by Anthony Izzo
“Cold, too.”
“Those antibiotics we got from Dr. Spears should start kicking in soon.”
“I hope so. I want to go out and play.”
“We’ll see about that when the fever goes away.”
“You don’t want me playing with them, do you?”
“Emma, you know how I feel,” her mom said.
“They’re my friends.” She picked up the spoon and dabbed at the soup.
“They’re also boys. Twelve-year-old girls are supposed to play with girls. Not dirty, grubby boys. Now if one of those boys asked you on a date, it might be different, but I don’t like you playing football and street hockey with them.”
“All the girls talk about is Duran Duran and how cute Simon LeBon is and all that other crap.”
“Watch your mouth.”
Why couldn’t her mother understand that? The girls at Brampton Middle were dipsticks, always talking about the latest copy of Tiger Beat or bragging that their mothers let them wear eye shadow. Big deal. Makeup was for clowns and mimes. Give her a baggy sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans and she was happy.
“Have you thought about the school dance?” Her mother wrung her hands and looked down at them, something she did a lot lately.
“Are you kidding?”
“Just asking.”
She would never tell her mother, but she secretly hoped Jack Harding might ask her to the dance. Lately she found herself wanting to spend time with Jack and not the other boys, but she really could not say why. Chris and Paul were nice guys, but Jack was the one she thought about. About the two of them walking home from school together and him slipping his hand into hers. That was her secret, and thumbscrews couldn’t get her to tell it to anyone.
“I don’t want to go to any stupid dance,” she said.
Emma slipped her hand from under the blanket, picked up the teacup.
“Most girls your age want to do those things.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“I wish you would, Emma. You’re such a pretty girl.”
“No way.”
“I’ll buy you a dress.”
“You asked me that before and I think I said no.”
Her mother wrung her hands again. She had purplish bags under her eyes and she always slumped a bit when she walked, the sixty hours a week of work as a seamstress taking its toll on her. All day long she ran cloth through a sewing machine at the M. Wile Factory, making suits for junior executives.
“At least think about it.”
Emma lifted her spoon and slurped soup.
Mom stood up and stopped when she reached the doorway.
“You’re too pretty a girl to be hanging around with a group of dirty boys all the time.”
“I like them.”
“And that music you listen to.”
“It’s cool.”
“I don’t approve of some of it. Men with long hair.”
The Motley Crue tape in her storage crate would blow Mom’s mind. “Are we done? I’d like to finish my soup.”
“It’s those violent games you play.”
“King of the mountain isn’t violent.”
“Paul sprained his wrist last year playing on the snow mounds.”
“He’s a wussy.”
“Emma . . .”
“Well, he is.”
“There’s no talking to you anymore. I just don’t know,” she said, shaking her head and leaving the room.
Let her be mad. The only reason she did not want Emma hanging out with boys was that Myra Greer had issues with men in general. Emma’a father, Frederick, had gone out for a newspaper when Emma was four and never come back. That had stuck in her mother’s craw for years, Mom blaming herself for him leaving. So when she criticized Emma for hanging out with boys, Emma knew her father’s leaving was at the root of it. But Mom wanted Emma to take one to the school dance, which made no sense. Maybe she was afraid her little girl might turn into one of the dirty boys.
If only she knew about cousin Jacob.
That was one dirty boy.
Jacob was seventeen years old, five years Emma’s senior.
Emma had developed breasts last spring, and by summer she needed a regular bra, having gone well beyond the training stage. For most of the summer she had worn baggy T-shirts, but there was a week in August when the temperature spiked to ninety and only a tank top would suffice. That Monday in August, she put on a yellow tank top and a pair of cutoff Levi’s, not caring if her new boobs looked as big as zeppelins. At least she felt cool.
Aunt Samantha invited them for a cookout that evening, and as always, Jacob was home. Jacob was always home, practicing his violin, which Aunt Sam claimed was his ticket to Carnegie Hall. Emma imagined him up there picking boogers out of his nostrils and eating them. It suited him better than Carnegie Hall.
They had been at her aunt’s an hour, sitting by the in-ground pool and drinking lemonade. Uncle Rex fired up the grill and tossed on chicken breasts marinated in Italian dressing, along with potatoes wrapped in foil. Emma drained the last of her lemonade and got up to get herself a refill.
She entered the kitchen, opened the door on the Amana, and took out the pitcher of lemonade. Aunt Sam had not put ice in the pitcher and Emma wanted a few cubes to chill the drink even more. She opened the freezer and mist rose from inside. As she gripped the ice cube tray, it slid from her hand and crashed on the floor. But the cubes stayed in the tray.
She shut the freezer door and bent over to pick up the tray. Jacob stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Emma’s chest. She made eye contact with him, expecting him to look away in embarrassment, but he kept right on looking. She hopped to her feet, leaving the ice cube tray on the floor.
“Hey, Emma.”
“What do you want?”
Why were boys so interested in boobs?
“Looking good.”
“Whatever.”
He stepped forward, so close she smelled the body odor that followed him like a cloud of poisonous gas. She noticed rings of damp sweat around his armpits and wondered why he didn’t just invest in some deodorant.
“Looks like things are blossoming,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean the cherry blossoms in the yard.”
“I have to pick up these ice cubes.”
“Go right ahead. Hope nothing falls out.”
God, he was a booger.
Squatting down, she clasped her top closed as best she could. Then she scooped up the tray and stood up to prevent him from peering down her shirt.
When she tried squeezing past him, the trouble started.
“Where you going?”
“Going to put these back in the freezer, where you think?”
She slid past him and to her utter shock, his hand shot out and pinched her hard on the left cheek. Emma spun around and he gripped her by the shoulders, pinning her to the fridge. The metal felt cool against her shoulders and the little vegetable-shaped magnets dug into the middle of her back.
He looked down at her chest.
“Things really are blossoming,” he said. Jacob’s breath smelled like rancid salami.
Then he slid a hand up her top and squeezed her right breast. A small choking noise escaped her lips, and she wanted to scream, but all she managed was a gurgle.
He pulled his hand out and backed away.
“You’re a real shit, Jacob.”
“You liked it.”
She tore out of the kitchen and darted out the screen door to the patio, slamming into her mother on the way out.
“Emma! Slow down.”
She looked up at her mother, positive her face was the color of strawberry jam. Tears ran down her cheeks and she wiped them away.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me nothing.”
Come up with a lie, and quick.
“Um. There was a wasp in the kitchen and it landed on my hand. It scared me
.”
“Did it sting you?”
“No,” she said, sniffing.
“I’ll have Uncle Rex see if he can find the little pest, okay?”
“You might want to look in Jacob’s room,” she said.
Mom gave her a puzzled look but said nothing and they returned to the patio. Emma crossed her arms over her breasts just in case the booger was around, hoping to get another peek at her. She remained by the side of the pool for the rest of the evening, not daring to enter the house for fear of running into Jacob.
That had effectively ruined the rest of her summer.
If only her mom knew what had happened, she would never accuse Jack of being a dirty boy again. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would grab a girl like that.
But unfortunately, Jacob took pleasure in things like that, and with the holiday coming up, she would be seeing a lot more of him.
She had to find a way to stay away from him.
They walked up to spiked iron gates. A cobblestone wall ran from the gates and along the road, surrounding the edge of the property. A rectangular speaker stood mounted on a pole with a white button labeled TALK.
“I’ll call for our driver,” Ronnie said.
“A driver?”
“Yeah. You didn’t think we were going to walk all the way to the house, did you?”
Jack supposed it was a pretty long walk.
He hoped the driver would hurry, because his lungs ached from the cold.
Ronnie pressed the white button and a moment later a deep voice came over the intercom.
“May I help you?”
“It’s me, John.”
“Who’s me?”
“Ronnie.”
“And?”
“Can you come get me? I’m at the main gate.”
“Be right out.”
The intercom buzzed and crackled.
Five minutes later, a boat of a limo pulled up to the gates, its windows a shiny onyx.
“Watch out,” Ronnie said, stepping back.
Jack did the same.
A motor hummed, and the gates swung open.
Ronnie and Jack approached the car and a bald black man stepped out of the limo, wisps of steam rising from his head. He looked big enough to play linebacker for the Giants and his wool overcoat strained at the shoulders.
“Hi, John,” Ronnie said.
“Master Ronnie.” His voice reminded Jack of Lurch on The Addams Family.
“This is Jack,” Ronnie said.
John approached them and offered a leather-gloved hand to Jack. Jack took it, and the big man pumped his hand.
“Jack’s gonna come up and see the house,” Ronnie said.
“Outstanding.” John let go of his hand. “Maybe have some cocoa and cookies?”
“Yeah,” Jack said.
“Great,” John said, clapping Jack on the shoulder.
John opened the passenger door for them and once they piled into the limo, he closed it behind them.
The interior of the limo was dark gray with walnut paneling on the doors. Crystal tumblers rested in a bar next to a decanter of honey-colored liquor.
“That’s scotch,” Ronnie said.
“You think I didn’t know that?”
John ducked into the driver’s seat and a moment later they rolled toward the estate.
“I bet Vinnie wouldn’t bother you if John was around,” Jack said.
“Hell yeah,” Ronnie said.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, an endless sheet of snow dancing across the windows. As they drove uphill, the limo’s motor hummed. They passed a crisp white barn and stables surrounded by a split rail fence. Jack saw no horses, but they were probably inside to protect them from the cold.
Farther up were three red houses, all with firewood stacked on the porches. The front doors all had an S in the center. Did the Steadmans forget their last name started with S?
“Those are the groundskeepers’ houses. John lives in one of them.”
Jack gasped when he saw the mansion, four stories of gray stone with long, narrow windows. Ivy spiraled down the walls like a brown waterfall and twin turrets stood at either end of the mansion, giving the appearance of a medieval fortress. The roof jutted out in points and gables, and a dozen chimneys rose from it. Jack had never seen anything like it.
They pulled around a circular driveway in front of the steps, which led to two doors made of heavy wood. An iron knocker was secured in the center of each. Twin lions flanked the steps, each caught in midroar and challenging any would-be intruders to the mansion.
John opened the door and the two boys climbed out of the limo and into the lengthening shadows. A statue of an armless, bare-breasted woman stood in the center of the circle, like something out of a museum.
“This way. And watch your step going up the stairs.” John pointed to the steps. “They’re a little slick from the ice.”
They ascended the steps, rock salt crunching under their boots.
“What do you think?” Ronnie said.
“Amazing.”
CHAPTER 3
Paul reached the side door, wheezing and puffing from the run home.
As daylight had faded, he broke into a run, hoping to get home and avoid an appointment with the belt or extension cord. In the process of sprinting home, he had hit an icy patch and skidded sideways into a snowbank. Dark, wet patches covered his pants, and he felt as if he had stuck his rear end in the freezer for an hour. He couldn’t let his father see his pants like this.
Paul opened the door and to his relief it didn’t squeak. Once inside he slipped off his moon boots and placed them on the welcome mat next to the cases of Molson Canadian. The General was never without a constant supply of the stuff, and Paul didn’t know how much beer cost, but he guessed it wasn’t cheap. When he had asked for a new Huffy over the summer, his father replied: “Not enough money around.” But there always seemed to be enough money for beer.
He padded up the stairs, opened the side door, and stepped into the gloom. The house had a stale, sour smell that his mother never failed to remove despite repeated cleanings with ammonia. The smell made him ill, and he felt somehow cheated because you weren’t supposed to hate the way your house smelled. It reminded him of a hospital or funeral home, one of the places where the smell was supposed to turn you off. Jack’s house always smelled like baking cookies or the fresh flowers his mother kept on the table. Why couldn’t his house smell like that?
He snuck across the kitchen, listening every step of the way for heavy footsteps to approach from behind. “Ride of the Valkyries” blared from the living room, his father watching Apocalypse Now for the umpteenth time. Paul could almost see the Hueys whizzing overhead with guns and rockets blazing. His father had seen it forty or so times, and other war movies were close seconds, most notably Patton and The Longest Day.
Paul crept down the hallway to his bedroom and eased the door shut. The hum of his aquarium pump filled the room and it felt soothing. This was the only place in the whole house he felt comfortable. He had his goldfish (Frodo, Sam, and Gollum), a stack of Dungeons and Dragons books, and his Lord of the Rings trilogy, purchased at a garage sale for seventy-five cents. That was the best money he ever spent.
A poster of Darth Vader hung on the wall. The Dark Lord of the Sith was shrouded in fog and his light-saber cut through the mist, and Paul often imagined himself as Vader, all-powerful. Vader choked enemies without even touching them, and the Dark Lord would not be afraid of his father.
Ever mindful of his father’s presence, Paul stripped off his pants, socks, and shirt before the General saw him like this. He took out an A-Team T-shirt and other dry clothes. After changing into them, he balled up the wet ones, crept into the bathroom, and shoved them into the hamper, careful to bury them under the other items.
As he returned to his room, his mother’s snores came from her bedroom. She would wake up soon, cook something of the frozen variety, and stay up until eleven o’c
lock reading Harlequin novels. Then it was back to bed for more sleep. That was all she did, sleep and eat. Maybe it was her way of avoiding the asshole.
He opened the lid to his aquarium and picked up the box of fish food. It was slick on the sides and he jerked to catch it, but it hit the floor and spilled the brown flakes all over the rug. The lid rolled like a runaway quarter and hit the bed before stopping.
He bent down and brushed the flakes into his cupped hand.
“What are you doing?”
Paul looked up at his father, who looked nine feet tall in the doorway. Five o’clock shadow filled in around his jaw and his eyes were bloodshot and glassy.
His father stepped forward, his striped tie askew and the dress shirt untucked. “So?”
“I dropped the fish food.” Paul continued scraping up the flakes.
“I can see that, genius.”
“Sorry.” The fishy scent of the flakes was all he smelled, but it beat his father’s sour beer breath.
“Clean this up. You’re always doing stuff like this, Paul, and I don’t know why.”
Paul wanted to crawl under the bed and live with the dust bunnies. That was cowardly, and he knew if Darth Vader or Strider were here, either would lop off the General’s ugly head. Paul wished he could be that brave, but his father’s gaze usually turned his legs to pudding.
“Paul. There you go daydreaming again. How do you expect to get anywhere with your head in the clouds? You’re so unfocused.”
Paul looked down at the carpet and let the flakes fall off his hand and into the container.
“And I thought you were going to take these posters down. They’re babyish.”
“I like them.”
“Are you being a smart-ass?”
Paul shook his head.
“Better not be.” He scratched his belly and yawned. “I want these posters taken down. You’re almost a teenager.”
His father turned to leave and Paul could have left things at that, but he loved the posters and wanted them on the walls.
“I’m not taking them down.”
His father stopped and rubbed his chin, the stubble making sandpaper noises. “Knock it off, okay?”
“I’m not taking them down. I like them,” Paul said, folding his arms.