Friendswood

by Rene Steinke

  She wondered about the author of this book, how much he or she succeeded behind the scenes, without anyone knowing. The text seemed to prepare one so carefully, down to the flashlight with the red beam, less visible in the dark, the advice to buy each piece of hardware at a different store so as not to arouse suspicion. She’d begun to trust the practical, evenhanded voice, and to read the instructions gave her solace, the way she imagined her mother, during her sober periods, had gotten relief from reading her book of inspirational sayings.

  Lee could picture herself there at Banes Field with a monkey-wrenching kit, at the bulldozer maybe, if she methodically followed the careful notes, if she did the act as if the sabotage were really a repair.

  LATER THAT WEEK, she sat in her car at some distance from the construction site. She wanted to see what they’d built so far. The empty bulldozer held its square and serrated head at an angle to the ground, and the cement blocks of the foundation lay flat and gray in the turned red dirt. She watched three men work, carrying slabs of metal or pipes over to the foundation, one of them pounding with a hammer, the sun beating down on their yellow hard hats, their brown arms. It seemed inconceivable to her that they were actually building there again, in broad daylight.

  She was parked a quarter of a mile from where her own house used to be. One of the construction workers walked closer to her car, and he leaned over and hugged a large spool of wire, then lifted it, but dropped it again. The car smelled like coffee. That same song came on the radio that she’d heard five or six times in the last day, and then, “Once we’ve executed Osama bin Laden, America can assume its rightful place again. Won’t you donate to . . .” She looked to see if she could find the oil filter access and the fuel gauge on the side of the bulldozer (which she’d seen in diagrams), but this far away, the details were blurry.

  The cowboy dangled from her rearview mirror—Jack had got it on a trip to Fort Worth: a golly-gee face with a hat way too big for his head and across his belt buckle the words Cowboy Kitchen.

  It started to rain, at first just a few drops nailing on the car roof and then a spill of them. She could barely see through the gray scrim of water. When she was little, Jess liked to play in the rain, her fat toddler stomach and skinny arms, and she’d ride her tricycle through the muddy ruts in the grass, and no matter how many times Lee called her, she wouldn’t come inside.

  Lee waited there while the construction workers took shelter somewhere, and the rain poured down around her. She took out some paper and a pen from the glove compartment to note the make of the bulldozer. She drew a diagram of the building site. The thunder sounded like giant rocks falling from the sky.

  WHEN SHE GOT HOME there was a voice-mail message from Doc giving her the next day off. He was going to a golf tournament. “I see Taft’s got his permit,” he said. “Guess there’s not much more to be done, but you sure did try, Lee. No one can take that away.” She poured herself a bourbon, and studied the manual. She took out some old toy blocks, laid them on a piece of paper, and redrew the diagram of the site where the building had begun.

  On the computer, she followed the links she’d marked, and read again the stories of the Earth Liberation Front, especially the ones posted about those who’d been imprisoned, with websites pleading for support. “The prison refuses to provide a vegan diet.” “Her sentence is years longer than that of another prisoner who committed armed robbery.” There was the case of the half-built Seattle subdivision, burned to the ground; the note posted on one remaining brick wall read: “Built Green? Maybe Black! ELF.” Whenever she saw that acronym, she imagined the activists with pointed ears and small, impish bodies. Even when they were older, they all looked like moribund, pale, vegetarian college kids, bored with their ordinary lives, looking for mischief.

  There was a new appeal in the works for the woman who’d set fire to cars in Oklahoma. She’d been sentenced to twenty years. Lee clicked to her link and there was a photo of her with her young sons, sitting on a blanket in the grass, a dog roaming in the background. There was a plea to donate money to contribute to her defense. There was a plea to donate money to her family.

  THAT NIGHT IN HER DREAM, she was lost in a house with many beautiful rooms. Each had a small swinging door at one end, for a dog or cat, but she kept thinking that she would never be able to squeeze through it. And though it was night in her dream, the sun shone through the windows on all the gleaming furniture, and she was desperate to get out because a gas had been released somewhere—it was like a perfume mixed with rancid eggs—and it would kill her if she didn’t find the way out. She heard a distant bell in another room and went toward it, and then she woke up, realized it was her cell phone ringing. When she answered the time appeared on the screen—it was 3:18 a.m.

  “Listen,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, listen. I’ve been thinking about what you said about the house making those weird sounds. That roof hasn’t been fixed since my folks still lived there.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “You want me to come over and take a look?”

  “Nah. I could always hire someone if it gets to be a problem.”

  “Do you ever see Rush or Char? It seems you’re all alone over there.”

  “Sure. I see them all the time. Rush anyway. It’s not as bad as all that. Actually, I’ve got a fine social life. But honestly, it’s the first time you’ve had that thought?”

  “It’s just the first time I’ve said it, and I’m not drunk, either.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Well, also.” He cleared his throat, and made his voice colder. “It also occurs to me there are some things there I’d like to come and get.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like some of those old records I left, the ones I used to play my harmonica to.”

  “Oh brother.” He’d made these overtures before, but they’d dissipate after a while, and he’d stop calling. Then later, if she called him, he’d act as if she were putting him out.

  “I’m serious. I’ve been playing again. It’s all coming back. I don’t have any of that old music here, and besides it sounds different—even if you can get it—when it’s not a record.” She missed dancing with him, the way his limp syncopated the swing, and she missed the way when he kissed her good-bye, he’d grab a handful of her hair.

  “You’re welcome anytime,” she said, but she knew he wouldn’t come, and now it would take hours for her to get back to sleep.

  HAL

  IN THE MORNING, he told Darlene he had a stomachache, though he exaggerated. He showered, dressed, and left for his 9:00 a.m. appointment at Avery’s old property on 2351. He hadn’t even been inside yet, but he’d looked at the pictures online, and he knew how to bluff his way in with one of these old homes—the details, the vintage, the homey, the kind of parents who’d lived there. The “looky here” and “looky there.”

  He pulled up in the driveway, and realized how loud the traffic was, even though the house was set far back from the road. But the wood was painted that old green you never saw anymore, and the flat spread of its ranch-style girth felt welcoming—the house seemed honest and good-natured, like a lot of the people he used to know. A few minutes later, a blue Range Rover pulled in, and the client stepped out. He was a young guy, looked to be just a few years out of college, but he wore a suit—probably on his way to work at his new job. Not what Hal had expected.

  As they shook hands and made introductions, Hal was aware of the leanness of this Bill’s body and the confidence in his chin. Hal read him right away—he was all set to say no, as soon as he saw the outside of the place, but was too polite to say so before Hal showed him anything. Still, with some skill, Hal might at least get him interested in going to a few other listings, the town house over on Groveland Street, maybe.

  When they walked inside, Hal was unprepared for the cozy sm
ell of old wood and dust. There it was again, the cheap, paneled wall in the living room, the dark green shag carpet that had probably been there since the late seventies. He remembered being there with Avery and a few others when they were teenagers. They’d come that day after school was out for the summer, and Avery’s mother had given them all lemonade and chili with saltine crackers, and Avery’s dad had worn glasses broken at the side and held together with tape.

  “It’s a fixer-upper, maybe,” said Hal, sensing that this Bill was almost hopeless. “But there’s a good structure, nice detail in the fixtures, the cabinets. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  Bill walked over to the curtainless window and looked out at the tangled weeds in the yard. Hal led him down the hallway to the bathroom, cheap white tiles flecked with gold, an old, dingy tub. Even in here, you could hear the semi trucks drone on the highway. Then he led him back through the bedrooms, wood floored, small, the walls still scuffed and discolored from where the furniture had been. “The owner would give it a paint for you, of course,” said Hal, ashamed of himself, feeling like Avery’s goddamn slave.

  “I like it,” said Bill, nodding, and Hal tried to interpret his eyes, but he couldn’t. “Do you think he’ll come down on the price?”

  It was a trick, and Hal wouldn’t be fooled. A sale could never be this easy. He either didn’t have the money, or he didn’t have the credit score.

  “Uh, not sure about that. I can ask.”

  Hal led the client back through the living room, and he remembered that day again, how Avery’s dad had, for some reason, just lost his job, but he’d anyway seemed so proud to have his son and his friends in his house. Acted like the only thing keeping it from being a grand mansion was its size. He’d told them all stories about Beaumont football, praised Hal for his speed on the field, gave each of them half a glass of beer. Hal led Bill into the kitchen, where the cabinets and tile looked newer than what was in the rest of the house. “New stove. New fridge.” On the windows, thin red cotton curtains faded by the sun, and the linoleum floor, a blue brick pattern, was cracked just under the sink, as if something had fallen there. There was a smallness here, an evenhandedness that made Hal think of his own family. What did a single man want with it? Hal kept seeing Avery’s dad’s face, smiling, his blue shirt neatly pressed, still tucked into his trousers, his tooled leather belt. He’d had a reassuring laugh, and such confidence in all of them, the way he said they were all going on to great adventures, the way he’d turn to his wife and say, “Did you hear that?” She’d been tall and thin like him, with big white teeth and a genuine shy sweetness in her aproned gestures. Avery’s dad was dead now from a heart attack a couple of years back, and Hal didn’t know what had happened to Avery’s mom—if she was alive or in a home somewhere.

  This Bill was smiling, opening each kitchen cabinet and sticking his head inside. “It’s real close to my work, and I like a small house, not an apartment,” he said. For a moment, Hal wondered if he was a homosexual, and then dismissed the thought because he was afraid Bill would see it in his face.

  Hal led him around to the back, and they looked at the yard. They went inside the musty garage. Coming out of its dimness, Hal handed Bill his card, and walked him out to the driveway. “I have some other properties too, if you’d like to have a look.”

  Bill shook his head, held up the card and said, “I’ll be in touch.” He couldn’t have meant it, but it was nice to deal with someone who had manners at least.

  AFTER CULLY’S FIRST GAME BACK, a catastrophic loss to Sugarland, Hal drove Cully home, so he wouldn’t have to sulk on the bus. Hal could almost understand why it happened the way it did because Sugarland was deft and large with defense, and Friendswood leaned all of itself on Cully and Sid Tomes, the quarterback, so if those two fumbled, the team lost. “You’ve got to get your defense to bulk up, not be so afraid to hit,” he told Cully as they drove down the dark highway, the lights from passing cars sweeping over Cully’s red, shiny face. It was less understandable the next Friday night on the home field, when Cully fell apart like a snowman when the guy bumped him, and in the next quarter, Cully dropped an easy pass. Sitting next to him and Darlene, Wes Starkweather said, “They’ll come back,” but he wouldn’t look in Hal’s direction. By the end of the game, Hal could have sworn he saw him spit into the bleachers.

  The following week, Hal was fixing up a different contract when the client Bill who’d looked at Avery’s property actually did call and said, “I want to make an offer—I liked that place.” Hal could hardly believe it. It was ten thousand less than Avery wanted, but when Hal called and regretfully told him the amount, Avery said, “I don’t mind. I just want to get it off my hands.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Hal said, after he and Avery had mostly finished with the initial business of the sale.

  “Yeah.”

  “Your mom still alive?”

  “Yeah, she lives with her sister in Garland now. Why?”

  “When I was over there at the house it all came back to me, how your folks used to have us over. I remember your dad and how much he liked to talk. Didn’t he have a joke about a man in a croker sack suit—kind of a shaggy-dog story thing?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. That’s all so long ago,” said Avery, yawning. “That house is so old.”

  “Yeah. But I remember this real nice day. Me, you, Ulsher, and Robbins. It might have been the first time I tasted beer. Your mom made chili and we watched a game.”

  Avery didn’t answer, and Hal thought he heard clicking—he was probably typing on the computer keyboard. There were only some men you could talk to that way, and here he was, chatting into this rich, platinum shell. Words bouncing back to hit him.

  DEX

  AFTER THE GAME FRIDAY NIGHT, as he was walking out of the field house, he saw Bishop Geitner, Cully Holbrook, and a few other guys who had been there leaning against their trucks, arms folded. “Hey, Dex,” Bishop called. “I got something for you.” He grinned, but not in a friendly way.

  He supposed he didn’t have a choice but to talk to them, though he didn’t want to be seen doing it.

  “We’ve just been saying,” said Bishop, “that here’s the thing.” So they’d been waiting for him. His face was serious, but it looked like he was holding back laughter. “That girl Willa invited herself to the house, right? Whatever she’s saying now she wasn’t saying the same thing before, you know?”

  “What is she saying now?” The field lights and headlights daggered off all the chrome. He squinted at Bishop, wishing he could tell him and all the other guys to go fuck themselves. “Look, I don’t know what the hell happened over there,” said Dex, “but I do know that Willa’s a nice girl.”

  “Oh, yeah, she’s real nice, that’s what we’ve been saying.”

  “That’s not what you’re saying.”

  “Look,” said Louder. “So far you’re not on any lists, are you? No one’s going to ask you about anything, at least not yet. You’re free, you’re goddamn innocent.”

  “But Ida’s calling us in now for some reason,” said Bishop, “and this is what we’re telling her. If you want to go in and say something different, that’s your business, but we’re not saying we’ll cover you.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Bishop shrugged.

  “Holbrook and Trace admitted to fucking her. Now someone’s saying there were three. I’m not saying that. Are you? We’re saying what I said we’d say. But who’s to know there wasn’t three? There were a lot of guys who saw you there too. It could have been anyone.”

  “You’re threatening me?” Dex shook his head. That was a piss-poor way of standing up for Willa, but it was the best he could do right now.

  Bishop shrugged, turned his gaze over toward the parked cars.

  “I left early,” said Dex. “If you’re gonna lie and say somethi
ng else, that’s your business. I’ve got to get home, so—see ya.”

  He walked away as fast as he could, all the while expecting one of them to come up behind him and throw an arm around his neck.

  AFTER SCHOOL, he was on his way out to the field house, lugging his backpack of homework, when he saw Dani sitting cross-legged on the cement, just outside the glass door, her wavy black hair against a pink shirt. They had been in science class together last year, but he didn’t know her well, only well enough to hear about her acquaintance with someone at the Coastal Club in Houston who would sometimes let her go backstage.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She was leaning over her phone. She barely looked up. “Hey.”

  He sat down a few feet away from her on the cement, looked out at the half-empty parking lot. “Why are you still here?”

  “Drama Club,” she said. “You?”

  “Oh, football . . .”

  She looked at him sideways.

  “I’m a trainer.”

  “Oh.” She nodded.