by David Gates
“I should know better by now,” says Willis.
“You’re afraid I’m going to wind up like the old man. And lose my mi-yi-yind.” Champ sticks his tongue out and twirls index fingers at his ears. “Speaking of which, you been in touch with the mom?”
“Talked to her a couple weeks ago. I probably should go visit sometime while I’m on leave.”
“You’re a hero,” says Champ.
The water’s boiling; Willis goes over to turn the burner off. “You are going to change out of that, right?” Jean could come down any minute.
“No worries, mite.” A couple of years ago, Champ would keep up the Aussie-talk for a whole conversation. “Listen, you remember that time you drove me up to see the old man? I think I was like ten? You had this thing back then about him and me spending time together and shit?”
“Yeah, I remember I was on spring break. I had that black Ford Fairlane.”
“Right,” says Champ. “I remember that.”
“I guess we picked a bad day.”
“What you mean, we, Kemosabe? I remember he spent the whole time playing this, like, Dave Brubeck record—”
“Time Further Out,” says Willis.
“Right, and we were supposed to count the number of measures in a beat or some shit? Which was this secret code that hooked up with people’s Social Security numbers?”
“Something like that.”
“You know, thinking back,” Champ says, “it’s bizarre that the mom let you take me.”
“Yeah, well, it was all bizarre.”
“Ah, but look at us now. Okay, listen, I’ll be right back down.” Willis hears him go clomping up the stairs. He doesn’t return.
When Jean comes downstairs, Willis is lying on the sofa drinking coffee and looking through Dombey and Son for more Joe Bagstock shit.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning.”
“Coffee’s all ready,” he says, swinging his feet off the sofa and getting up. Makes his head throb, but he deliberately keeps his eyes open to make the wince less obvious. “I get you some?”
“No, thank you.” She goes into the kitchen.
He salutes her backside and sits down again. Then lies down. He hears her go into the bathroom. Sometime later the toilet flushes. Then drawers opening and shutting in the kitchen, utensils chinging. He closes his eyes.
The next thing he’s aware of is Champ saying “Hey, bro,” and the smell of bacon. “You missed a happening breakfast, man. Jean said let you sleep.”
Willis sits up. Classical music coming from the kitchen, Mozart-sounding shit that might even be Mozart. So some kind soul brought the boombox inside, and the rain didn’t fuck it up—at least not the radio part. “Time is it?” he says.
“I don’t know, ten-thirty?” says Champ. “Listen, man, we’re going to head out.”
“Wait. What? This is Sunday, right? I thought you were going back tomorrow.” Willis sees Tina, sleepy-eyed, fucked-looking, sitting in the armchair, one leg draped over the arm. Back in her same biker shorts.
“Well, see, we were sort of talking it over upstairs,” Champ says, “and we were feeling like—I don’t know if I told you, but we’ve been doing this thing Sunday nights where we watch Tina’s sister’s kid? You know, so she can go to her meeting.”
“She’s been doing really really well,” says Tina.
“She’s a puker,” Champ says. “It’s like AA, what she goes to, except it’s all pukers and fatties.”
“Sweetie pie.”
“Yes, dear.”
“It’s really helped her incredibly,” says Tina.
“Hell, I’d be a puker too if I had that little shit to deal with.”
“Father material.” Tina flips a thumb at Champ.
“Anyhow, we were thinking maybe we better get down there. Like what if the Higher Power blew off the weekend? She’s sitting there stuffing down chocolate cream doughnuts and the finger’s getting closer! Closer!” He moves a trembling index finger toward his mouth.
“Stop,” says Tina. “That is really cruel.”
“The other thing, I got to get the mighty turnpike cruiser in to like Rayco or someplace, see what the fuck’s the matter with that top.”
“On Labor Day weekend?” Willis says.
“Well, you know, plus Tina has shit she’s got to do. And we just thought, you know, with the top and everything, better get in before it starts to cool off, ’cause we didn’t bring any jackets or shit.”
“We’ve got jackets,” says Willis.
“Plus if we wait till tomorrow we’re not going to find a place to park. Shit, we been thinking of moving out to New Jersey just to have a fuckin’ driveway.”
“We have not,” Tina says.
“She doesn’t want to.”
“I’m too young to die,” Tina says.
“Hey, Jersey is happening,” says Champ. “They got towns with all these big-ass houses, the white people are moving out, and stuff’s going for nothing. What the fuck, so you get a gun and a fuckin’ security system. We got shit at the store—you know, put fuckin’ razor wire. I want to have a big fuckin’ sleaze palace, about ten bedrooms, you know? Mattresses on the floor? Great big speakers?”
“What Champ wants in his heart of hearts,” says Tina, “is a free-sex commune.”
“Yeah, well? That can still work too. You know, you test everybody once a week.”
“He is so dear,” says Tina.
“Tina has no ideals. So listen, bro, we better do it. Now where’d Jean get to?”
They find her out behind the house where the stream cuts through in springtime. Rathbone’s strutting back and forth with a stick in his mouth. She gets up, knees of her jeans muddy, and brings Tina a plastic bag with green stuff in it.
“This is that mint,” she says. Champ claps his hands and Rathbone trots over with the stick.
“Oh. Thank you.” Tina clearly has forgotten whatever conversation they apparently had about mint.
Champ grabs for the stick and Rathbone dodges away.
“Hey, bro?” says Willis. “Show you something for a second?” He leads Champ over toward the woodshed. That God damn gutter’s just hanging off the eaves; everywhere on this whole fucking place something needs to be done, urgently. “Listen, I’m sorry about how tense things are here.”
“Ah, this shit happens. I just thought it might be easier with us out from underfoot.”
“Well,” says Willis, “easier on you, for sure.”
“Doesn’t bother me. I think Tina’s sort of bummed that you guys—but shit, she’s young, you know? Hasn’t quite achieved that Zen-like detachment. She likes you.”
“Well, I like her,” Willis says. “I think you really scored.”
“Of course I scored. Nurk nurk nurk.”
“You dick. Listen, we’ll be okay.”
“Right, I know that,” says Champ. “And you know you can call me anytime.”
“Now there’s a vote of confidence.”
“So,” Champ says. “I guess we better do it.”
Willis puts Rathbone in the house—the boombox is still playing the same diddle diddle, or similar diddle diddle—and he and Jean walk out to the road to watch them off. When the convertible disappears around the corner, Jean says, “I think I’m going to go too.”
“Say again?”
“If you’d like to have a little time with Mel and Roger,” she says, “you could go pick them up while I get their stuff together.”
“What do you mean—you’re leaving today?” Willis tries to put the right English on this to make it sound like disappointment.
“I just don’t see what’s in this for either of us. You might as well have the place to yourself, which is obviously what you want.”
“But this is your time off too.”
“That’s right. And I’ve worked really hard for it, and I really need for it to be restful. Or dare I say fun? If that’s even a possibility anymore?”
/> “But what about the kids and their weekend?” Willis says. Telling himself Shut up shut up shut up.
“Oh, well I’m glad you’re so concerned,” she says. “I think I’m going to take them camping overnight. To the place we went that time. That you hated. The state park? And I would really appreciate it if you could be too busy to come along.”
“Camping for one day? Half a day?”
“That’s the time we have.”
“What do you plan to do with them once you get them there?”
“Swim,” she says. “Throw a ball. Cook hot dogs. You know, normal things. I know you have nothing but contempt for all that, so you can do what you want for a change and not be bothered with us. I’m hoping it’ll cool me out enough to maybe be able to deal with the trip back. And getting them ready for school on Tuesday. And—you know.”
“Sleeping in a fucking tent with two kids is going to cool you out?”
“Right. But see,” she says, “I like being with them.”
7
While Willis is picking up the kids, Jean searches the bedroom closet for the down-filled sleeping bags Carol gave them when they got married. Now they seem like a bad fairy’s wedding curse: May you always sleep apart. The kids’ sleeping bags are in Chesterton; she’ll let them have these and make do herself with a couple of blankets.
She stows bags, blankets and three pillows in the back of the Cherokee, then goes into the woodshed for the tent—just in case all the lean-tos are taken—and the cooler, a red-and-white Igloo, which smells like something died. Or so she’d say if she were telling somebody; all it really smells like is a cooler that hasn’t been used all summer. She brings it into the kitchen and cleans it out with Pine Sol. She wishes she could stop saying things she doesn’t absolutely mean.
Actually, taking the kids camping is about the last thing she wants to do. But hanging on here—well, it’s not that she couldn’t do it, because what else is her life about? Yet if only they could have just one moment, one image to take away of summer and family, one smell of campfires and pine trees … Pathetic. And her little speech about hot dogs: what was that supposed to do—bring Willis to his knees? Well, they will cook hot dogs—she’ll pick up some vegetables to grill for Mel—and there must be a ball someplace that Rathbone hasn’t ruined.
So stupid. She should have seen all this coming. Like his Prince Hamlet period when she was pregnant with Mel—no, even before that. Right from the first. But: towels. She has to remember towels. And something to sit on at the beach—another blanket? And her bathing suit, which is where? (Their suits they took with them to the Bjorks’.) Flashlight. Bug stuff. Sunscreen. She could kill him for making her do this. Except it’s her idea. Camera: to carry out the pretense that this will be something they’ll want to look back on. Still, it should be fine, right?
Cook hot dogs and go swimming? They’d probably think it was weird if their father was there.
Willis finds everybody down at the pond. The Bjork kids—Nelson, Frida and little Amina, the adopted one—are out in the inflatable boat, yelling. Mel’s sunning on the dock, bikini top unfastened. Roger’s at the far side of the pond, stalking frogs on the bank the Bjorks left muddy on the advice of a pond consultant. It’s that summer’s-over-but-we’re-pretending-it’s-not vibe. He calls out a hearty good morning to whom it may concern. The Bjork kids stare, then go back to yelling; Mel lifts and lowers a limp hand, a gesture he’s supposed to take for a wave; Roger doesn’t even look up. Willis guesses from the look of things that his kids have outstayed what welcome there was.
Arthur and Katherine Bjork are sitting at the edge of their trucked-in sand in honest-to-God wooden Adirondack chairs, each with a piece of the Sunday Times; the sections they’re not reading are weighted down by an antique brick with an embossed star. On the broad, flat arm of Arthur’s chair, a cloth napkin and both halves of a plump bagel mounded high with scallion cream cheese. Arthur Bjork is one of those fat, red-faced walrus-men, with blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses; scrawny, overtanned Katherine must have to get on top if they bother anymore, though Willis is a great one to talk.
“So how has it been?” he says.
“Oh, fine.” Katherine Bjork always sounds borderline exasperated, with good reason for all Willis knows. Or fucking cares. “No problems?”
“Well, none to speak of,” says Arthur. Poor son of a bitch looks like he’s hanging on by his fingernails until he can get back to the office Tuesday morning.
“Good, good,” says Willis. Hear no evil. “Yo, Melanie and Roger!” he calls. “Time to hit it, guys.”
“Darn,” says Mel. Roger just goes on doing what he’s doing.
“Your mother has a surprise for you,” says Willis.
“What kind of surprise?” says Mel.
“Hold still, you cocksucker!” Roger yells.
“Roger! Get the hell over here!” Willis shouts. “I apologize for my son,” he says to the space between the Bjorks.
Roger comes trudging over. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him,” he says.
“You don’t use language like that,” says Willis, fixing him with a pointed finger. “Go get in the truck. Now.”
“I have to get my stuff.”
“I said: in the truck, mister.” Ooh, the heavy father. Mister, yet. Roger, head down, starts making his way toward the driveway. “Melanie,” Willis says. She’s guiltily hooking the top of her suit behind her back, skinny elbows out like chicken wings. “Get your clothes on, collect your brother’s gear, and get in the truck.”
“Can’t I just put a shirt over my suit?” she says.
“I don’t care what you wear. I want you in that truck in two minutes.”
Since the Bjorks are right there, she risks an eye roll as she turns and heads for the house.
“Rog-er?” Willis calls. Roger’s not exactly hauling ass, and stops dead when he hears his name. “Move it.” He resumes ambling up the path.
“We seem to be having one of those days,” Willis says to the Bjorks.
“Well, I guess we all have them.” Arthur doesn’t even deign to put down the Travel section.
“Except you, right?” says Willis. “You fat fuck.”
That gets the son of a bitch focused: down goes the paper, covering his sausage thighs like a skirt, as Katherine’s mouth opens to an O. (Billie Burke couldn’t have done it better.) Mel stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I think you’d better go,” Arthur says, though he doesn’t stand up.
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Crazy motherfucker named Willis. The Bjorks just look at each other. Willis can imagine: Arthur’s thinking his wife expects him to deck this guy, and she’s thinking if her old man gets in a fistfight he’ll finally have that heart attack. Out on the pond, the Bjork kids have the rubber boat spinning as if in a whirlpool, slashing away with the paddles, whooping and shrieking. Willis turns to follow his children up the path, and only now does his chest start pounding. Christ, he’s the one who’s going to have the fucking heart attack. He hauls off and kicks over the milk can the Bjorks have put at the head of the path to amp up the country charm, then looks back toward the pond. Resolutely, the Bjorks face the water.
As the truck goes rumbling and crunching down the white-graveled drive, Mel stares at her feet. “Daddy, I can’t believe you said that to him.”
“What’d he say?” says Roger.
“Nothing, Roger,” says Mel.
“You can tell him,” Willis says. “Long as it’s a direct quote, you’re off the hook.”
Mel, still looking at her feet, turns red.
“What?” yells Roger.
“Well, for reasons I don’t fully understand myself,” Willis says, “I called Mr. Bjork a fat pig.”
“That’s not exactly what you said, Daddy,” Mel says.
“What did he say?” says Roger.
Mel takes a breath and looks out the window. “He called Mr. Bjork a fat f-u-c-k.”
“All right,” says Will
is. “Melanie has spelled fuck for us. We’ve all heard the word, yes?”
Mel and Roger say nothing. He grinds gears as he shifts down to make the turn onto County Road 39; can’t decide if the clutch is really going or if he’s babying it and not pushing the pedal down far enough because he thinks the clutch is going.
“So,” he says. “Isn’t anybody curious about this surprise?”
“What surprise?” says Roger.
“Should I just tell you?” Willis says.
“Yes,” says Roger.
Mel says nothing.
“Okay, what it is, you guys are going camping with your mom this afternoon.”
“Do we have to?” says Roger.
“I knew you’d be thrilled to the—”
“Daddy, watch where you’re going,” says Mel. Willis swerves back over to his side to miss a tractor, cutter bar down, mowing brush on the other side of the road. “Are you coming too?” she says.
“No. I’m going to stay and see if I can’t get some work done. Rathbone’ll keep me company.”
“I don’t want to,” says Roger.
“You,” says Willis. “We haven’t gotten around to you yet, mister. What’s gotten into you, using that kind of language around people?”
“So? Look what you said.”
“True,” says Willis. “But the difference is—” Right. What is the difference? “Look. This is the kind of thing where, you know, fairly or unfairly, if you’re a kid, it sounds worse to people than it does if you’re a grownup.” Great: he’s just told Roger how he can get a rise out of people. “When they hear you using bad language, they’re going to think, Well, that’s a bad person, and I don’t want to be that person’s friend.”
“So? If they don’t want to be my friend they don’t have to be.”
“What?” Willis has blanked out for a second. What the fuck are they talking about?
“I don’t care if they don’t want to be my friend,” Roger says. “They’re probably a feeb like her that has to spell everything.”
“Watch out, Roger,” says Mel.
“Watch out, Roger,” says Roger.
“I’m not kidding,” says Mel.