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  If this were true, if he really liked her, he would’ve called her back. He would’ve called when he first got to town. Jackie grimaces at this needy line of thought. For the twentieth time, Jackie reminds herself that she doesn’t want anything complicated from Tim. That she is in this for friendship, and friends don’t always return calls in a timely manner.

 
; “Sounds like you had a great trip.” She tries for breezy, talking over her shoulder as she grabs a Coke from the cold case. “I’ve got to get going but welcome back.”

  “Hey, what’s the rush?” He grabs a Coke and then grabs hers and takes them to the counter to pay. “Can you take five minutes?”

  To say no would be to admit something.

  They walk to his truck, parked at the far end of the concrete pad behind the gas station, near the dumpster and the highway. They climb on the hood and watch the semis and cars, new and old, heading east toward Denver. Their knees touch.

  “You as sick of this place as I am?” He looks better in his jeans than she wants him to. “Hometowns are kind of the worst.”

  Although she has had this same thought multiple times in the past months, it isn’t something she would say to someone, a potential something or other, if she liked spending time with them.

  “It’s beautiful here.”

  “Come on. You must be gunning to get back to Denver. I know you.”

  “Do you get lonely being on the road all the time, Tim?”

  “Sometimes.” He nods, unaware of the dark alley he’s about to walk into.

  “If I were you, I’d have a special lady friend in every state. Seems normal.”

  “What are you talking about, Jackie?” Tim rubs his forehead, his smile drained of effort. “Obviously, you’re special to me.”

  Jackie is aware that what she is doing is what her friends with better home lives might call “self-sabotage.” These same friends have missed out on the comfort that comes from clearing a radius around yourself by setting a brush fire. She narrows her eyes at him. “You sound like a used car salesman.” Her feet hit the cracked concrete. She wants to run all the way to her truck but she makes herself walk. He swears quietly, “what the fuck,” his words bouncing off her back.

  In the safety of her own truck, she drives quickly to Farm and Home for the wire she promised Ray. There, in the back, near the tools that smell like her dad, she is sure to be able to get a grasp on the things that matter.