Hey, Joe

by Ben Neihart

  The prissiness of the type on his card turned her stomach. He was the man to whom she'd lost her virginity; if only he'd become something huge, someone important. Still, given the circumstances of their first meeting, it thrilled Rae to remember all of the times in ensuing years that they'd gotten together for intimate dinners and dancing.

  Shaun, Shaun . . .

  She'd been a late bloomer, twenty when she boned him. She was his student teacher at the now-defunct Corcoran Country Day School in a suburb of Houston. He was in ninth grade. After sex in her dorm room, they went out for breakfast. In the little family restaurant, they appraised one another across the Formica tabletop. God, Rae thought, he's so much more elegant than me; God his fingernails are immaculate and his brush cut is so well kept and he wears the most sumptuously tight blue jeans and he carries his keys on a silver chain that he bought in Panama.

  But breakfast hadn't ended well. She could tell that he didn't love her, didn't respect her. He pushed aside his tray of oatmeal and sliced fruit, rested his chin on the table, and studied her as she ate. Slowly, his face became a mask of distaste; he looked at her as if she were an animal in a cage, rending tendon from bone.

  "How come you eat with your mouth open?" he asked. "How come you don't have a man who's your own age? How come you wanna be a teacher?''

  Rae put her yolk-stained slice of toast beside her fried egg, gripped the plate in her left hand, and broke it against the top of his head. The pieces showered across the tabletop and floor, and he spat a sliver of tongue that had been bitten off at the moment of the plate's impact.

  "Ah cah beweave oo id at," he said.

  Now she pulled the phone from its base on the desk and dialed. When Seth's machine answered, she entered his four-digit security code and listened to the messages.

  Hey, this is Jed. I have the check for you. I need to know how you want it made out before I put it in the mail. Call me at Royal Games. Ask for the red phone. If they won't put you through, then try to get through on the green phone. Don't let them put you on the blue phone. Okay? Red phone or green phone, but not blue.

  Rae erased the message and listened for the next.

  I'm waiting to hear from you, Seth. Now that we've dropped the charges, I think it's time for a little healing. We love you, honey. We want you to call us. Please, please call us at your convenience. You can get me after seven.

  Parents, Rae guessed. Delete. Next message.

  Seth, this is Joe. This is Joe Keith. I'm a little bit drunk or whatever, and I'm thinking about you. You were so much fun. You were, totally. I want to go swimming again with you! Every time I walk through the NOAC I think about the wicked times we had—or I mean time. Whatever. I wanna see you again. Um, shit, you said to give you a call when that trial was over. So, I'm like giving you a call. I would really like to get together again. Would it be like a lie to say I miss you? Anytime you want. Really. If you like get a chance soon, give me a call at my house. Tonight, dude, would be very cool. Here's my number in case you lost it.

  Oh, but I remember, Rae said to herself. She replayed the message. I want to go swimming again with you! Every time I walk through the NOAC I think about the wicked times we had. She remembered catching Seth and the boy in a clutch by the pool. Seth was wrapped in a towel, pretending he barely knew the boy. She replayed the message again. If you like get a chance soon, give me a call at my house. Tonight, dude, would be very cool. Here's my number in case you lost it. As Rae jotted the number on a slip of paper, she made the decision to leave the message intact on Seth's machine.

  She put the phone down and drew open the bottom desk drawer, which was deep enough to hold a couple of dozen file folders and a stack of thick books. She pulled out the current white pages as well as Polk's City Directory. She ran her fingers along the spine of each book, and then she checked the white pages. The boy's name and number were listed without an address, so she pushed the white pages onto the floor and opened the Polk's. It was divided into three sections, each of which was organized by a different variable: street name and number, last name, phone number. If you were rich, or public, you knew about Polk's and could ask to be left out; most people were neither. Rae turned to the phone listings and ran her thumb down the numbers until she found the boy's. She scribbled his address and looked at the Polk's entry again. There was a Sherry Keith at the same address, with a different phone number. Rae scribbled the second number and drew parentheses around it. She'd read that name before. She closed her eyes, to concentrate. Sherry Keith. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. She was drawing a blank.

  Insurance, she told herself, and tucked the slip of paper in her purse. Can I help it if I'm not a trusting woman? She rose from her seat and cocked her head to listen.

  Tip, tee, tip . . .

  Mrs. Shaw's voice whistled through the air. This time, her words were quite clear: "My weeping friends I left behind," she shrilled. The tapping of her cane grew nearer.

  "Myrtha," Rae called across the room. "I'm sorry to rush you. I'm sorry to speak so crossly."

  In the darkness just outside the office door, Mrs. Shaw's face appeared. "I'm ready darling," she said.

  11:00p.m.

  It turned out that a man everybody knew, a man named Marcus McNair, was having a blowout in the empty storage space above his junk shop on Decatur Street. Donna, who'd been to previous parties in the same space, led the way down the dark alley that ran beside the building. At the very back of the alley, she shoved a door open and held it with her shoulder as Chris, Joe, and Welk entered into a small foyer that glowed with green light. The foyer was actually just the first-floor landing of a narrow flight of stairs. Music shook the walls of the stairway, and, when he put his hand on the slippery metal banister, the bones in Joe's fingers and wrist and jaw shivered.

  Chris wasn't waiting for anybody; he took the stairs two at a time, darting through the slouching party traffic that clotted the entrance. Joe couldn't make himself follow; he stood on the first step, looking up at the broad backs of a half dozen men who were smoking cigars. The men wore matching gun holsters, the stitching of which glowed in the dark.

  With a touch all its own, Welk's belt buckle pressed against the small of Joe's back. Then his stubbled chin and neck came to rest on the dip where Joe's neck met his shoulder, and the wet inside of his lips pressed against Joe's cheek, and his voice whispered into Joe's ear: "You sure you wanna go upstairs? You sure?"

  "Don't you?" Joe asked.

  "It'd be cool to just stand here in the dark, I think. Don't you?" Welk's voice was slow with beer and cigarettes.

  "Right here?"

  "Yeah right here." His tongue lapped the underside of Joe's chin. "You taste good."

  "Hey, do I?"

  "I'd love to hear you say my name in that sexy voice of yours, dude."

  My voice? My stupid, stupid voice? "Hey, Welk."

  "Hey, Joe."

  "Hey, Welk."

  "Hey."

  "Hey."

  "I like the way that sounds coming out of you. I can feel it rumbling up your back." Welk's hands joined; the knuckles of his thumbs dug tight into Joe's belly. His arms were like hard rubber coils around Joe, and the feeling of being enfolded in them made the veins in Joe's legs and the nerve endings along his spine burst into flame. In his dick there were a hundred million rapturous explosions going off. It was amazing to him that he could actually move his hands, his stupid, useless hands, so just for the fuck of it he rubbed his palms along Welk's forearms, smoothing the light hair in one direction and then the other, even as Welk's fingers were nimbly unzipping his shorts and undoing the top button and the flat of Welk's hand was pressing against his belly and Welk's fingertips were pinching the elastic of his boxers.

  With a muted gasp, Welk pulled Joe's backside tight against him and lifted him up in the air. "Joe, man," he whispered. "Fuck, man, you're so fine. Man, you smell so good." As he returned Joe to his feet, a couple of his fingers hunted farther into the boxers.


  Joe blew out a sharp laugh. "That tickles."

  "Tickles?" His voice was incredulous, disappointed.

  Suddenly, with a gust of warm, damp air, the door beside them burst open and just as quickly slammed shut, and more bodies joined the dark green loiterers in the stairwell.

  One of the newcomers was Donna, who burbled, "Look who showed up. I found her traipsing down the alley like a little ho."

  "Keep on talking, girl, and I'll keep on recording your defamation for my lawsuit," Kel said giddily. "Joe, Welk, hi; it's me."

  "Hey," Joe said. "What's up, Kel?"

  Welk loosened his grip on Joe and leaned across the darkness to kiss her—on the lips, from the sound of it.

  "I have bag," Kel whispered. "You want a taste?" Welk let go of Joe—just like that, let go—and slithered away to huddle in the comer with Kel.

  In the same burst of movement. Donna materialized beside Joe and took his hand. "We need to dance, you and me," she said. "They've got that guy John McTired spinning tunes."

  "What about... should we wait?'' Joe asked. It wasn't as if he had to walk up the stairs with Welk, even though he'd been looking forward to entering the party with him, just for whatever reason you like to walk into a room with someone you think is fun and beautiful and maybe a little bit hot for you.

  "Them?'' Donna looked over at Kel and Welk, who were murmuring in each other's faces. "You guys? Are you just gonna like crank it right there?"

  "We'll be right up," Kel said.

  "We'll find you," Welk said.

  Joe couldn't even see their faces. "Whatever." He was going to ignore his trippy stomach. "Fuck them, man," he said, tugging on Donna's arm and beginning to climb the stairs. The cigar smokers parted to let them pass, and Joe noticed that their holsters were empty.

  "Where's my boyfriend, anyway?" Donna said into his ear.

  Joe pointed at the ceiling that slanted above them. You could almost see it shake, the music was so loud.

  "I said I'll find you!" Welk shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Shit!"

  The storage space was endless and smoky, lighted only by the chandelier that hung from a chain above the dance floor and the flashing pinball machines that were in every comer. Guys leaned into the games with bare, heaving stomachs, and spectators took the occasion to caress. Against one wall there was a makeshift bar, behind which three bartenders danced and passed out beers.

  Donna hooked her arm around his waist and they shuffled into the thick of things, the music and the dancers, dropping their feet in time to the heavy beat. When they were close to the center of the dance floor, she let go of him so she could tear it up, so she could shake some funk out of her ass. Ovals and spirals of dance music descended from the ceiling and bounced off the pointy parts of her body. Joe knew that it was just a trick of the synthesizers, but who really cared? The feeling that the music sent through him was reason enough for synthesizers to have been invented. He settled into a thumpy seam. He was oblivious, bending and working his arms as a rueful voice emerged from within the music and kept repeating the same words.

  Donna, with her hands waving above her head, drew up beside Joe and bumped her hip against his. And again and again, her head wiggling as if at the end of a springy toy neck. Carved piano notes hung in the air, followed by the thunderclap of drums. Along the outside wall, someone had unlatched all of the French doors—anything to get a breeze. An exterior lamp threw curling shadows across the flapping, peeling doors. Banana-tree leaves poked inside as if they were curious, checking out the party.

  Joe didn't think there could be a worthier room anywhere in town—not with this easy crowd, this loud, nimble music, this warm, sweet breeze. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, and for just a moment it was as if he were the singer of a joyful song, overcome by the union of perfect rhythm and rhyme.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw Welk galloping sideways across the floor toward him. His hands were in his pockets and his sweaty T-shirt clung to the slope of his chest like a mummy's wrap. It turned Joe's heart inside out to see how tweaked on crystal the boy was— too large for his own head, shoulders and elbows locked.

  Don't you know I want to be in love with you?

  Even though he was pissed off, he kept his eyes friendly as Welk approached.

  "Can I dance over here?'' he asked Joe. There was a hole in the shoulder of his T-shirt that Joe wanted to lick. "I'm hearing good things! About our trial, man. Very, very good things."

  Joe pretended that the music was so loud he couldn't hear. He closed his eyes again and kept moving.

  "Don't be a freak, man," Welk shouted. "I wanna dance here!" Then, more softly: "I want you to tell me I can."

  Some people, Joe thought, can get away with anything.

  He opened his eyes to find Welk's face just a millionth of an inch from his own. "You can dance here," Joe said.

  "That's a start," Welk's sweet mouth said.

  With his left hand tight against his hip, Joe beckoned White Donna, who was dancing with Kel. He looked from her face back to Welk, then caught her eye again. He curled his index finger slowly, in the motion of a striking cobra. For a moment, all of the instruments and sound effects in the majestic, wiggy music disappeared, and the diva's voice was all alone.

  As the bass and kaboom returned to the speakers, Donna wiggled to Joe's side, slid her arm around his shoulder, and said to his ear, "Joe-Joe? Whatsie?" She kissed the sweaty buzzed hair on the side of his head. "What do you want?"

  "I fucking love you," he shouted. "I do. You're so nice to me it makes me want to weep! I'm serious."

  "I'm glad," she said. "Thank you. And do you see my boyfriend anywhere?"

  "That's the other thing," Joe said, shimmying his crotch against the front of her leg without actually touching her, "I don't think I'm going to want a ride home with you guys. Or whatever."

  "Chris will shit."

  "Check this out: I totally can't worry about him."

  "Whatever," Donna said. But she was smiling.

  10:40 p.m.

  Now, Seth said to himself, there's going to be hell to pay.

  He watched the courtroom from his cramped seat in the jury box. In these moments before the announcement of the verdict, it was noisily filled to standing room with reporters, including three he recognized from the Times-Picayune, two from WWL-TV, and a stringer each from USA Today and Reuters. Also filling up seats were a half dozen St. Leo the Great parishioners, who prayed voluptuously for the Catholic souls of the Lady Rampart orphans; the youngest of the plaintiff orphans themselves, dressed sweetly in identical Southern-boy suits (khakis and white broadcloth buttondown shirts and blue blazers and tan bucks); the orphans' six fresh-faced lawyers, a mix of pro bono and Legal Aid; Myrtha Shaw; the Shaw Foundation legal team, who were five members of the city's richest firm. And just now making her way to her seat was Rae Schipke, wrapped in a tight, red, leather dress.

  Oh, Rae, if only you could have been there, Seth thought; if only you could have seen my spirits rise! Rae, Rae, Rae. You think you know me, but you don't. You don't know what I'm capable of.

  Sharp-eyed Judge Robicheaux shouted, "Let's have quiet in the courtroom! Ms. Schipke, may we have your attention?''

  "I'm sorry. Your Honor," Rae said contritely and sat down and bowed her head.

  The exchange between judge and defendant had an immediate effect on Seth. It engendered the giddy fear that he'd experienced as a child when the roller coaster car crested and he could see the drop before him.

  Robicheaux, wiggling his damp beard at the audience, gave a roaring Cajun laugh before saying, "I've instructed the jurors of their rights and responsibilities. Of their roles as citizens. Of the rules of evidence." He caught Seth's eye. "Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," Seth said, "we have."

  "Madame Clerk will please note that the jury has reached a verdict."

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  The rubber-enca
sed T-bar held Seth in the car, teetering here, for a minute, at the pinnacle. There were screams all around him, and the high roaring wind. He sucked in a deep breath and looked across the room at Myrtha Shaw. Certainty and calm emanated from her. He tried to steal some of it from her, his eyes worshiping her as if she were a religious statuette carved from hickory and hanging from a chapel wall. An icon with puckered face and close-trimmed butterscotch hair.

  He raised the sealed envelope to shoulder height and glanced at Rae Schipke. I owe you, Rae. I hope that you fall with some dignity, and I hope that I never see your face again.

  A chubby court officer ambled to the jury-box railing and lifted the verdict from Seth's hand, carried it to Robicheaux. After the judge read it, he handed it to the court reporter. Without seeming to open her mouth, she read it aloud.

  Rae Schipke screamed. The courtroom became a sound studio of exclamations and photo flashes.

  11:30 p.m.

  A gust of wind blew through the open window beside the bed, slamming the door shut and startling Sherry Keith, Joe's mother, who lay on top of the covers beside a pile of funding-proposal drafts. The hospital that Sherry worked for wanted money to erect a new waiting-room pavilion and a biomedical engineering wing like the one that the LSU Hospital had just built, as well as a dozen smaller projects. For each funding need, there were task forces, consultants, and meetings, endless goddamn meetings. Fund-raising was not the career she'd dreamed of as a girl.

  Lovely, Sherry said to herself, and glared at the proposals, all of which required her approval before they could go out in the mail. Their stuck-up prose sickened her, especially because it seemed to be such a perfect evocation of the way the hospital would talk, if it could.

  Because I want the _______ Foundation to continue to be an integral part of the hospital's growth as we enter the twenty-first century, I am asking you to consider funding a capital project with a leadership gift of $[] to our present campaign. Enclosed, you will find several projects for your consideration, with commitments ranging from $2 million to $50 million.