Spilled Coffee

by J. B. Chicoine

  With one long and continuous explosion of sound and color, the finale lasted for less than a minute, but that was pretty long when it came to fireworks. The breeze had shifted, drifting the odor of sulfur toward us. That meant conversation between Penny and I, even if still amplified, would travel to the uninhabited side of the cove, while we could better hear what was going on over at Whispering Narrows. Sunshine’s voice carried best. Unfortunately, there were too many people talking all at once, so I couldn’t isolate Amelia’s words. But that didn’t stop Mom’s voice from cutting across the cove.

  “Penny and Ben! Don’t be out too late!” she called.

  “Okay,” I replied, because Penny wouldn’t.

  “So, Fixer-man—” Penny spoke up quietly “—how is it they all know you?”

  The slam of our backdoor echoed across the cove.

  “’Cause I’m the coolest kid on the block, that’s how.”

  “C’mon, Ben. Seriously.”

  “Okay, but it’s just between me and you.”

  “As always.”

  “I’ve been going over to Doc’s to fix a clock for him. And a pair of Sunshine’s earrings. And some other crap.” Okay, I exaggerated the ‘other crap,’ but I was on a roll.

  Her eyes bugged out. “And they invited you for breakfast?”

  “Yup.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Just those guys.” We neared the shoreline, opposite Whispering Narrows. I quit rowing.

  “What about Percy?”

  “Why would he be there?”

  “He hangs out with them at the beach sometimes. I’ve seen him with that other girl—”

  “You mean Candace?”

  “Yeah—Candace. She and Lenny take the handicap group from Daisy Hill to the beach sometimes. I think he and Candace are in charge of daytrips, or something.” She ducked beneath a low-hanging branch as we came too close to shore. “I think Percy likes Candace.”

  “Probably because she’s more his age and she’s old enough to, you know, do it.”

  “Like you would even know anything about doing it.”

  I quit rowing again. “And you would?”

  She glanced over at Whispering Narrows, where conversations had quit. “Not yet.”

  “God, Penny, that sounds kind of slutty.” I hoped I hadn’t said that too loud. Fortunately, Doc’s yard had cleared. We were safe.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I have no intention of doing it with anyone until I’m at least eighteen and it’s true love. It’s gotta be just perfect, and he’s gotta be the one.”

  My cheeks flamed again.

  Penny cocked her head as if trying to get a better fix on my discomfort. “Dad has talked to you about the birds and the bees, hasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, double-checking Doc’s lawn—still vacant under his big yard lights, and pulled my oars out of the water. “As if he could be bothered.” And if he could have been bothered, he would have waited until I had a few buddies over, just so he could watch me squirm and turn bright red.

  I had heard a few things about the mechanics of sex, mostly from friends at school, but neighborhood dogs had solved the biggest part of the mystery a long time ago. In addition, I had gathered a few tidbits of information. You could tell if a woman had done it by the way she walked—just a little bow-legged. My friend Freddy insisted that if you blew softly in a girl’s ear, she would do about anything you wanted. And Archie said girls couldn’t run fast because they menstruate—that had something to do with a girl’s ‘time of the month’ and mood swings.

  “Well, you at least know how not to get a girl pregnant, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” My eyes rolled with utter mortification as I thrust my oars back in motion. Of course I knew about rubbers, but I sure wasn’t going to discuss that with my sister, any more than I would ever discuss it with my father. What I really wanted was to get off the subject.

  Before we ended up too close to Amelia’s beach, I steered toward our float. “So how are you going to manage sneaking down to the beach, once Dad gets here this weekend?”

  “Didn’t Mom tell you? He won’t be coming till Wednesday, or something.”

  I shrugged it off. “No one tells me anything—except you. Besides, it doesn’t matter to me if he comes at all. All Mom and Dad do is fight, anyway. And Mom’s in a better mood when he’s not around.”

  “You mean in a better mood after she’s had her morning tonic.”

  “You mean her coffee?”

  She exhaled a half-snort-half-chuckle. “Coffee? Yeah, Irish coffee—but hold the brown sugar and cream, and easy on the coffee.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Whiskey—or actually, vodka. It’s colorless and doesn’t smell as strong. That way no one will notice—so she thinks.”

  My chin dropped. “Mom puts vodka in her coffee?”

  “And her lemonade. And her ginger ale.”

  “Does not.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Ben, but Mom drinks like a fish.”

  I flinched, struck by the notion that Penny might be right. But Mom didn’t fit my image of a stumbling, bumbling skid-row drunk. Did drinking every day mean she was an alcoholic? Either way, I had an awful gut feeling that it had something to do with me, that somehow her drinking meant I was deficient in some way—like if I were a better kid, she wouldn’t need some special tonic.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “Top shelf, beside the refrigerator. Full on Monday—most of it gone by Wednesday. That’s why she’s so frantic to get to the market on Fridays.”

  “Does Dad know?”

  “What do you think they fight about?”

  I was going to say ‘Me,’ but said, “Money,” instead. After all, I had heard them fight about Mom’s spending just as much as they fought about me. “You know, I saw a huge wad of money in Dad’s wallet when we first got up here.”

  “Probably a bonus from work.”

  “I don’t know. He’s acting really weird lately.”

  “Cut him a little slack, Ben. He works hard so we can come here.”

  “Now you sound like Mom.”

  She jabbed her finger at me. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

  “Sorry.”

  She broke a grin and then burst out laughing. “You need to relax, Benjie. Now, take me home. I’m pooped.”

  All the way back, I kept thinking about what Penny had said, and trying to sort out if what she thought of Mom had more to do with the two of them not getting along, or if it might, at least in part, be true. I would have to pay better attention to that bottle in the cupboard … although, now as I thought about it, Mom did always have a cup of something in hand.

  I beached the boat and Penny climbed out. She ruffled my hair the way she often did to Frankie. I ducked out of reach, dragging the boat farther ashore.

  “You go ahead,” I said. “I’m gonna stay out for a little while.”

  As she made her way to the basement entrance, I walked out to the end of our dock. Humidity and the sulfur haze hid the stars. It had to be near midnight, but it still felt like near eighty degrees. I peeled off my T-shirt and dove into the water. Its surface rippled in front of me as I swam. Only a vague outline of the moon reflected on the cove. A light at the end of the floatplane mooring lit most of the waterfront.

  As I made a loop from our dock to the middle of the cove, a giggle cut across the water. A figure emerged from Doc’s kitchen and sprinted across the lawn. A few seconds later, another body—maybe two—stepped outside. I recognized Sunshine’s hushed laugh. They scrambled their way toward the dock as I swam backward, bumping into the float. I couldn’t see much, but I imagined it was Candace and Sunshine—probably skinny-dipping.

  I swam around the corner of our float, treading water. As they swam out into the cove, their splashing and giggles rolled across the water. Lenny’s laughter joined in. Now I worried they might see me and think I was a peeping Tom. W
orse yet, what if they wanted me to join them? Tantalizing as the idea was, it freaked me out.

  In the shadows of overhanging trees, I made my way toward shore and snuck in the back door. That night, I had the best dreams.

  Chapter 13

  That was one mixed up summer. In retrospect, I realize what a mess I was, even before the real catastrophe. I have blamed a lot of it on awkward hormonal stuff—better to put an innocuous slant on ‘difficulties’ rather than accentuate the tragic. Nevertheless, I’ve been told that “if one doesn’t face the ugly truth, it all catches up.” So, that’s why I’m here. That said, I’m not going to wallow in the melodrama any more than necessary, because there was a lot of good during that summer. The Mad magazine in my pocket is an apt reminder.

  I pull it out and hold it toward the light of Penny’s window. The “Odd Squad”—one of the many ironies of that summer. When I return to Denver, I’ll bring this with me. I know a couple who will find it as amusing, if not poignant, as I do.

  Before I leave Penny’s room, I crank the window open. A gust of afternoon breeze washes over my face, and when I step into the hallway, Mom’s closed bedroom door rattles against its jamb. The stack of papers on the kitchen table lifts and scatters all over the floor. Displaced atmosphere, no doubt, but it sends a chill up my spine, as if Mom could be right on the other side of that closed door, rummaging around her room for some misplaced thing—important papers, keys, or her wallet.

  Mom rifled through her bedroom on a mad hunt, grumbling under her breath. Between thumps of tossed shoes and the slamming closet door, she called out, “Your father is coming this afternoon, and I need to get to the market! Where is my wallet?”

  I rolled my eyes at Penny. Why did I feel the need to check under the table and inspect each seat, as if it were somehow my fault that Mom couldn’t keep track of her stuff? Penny chewed her mouthful of Cheerios, unconcerned as always.

  Frankie appeared from the basement stairway, licking his chapped upper lip. “I found it!”

  Mom dashed from her room. “Where on earth was it?”

  He held it out. “Right here, on the second step.”

  “Oh my goodness, how could I have overlooked that? You are such a good and clever boy, Frankie.” She embraced him and then tousled his shaggy hair. “Just for that, you can come with me.”

  Penny’s raised brow met mine, her cereal-crammed mouth twisting into a deviant grin. We would be unsupervised again—two kids on the loose.

  A half hour later, I beached the rowboat at the public landing. Even from a distance, I easily spotted Candace. She stood, hands on her hips, beside the lifeguard stand. Her T-shirt rode just above the sliver of her bathing suit bottoms. A camera hung from a strap around her neck and nestled between her boobs.

  “That’s Candace,” I said to Penny as she stepped out of the boat.

  “As if I didn’t know.”

  As we gathered our stuff, Candace sauntered away from Percy, over to a blanket where Lenny had planted himself, closer to the pavement than the water. He sat, reading, between Dora on his far side and some gangly guy with one leg, on his other. Dora lay on her stomach and waved at me, while the other fellow arranged short metal crutches in the sand beside him. I took a deep breath and waved back as Penny veered toward Percy. Candace escorted some hunched, gray-haired man with a limp, down to the shore. She aimed her lens over the lake and scanned the beach as the man waded nearby. So, this was The Group a.k.a. the Odd Squad.

  Lenny peered over a hardcover book. “Fixer-man,” he called out and waved me over.

  I was determined to be my best self and headed his way. I spread my towel near the guy with the missing leg—he seemed a safer option than Dora; I couldn’t help it—I still dreaded being singled out by her. I hoped she would stay put.

  Lenny spoke up. “You know Dora Garver, right?”

  “Yeah—Hi, Dora.”

  “You can call me Isadora.”

  “Yeah—Isadora.” I hoped my brief response would appease her.

  The one-legged guy snickered as he poked a twig in the sand.

  Lenny smiled and gave him a firm nudge. “And this character is Christopher.”

  I nodded a reserved greeting. How had I ended up in The Group?

  Christopher ducked as Lenny went to smack the back of his head, “Watch out for this guy—he’ll kick your butt.”

  Had Lenny actually made a joke about his handicap?

  “Ha!” Christopher threw his head back, his eyelids half drooping, and burst out with a spastic laugh as he tossed the twig at Lenny. “Good one!”

  Lenny shoved him in response, nearly toppling Christopher, whose long swim trunks crept up his stubbed thigh. He didn’t bother trying to cover it up. I caught myself scrutinizing the nub of flesh, a couple inches above where his knee would have been.

  Dora pushed herself up, onto her hands and knees, and then stood. Her bathing suit looked as if it had belonged to her mother about a hundred years ago. She pulled the sagging shoulder and tugged at her wedgie. I froze, staring straight ahead, hoping to ward her off. No good! She waddled over to me and spread her blanket at my side.

  “Hi, Ben,” she said, leaning so close that one misplaced glance would scar me for life.

  “Hi, Isadora.” Sandwiched between her and the one-legged guy, I forced a smile, still staring ahead. Scrambling for something to relieve my escalating discomfort, I glanced at Lenny. “What’cha reading?”

  “Pride and Prejudice, man.”

  Sounded heavy, like some kind of civil rights, activist stuff. “Is it any good?”

  “Oh yeah—Austen is a freaking genius.”

  Christopher’s head wagged rhythmically. I wasn’t sure if it was a tick, or if he was disagreeing, until he said, “She’s no Mary Shelley.” At least that was an author I recognized, right up there with H. G. Wells.

  Dora swatted away any insect that flew near me, and when she smacked a mosquito that landed on my thigh, I shifted closer to Christopher. Pushing sand into neat piles, I made symmetric designs, wishing I were out in my rowboat. As much as I liked the idea of hanging around the beach, when it came right down to it, it was boring as all get out. And present company made it about as uncomfortable as I could imagine. I was just about to excuse myself and go swimming when Christopher spoke up. “I gotta use the john.”

  Lenny blew out a long sigh and looked at Dora, then out at Candace with her charge down at the water’s edge, and then at Christopher and back at me. The next words out of his mouth were probably going to be ‘Would you mind staying with Dora?’. I preempted that disaster with “I could take him.”

  Both Lenny’s and Christopher’s brows rose in unison. Were my motives as transparent as my grimacing smile? I came to my feet as Christopher gathered a crutch. Lenny pulled him up and nodded at the other crutch. I handed it to Christopher.

  “You sure?” Lenny asked. I wasn’t certain if he doubted my ability, or Christopher’s willingness.

  “Yeah, I got it,” Christopher replied, inserting one forearm and then the other into metal brackets on each crutch. The posts dug into the sand at uncooperative angles. I thought for sure he would topple. I would have asked why he didn’t just use a wheelchair, but it didn’t take much imagination to see the impracticality of narrow wheels sinking into sand. Christopher hobbled along on his own, his upper body wrenching and twisting with each labored movement. Lenny stayed at his side until the sand firmed, meeting pavement.

  “You good from here?” Lenny asked.

  “Yup.” Christopher steadied himself. “Got it.”

  Lenny returned to Dora, whose admiring glances reminded me of what a jerk I had been to her at the store. But a jerk wouldn’t be helping some handicapped kid to the bathroom, would he? Oh, who was I kidding? Even a genuinely nice jerk would apologize to Dora instead of trying to overcompensate and getting stuck wiping some kid’s butt. Oh God! I hadn’t thought of that. What had I just gotten myself into? My face burned with embarrassmen
t.

  As Christopher positioned each contraption and hopped forward, I readied myself for a rescue, glancing back at Lenny, whose eyes widened with skepticism—or was that my own insecurity? I had better not screw up. For a few steps, I walked alongside Christopher, keeping a little distance between us, as we made our way to the restroom door with relative ease. I let out a sigh.

  Christopher’s words came out abruptly—“I’m not retarded, you know.”

  I stiffened, unsure how to respond. I guessed he could tell that I assumed he was somehow like Dora. I shrugged for lack of a polite, if not patronizing reply. He quit walking and I paused with him.

  “I have Muscular Dystrophy—it affects my body, not my brain,” he said, slurring just a little.

  For the first time, I looked him in the face. Sweat spiked the straight, sandy-colored hair across his forehead. Blue, hooded eyes studied me and sparked, turning the corners of his lips to a smile that revealed straight white teeth. I still wasn’t sure what to say.

  He leaned on one crutch and nudged my leg with the other. “I used to be like you.”

  “Sorry,” was the only word that came out.

  “What for? I’m having a good time! Obviously, two legs don’t guarantee that. It wouldn’t kill you to crack a smile, you know.”

  I let out a nervous chuckle and moved forward, toward the restroom door, hoping he would follow.

  He laughed. “You need to lighten up, Fixer-man.”

  “I’m having a good time,” I said, pushing through the door and holding it for him.

  “Yeah, taking Frankenstein to the bathroom is loads of fun.”

  “I don’t mind. I had to go anyway.”

  He shuffled toward the closest stall, nudged it with his elbow, and backed in.

  I moved to the urinal. “You need any help?”

  “Nope.”

  There was a lot of shuffling and bumping in the stall, and then one of his crutches skidded beneath the divider. He cussed and then laughed in one breath.