The Aavetz family’s last name begins with A. Their house is on the flats of High School Highville, not far from the ocean. It is an older neighborhood of medium to large houses. I’ve walked by and around the Aavetz house three times in the last five days. The front of the house is hidden by a hedge. The metal gate to their front walk is set into two stone pillars. There is a flowered trellis over the gate. The Aavetz family keeps the gate locked. The plaque by the mailbox says they call their house Casa Mañana, which, I hope, translates as “we will be home tomorrow.” There is a small sign stuck in the ground. NATIONAL HOME SECURITY.
Ephraim cross-references the Aavetzes’ name and address with their security company. National Home Security’s data has no record of them being out of town for the weekend but it does have the code to turn off the system. The Aavetz family pays National Home Security forty dollars a month for their due diligence.
The rear of the house is easily accessible from the alley that abuts the Aavetz garage. It’s a quick step up onto a rubbish bin and then we climb over the wall. We are not dressed in black. Ephraim wanted to but was told that only morons who have played too many video games wander around in black ninja pants and hoodies late at night. If anyone sees us, we are high school students walking home from the 7-Eleven where the honest shopkeepers have refused to sell us beer. As we hurry up to the back door of the house, I can’t help but feel, with some satisfaction, that I’ve thought of everything.
“The door’s locked,” Twom says.
I’m totally stunned to realize I haven’t thought of everything.
“What do you mean, locked?” says Ephraim.
“Locked is locked, you know what ‘locked’ means?” says Twom, sounding annoyed.
“What, did you all think it wouldn’t be?” says Deliza, as if she’s talking to a trio of idiot monkeys. “Or did you not think about it at all?” Her aggrieved sigh tells you that the older guys she dates don’t make amateur mistakes like this.
I turn the doorknob right, left, right, as if it might have a secret combination that I’m going to stumble on.
“Smart, Billy,” says Deliza. “Really smart.” Meaning dumb. And I am. All my planning, undone by a doorknob.
“Let’s just get out of here before somebody sees us,” says Ephraim. His voice is shrill. He’s starting to panic. Ephraim’s the kind of guy who would panic if a mosquito attacked.
“No,” I say. “Just let me think.”
“You do that, Billy,” says Twom. “You think.” Twom steps into the flower bed, picks up a medium-sized rock and tosses it underhand through one of the back door’s windowpanes.
“Are you crazy?” says Ephraim, a microsecond before I’m about to say the same thing “You can’t break things!”
“Will you shut up?” says Twom. He reaches through and unlocks the door from the inside. The alarm goes off as he opens the door and enters. We all scramble through after him, circus clowns clambering out of a miniature car. The alarm is wailing. I turn to Ephraim. Our tech man. Our expert. Unflappable.
“What’s the security code, Ephraim?”
“We’ve got to get out of here!” says Ephraim.
“Shut up, you asshole,” says Deliza.
“Ephraim, the code!” I say.
“You shut up!” says Ephraim, glaring at Deliza.
“Don’t tell her to shut up!” says Twom, pushing Ephraim.
“The code, Ephraim!”
“I’m leaving,” says Ephraim. He looks like he might cry.
“Ephraim,” I say, raising my voice, “what’s the code!”
“I don’t know what I did with it!”
“Aw, shit,” mutters Twom. He looks resigned, as if yet again a punishable crime he’s involved himself in isn’t going quite according to plan.
I grab Ephraim by the shirt collar. His face is pasty white with fear. His pimples stand out like polka dots. His breath would kill an elephant.
“Ephraim,” I say. “The code.” I’m very quiet. “Please. “
Trembling, Ephraim reaches into his pants pocket. He comes out with a small, wadded slip of paper. It looks like a spitball, something you’d blow out a straw.
“Good,” I say, letting him go. “Take your time. No mistakes.”
Ephraim nods. He unwraps the spitball. Glancing at the paper, Ephraim punches in the security code, carefully hitting the keys one at a time. The alarm stops. We breathe a collective sigh of relief. We collectively jump out of our skins as the telephone rings. I let it ring twice more. I answer.
“Hello,” I say.
“This is National Home Security,” says the voice on the phone. “We have a signal here that your alarm has gone off?”
For their forty dollars a month, I’m sure the Aavetz family will be happy to know that National Home Security is on the job.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “We were coming home, my Dad accidentally broke a window.”
“May I have your password, please,” says National Home Security.
“Just a second,” I say. I cover the phone’s mouthpiece with a hand. “Password?” I say to Ephraim.
Ephraim looks at the little slip of paper. He squints.
“Tickety-boo,” says Ephraim.
“What the fuck kind of a password,” says Twom, “is—”
Deliza shushes him, cutting him off. “You’re sure?” I say to Ephraim. “It’s not Tickety-Bill or Tickety-Bob, it’s Tickety-boo?”
Ephraim nods. “Tickety-boo,” he says.
“Tickety-boo,” I say to the phone.
“Thank you and have a nice night,” says the voice of the National Security Company. They hang up. Ephraim, Twom, and Deliza are staring at me with nervous, expectant faces. I let them sweat for a moment.
“We’re in,” I say.
28
We’re like forest children who have never been inside a house before. Once we know we’re safe, we make ourselves at home.
Ephraim hits the kitchen. In the cupboard he finds Fritos and cookies. In the refrigerator, he finds ice cream and cans of soda. He takes his stash into the family room where he finds an old Sony PlayStation and some first- and second-generation video games. He is like a collector who has stumbled upon a horde of valuable antiques, and he settles in, thrilled and happy, noshing and nuking.
Twom and Deliza are already pulling off their clothes as they go running down the hall. Their plan is simple. The house is one big honeymoon suite and they are going to christen every room.
I explore. The Aavetz house is low-key in a way that reminds me of Gretchen’s. The furniture is old, used-looking stuff but polished and well maintained. There are sterling silver bowls and trays on sideboards which, if I was a thief, would be out the door already. Mr. Aavetz is an audiophile who listens to jazz and classical music on vinyl records using a Clearaudio Concept turntable. Mrs. Aavetz seems to like crossword puzzles. Judging by the photographs they have a son and a daughter, both married. They have two grandchildren. Mr. Aavetz drives a Toyota hybrid, Mrs. Aavetz an old Audi station wagon.
The Aavetzes sleep in separate bedrooms. Mr. Aavetz’s bed is covered by a plaid cotton quilt. There are books and reading glasses next to the bed. Mr. Aavetz likes biographies. Mrs. Aavetz’s bed is the bed they used to share. It’s a king. It’s covered by a white cotton duvet. Mrs. Aavetz likes to read crime thrillers and mysteries.
I sit on Mrs. Aavetz’s bed. It has a pleasant smell to it, like something freshly washed. The cotton of the duvet has a high thread count and is very smooth. I settle back. The ceiling is plastered. The way it’s been applied, in broad swirls, makes you think of clouds. I can sleep here. There are no dreams or ghosts in the Aavetzes’ house, or if there are, they’re not mine.
I close my eyes.
When I look up, the digital clock on the bedside table reads 1:13 A.M. I’ve only been asleep for about an hour and a half but I feel rested. The house is quiet. There is the smell of bacon in the air.
The others are in the ki
tchen.
Everything in the fridge and most of what was in cupboards and drawers is now on the counter. Deliza is cooking. Twom and Ephraim are at a table. Twom is drinking red wine from a bottle while Ephraim eats yet more ice cream. They are engaged in heated conversation.
“He’s a psycho,” says Ephraim.
“He’s the Dark Knight!” says Twom.
“What are they talking about?” I say to Deliza.
Deliza goes “tsk” which, unlike “mmm,” is a way of implying something negative like annoyance, impatience, or disgust. “Comic books,” she says. She shakes her head as if to say she can’t believe males are even remotely related to human beings.
“Superman would destroy Batman!” says Ephraim.
“In what?” says Twom. “That blue and red leotard? What’s he gonna do, blow Batman to death? Maybe squeeze his dick off when he takes it up the ass?”
Twom is clearly enjoying himself. Ephraim, who each summer spends every waking minute at Comic-Con dressed as a Jedi knight, is on the verge of going drool-sputtering ballistic.
“Superman is invulnerable! He can fly, he has heat vision, he can do anything!”
“He’s a pussy,” says Twom.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” I say to Deliza.
It’s not just bacon. She’s made scrambled eggs with cheese, sautéed onion, and mushrooms. She’s wearing an apron she’s found and her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her makeup has wiped off during her sack diving with Twom and she’s suddenly pretty as opposed to outright sexy.
“I cook if I feel like it,” Deliza says. “I just don’t clean.” She hands me a plate and silverware.
Plate in hand, I turn from the stove, walk over to the table and sit just in time to hear Ephraim seal the deal.
“Superman really exists,” he says.
Twom almost spits wine on the table.
“You are so full of it, dude.”
“In 1931,” says Ephraim, “a spaceship crashed in Idaho. A trapper saw it go down. When he got there, he found a little boy.”
Deliza puts plates down on the table and sits. We all begin eating.
“He took the boy to his cabin,” says Ephraim. “He tried to talk to him but the boy didn’t speak any language the trapper had ever heard of.”
“He’s a trapper,” says Twom. “What languages would he have heard of?”
“Shshh,” says Deliza. She puts her hand on Twom’s. “What happened to him?” She’s not teasing, she’s curious now.
“Soldiers arrived. The boy tried to fight. He was strong beyond belief. But there were too many of them. He was taken away. The crash site was cleared. No one would know it was ever there. One year later, Jerome Siegel and Joe Schuster came out with the first Superman comic. It was commissioned by the government, part of a plot to throw people off. It almost succeeded.”
Ephraim’s voice is quiet and very serious. It’s easy to believe this story of a child, caged and studied by adults who don’t know what else to do with him.
“He’s aged slowly. He’s a young man now. They keep him behind steel walls. They know how strong he is. They know he’s angry. They know one day he’s gonna break out. And that’s the day he’ll have his revenge. On everyone.”
Ephraim eats a hugely satisfied spoonful of ice cream. His eggs sit, untouched. “Superman,” he says, “is not a pussy.”
29
When Mom and Gretchen see one another, they both call out each other’s name, rush forward, fall into each other’s arms and begin to cry.
“Oh, Gretchen!” cries Mom.
“Oh, Mrs. Kinsey!” says Gretchen.
It’s a Saturday afternoon, Dad has taken his bicycles to the desert to practice getting injured, and at Mom’s suggestion, I’ve invited Gretchen over so she can say hi.
“You’re all grown-up,” says Mom.
“I’ve missed you so much,” says Gretchen.
“You’re so beautiful,” says Mom.
But now, somewhere in the middle of all the female gushing and cooing, Mom’s happy tears turn into something else. She tries to smile as she strokes Gretchen’s hair. She sort of hums in her throat as she stares into Gretchen’s eyes. And then she puts her hand over her mouth and she begins to cry. Really cry. She clutches Gretchen and lets it all go, not loud but choking, deep and guttural. Somehow Gretchen seems to know exactly what to do. She holds Mom. She caresses her cheek. It’s like she’s the parent and Mom’s the child.
“It’s all right,” Gretchen says. “I know,” she says. “I know.”
It takes a lot of deep breaths and starts and restarts but Mom finally pulls it back together and they beam at one another. Mom looks totally spent, like she’s had some kind of monster emotional orgasm and Gretchen looks like she’s been happy and honored to help.
“Come in the kitchen and tell me all about you,” says Mom.
“I want to,” says Gretchen.
Nobody asks me to, but I tag along.
“So are you two a couple?” Mom and Gretchen have been going for what seems like an hour now—there have been tuna sandwiches, there has been iced tea—and Mom says this like she suspects or hopes we are. And I guess after you’ve sobbed your guts out and shared tuna and tea with people, you feel like there should be no secrets, but still, it’s embarrassing as all get out.
“We’re just friends,” I say, uncomfortable.
“We’re just catching up,” says Gretchen, semimortified.
“Being friends is a good place to start,” says Mom, acting all wise and mysterious on us. You can tell that in her mind she’s already picking out bed linens and silver patterns for us, and all of a sudden Gretchen and I can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough.
We go outside. It’s one of those brilliant late fall afternoons that only a Mediterranean climate, global warming, and ever-rising ocean levels can create. It is mid-seventies and sunny and the sky is an impossible blinding blue.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” I tell Gretchen. And I am. Since the incident in the school hallway, PDAs—public displays of affection or, in my case, public displays of attention—have been seriously avoided. I haven’t known what to do. It’s great to see her.
We’ve decided to take a swim. Gretchen has gone into the poolhouse and when she comes out she’s wearing a bright yellow string bikini. She’s slim, with small, high breasts. Her pale skin is dusted with freckles. Her ass is perfect.
This is how it works.
Visual stimuli produce neurotransmitters that race through the body’s parasympathetic nervous system. Nitric oxide triggers arterial dilatation. Blood rushes into expanding spongy cells, where it’s trapped and held by the subtunical venular plexuses.
Translation? I have wood.
I stand there frozen, not sure if I’m supposed to be proud or mortified that my dick is pushing at the waistband of my board shorts. If Gretchen notices, she doesn’t let on. Turning away, she puts her towel down on a lounge chair. She reaches for suntan lotion. The thought of her rubbing it on makes it a good moment to dive into the water, and unnerved, I land in a graceless, jarring belly flop.
“How’s the water?” Gretchen says. The water is freezing. My wood has reversed direction and, along with my nuts, taken refuge somewhere deep in my stomach cavity.
“Great,” I say. “Come on in.”
The entire afternoon becomes imbued with an intense aura of sex. I feel as if there’s a giant magnifying glass overhead, turning the sun’s rays into a focused laser beam that’s aimed directly at my gonads. Anything even vaguely oblong—a water bottle, a cement pestle on the adjacent wall, a small cactus in the garden—reminds me of an erect penis. Anything furrowed or with a hole—a pool ring, a flower, the sight of glistening water cradled in Gretchen’s belly button, even the crease I see when I hold my thumb and forefinger together—makes me think of Gretchen’s shielded crotch. Time and time again, I drop into the freezing pool. I tread water until my balls ache. It’s finally all
too much, and excusing myself, I go running into the poolhouse where, with hardly half a dozen strokes, I whack off into the sink. The first ejaculation actually hits the mirror and when I look at it, I see with some fascination that the hemangioma on my cheek and the knob of my dick are the exact same flushed, purple color.
There’s not enough Kleenex in the world.
Coming back out and across the deck, I suddenly worry Gretchen will smell the Clorox fragrance of cum on my hand and so once again, without thinking, I jump into the icy pool.
“Who wants homemade lemonade?” Mom calls from the upper terrace. The afternoon now is officially Ozzie and Harriet with a freezing, half-flaccid, Grendel hard-on.
Historical footnote.
The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet was the longest-running sitcom in U.S. television history until it was overtaken by The Simpsons in 2004. Unlike The Simpsons, which is about a normal, dysfunctional, modern-day family, it presented an idealized family in the 1950s where fathers solved problems, mothers were nurturing, and children were high achievers. The show can be accessed on the online video service Hulu, under “parody.”
Later, against all protocol, but desperate for something that might budge my brains from my scrotum back up into my cranium, I take Gretchen down to the drum room. And as I lead her through the door, for the first time ever, I realize it is an airless compartment that reeks of mildew, sweat, and lug oil. No one but me has been in here for at least a year.
“Wow,” Gretchen murmurs. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or appalled by all the gear. “You must be good.”
“Not really,” I say.
“I don’t believe you,” she says. She gives me a look that says she knows I’m being all modest because I’m really hot stuff. And even if I wasn’t, I feel like I am now.
“Give it a try,” I say. She sits. She picks up two sticks. Giggling, she wraps a cymbal. She whomps the bass drum a few times and does a slow ragged roll on the snare. She giggles again. She begins to bang the shit out of everything at once. She squints her eyes, opens her mouth wide, and shakes her head around, her hair flying, as if she’s some wild-ass rock drummer. It’s pretty amusing actually.
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