Beau and Bett

by Kathryn Berla

  “I don’t know. I guess I could pick some more grapes. Or maybe you have something else you need me to do. You could tell me what to do.”

  “You want me to tell you what to do?”

  She opened the door wide. I had her attention.

  “You could. Or I could just pick some grapes, I guess.”

  She looked deep in thought as if she didn’t want to surrender the gift of being able to tell someone what to do. “I think you should clean the pool,” she said finally.

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “And maybe when you’re done, you could wash my car.” Her eyes lit up.

  I couldn’t get too mad; after all, I was the one who’d asked her for ideas of what I should do.

  “Go around the side gate and I’ll meet you at the pool. All the stuff you’ll need is in the shed behind the bushes.” She disappeared behind the closed door.

  I walked along the fence until I found a gate, which I unlatched and closed behind me. There was a path of granite stepping stones I followed to the fruit tree orchard, which was smothered in such a kaleidoscope of flowers that it made my eyeballs ache to take it all in. There was even a patch of geraniums that smelled like peppermint, geraniums being one of the few flowers I could actually name since Maman grows them. After that came the lawn, which looked so unnaturally green I had to stoop down to see if it was real grass or that new fake kind. There was a croquet course and someone had left out the orange ball near a wicket. There was a little putting green there too that looked like it would be hella fun. I kept walking until I came to an opening in the oleander hedge that led to the pool. Right at that opening was a shed that looked more like a dollhouse, where I figured the pool stuff must be. It must have been made for dolls because I had to stoop to go through the door. I flipped the light switch and looked around. It was stocked with just about everything you’d need for a pool and garden: rakes, shovels, long-handled pool nets, bags of fertilizer, croquet mallets and balls, and a few putters and golf balls. I grabbed a pool net, turned off the light, and closed the door behind me.

  When I came out on the other side of the hedge, Bettina was already poolside, reclining in a lounge chair with a mug of coffee on the table beside her. She was still wearing the white dress but had added some oversize sunglasses. Her face was tilted toward the sun like she was waiting for it to give her a big kiss. The pool itself looked like blue topaz, without a leaf or blade of grass disturbing its perfection. Not one single insect was in the act of drowning or swimming laps.

  “Umm . . . what do you want me to do?”

  “Just, you know . . . clean the leaves or whatever,” she said with a wave of her hand toward the pool and all the imaginary leaves in it.

  “Okay,” I said. I began to skim the surface of the water with the net, capturing absolutely nothing in it but going through the motions anyway while she continued to recline, presumably making sure I did a good job.

  I dragged that out as long as I could since it was easy work and nice by the pool, even with a net in my hands. I started off on one side, making a few splashing sounds every once in a while like I had just removed something really nasty from the water. I couldn’t tell if she was watching me, with those big sunglasses covering most of her face, but I didn’t think so since her face was still tilted up. After a while, I moved to the far end and worked there for a while. And when it seemed like I must have had time to clear everything out from that end, there was nothing left to do but go around to the side she was on.

  I moved slowly, dragging the net through the water, until I was just at the point where the backs of my legs were only a few feet from her toes. I glanced quickly over my shoulder to see if she’d moved at all. I’d almost been convinced she was sleeping, so I wasn’t sure if I was going to have to wake her once I covered the entire perimeter of the pool. She was sitting up with her legs straight out in front of her, dress tucked underneath so as not to show off anything I wasn’t supposed to see. I have to admit I was a little scared for a second, the calm and quiet way she was just sitting there, staring without saying a word.

  “Why aren’t you in church with everyone else?” I asked. Maybe she was like that kid, Damien, from The Omen—not that I was in church myself, but people didn’t exactly call me The Beast either.

  “Why should I be?” She pressed her lips together tightly.

  “I dunno.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Just tryin’ to make conversation.”

  Silence.

  Now there really was a bug in the water. Just a little beyond my reach, which allowed me a few minutes of making a big deal of getting it out. Then it was on down the line as I approached the last remaining edge of the pool. I looked at my watch and saw I’d managed to kill forty-five minutes with this nonsense. Not too shabby.

  When I was about five feet past the place where she’d been lying, she suddenly stood, walked to the edge of the pool, and flung the contents of her coffee mug into the water. There was a little cloud of brown before it was engulfed by thousands of gallons of chlorinated water and the pool regained its natural sparkle. She sat back down on the lounge chair, primly tucking her dress under her knees.

  “Why’d you do that?” I couldn’t help myself. It was such an odd thing for her to do; I couldn’t allow it to go uncommented on.

  “It’s good for the water,” she said. “It’s acid so it lowers the pH and that’s better for your skin.”

  Now I don’t know much about science, other than what’s on the next chemistry test, but I do know bullshit when I hear it. And I have a stubborn streak that sometimes doesn’t know when to quit.

  “Do you know how much water is in this pool?” By then I’d given up any pretense of cleaning out imaginary leaves and insects. “And how much coffee was in your cup? Unless you’re drinking pure sulfuric acid, that’s not going to change the pH of this pool one hundred-millionth of one percent.” I wasn’t exactly sure about that fraction but I thought it got my point across.

  Her mouth made that tight line and I didn’t know if she was about to cry or yell at me. It was hard to tell with those sunglasses hiding her eyes.

  “Sulfuric acid?” she said. “That’s kind of random, isn’t it?”

  I started sifting the water with the net again, regretting already that I’d engaged her that way. Nothing good was going to come from that.

  “Yeah, it just popped in my head. This dumb song my friends and I used to sing back when we were in . . . like the second grade or something.”

  “What’s the song?”

  I stopped sifting the water again. “Just a dumb song. You know . . . a kids’ song.”

  “Sing it to me,” she said, just as though she was the Royal Highness and I was the court jester.

  “What? No, no way. I’m not going to sing it.”

  As if Mother Nature herself was conspiring to save me from the jaws of The Beast, a gust of wind blew, and a single leaf landed in the middle of the pool—definitely out of the reach of my net.

  “Sing it,” she repeated, and this time, without even looking, I imagined she was making her scary face.

  I was making a big show of paddling the surface of the water with the net in order to create a current that would bring the leaf close enough to where I could nab it. Why was I so scared of her? She wasn’t going to lay a hand on me. What was the worse she could do—fire me? Oh yeah, well, maybe she could fire me and then I’d be up Shit Creek. I scooped the leaf and lifted it from the water, and once I hauled it in, I removed it with my thumb and forefinger and carried it over to the oleander hedge where I tossed it.

  “Okay, well, if you want to hear the song so bad, I’m not going to ruin your day.” I coughed a few times and turned my back to her, so it wouldn’t seem so much like I was her performing monkey. Then I sang that old song I hadn’t thought about for years.

  Poor old Johnny

  Johnny is no more

  For what he thought was H2O
r />   Was H2SO4.

  I chuckled and then went back to sifting the crystal-clear water.

  “You think that’s funny?” She’d turned around in the chair so her legs were off to one side—the side facing me.

  “No . . . I don’t think it’s funny now. But we were what . . . all of eight years old. It was funny then.”

  “But you laughed. I saw you laugh,” she said. “Right after you sang it.”

  “I did not.”

  “Did too.”

  Maybe I actually did laugh.

  “If I did laugh . . . which I’m not saying I did, but if I did laugh, it’s because I felt like a jackass for singing it.” And maybe it’s still funny, I thought. Poor old Johnny. Haha. What am I, Claude and Del’s age?

  “Who’s Johnny?”

  “Who?”

  “Johnny . . . the one who died drinking the acid.”

  “Holy sh . . . it’s just a made-up song about a made-up guy. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

  “I was just wondering if it was really about some real boy you wished was dead back then.”

  “What? No! Oh my God. What is wrong with you?”

  I turned to face her but those damn glasses. I couldn’t see through them. Her mouth was relaxed at that point, not the tight thin line it’d been earlier on. If I had to guess, I’d say that her mouth wasn’t having a bad time at all, but I still couldn’t peg her to an animal. And then, just like that, I remembered Johnny Mareno who was in the fourth grade when we were in the second grade and how all of us hated him because he’d steal our money and shove us up against the bathroom wall if we went in there alone. I don’t think we actually used the name “Johnny” when we sang that song in the second grade—we’d have been too scared someone might hear us and tell him. We usually used one of our own names, so why was I singing about Johnny all those years later? And how was this girl messing with my head?

  “I think the pool is clean now,” I said, looking at my watch. It was nine o’clock. At least three more hours to go before someone else took over bossing me around.

  She stood up and walked to the edge of the pool, surveying it for a speck of dust, I suppose. “Who are you?” she asked. “And why are you here? Did my father just hire you?”

  So, she had no idea why I was there. No idea about my mom and the deal I struck with her dad to pay off the debt.

  “I’m Beau LeFrancois. You ran into my mom last week . . . the car accident.”

  “Oh, her. You mean she ran into me. The pool looks good, by the way.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Thanks.”

  “So why are you here?”

  With her standing on the edge of the pool like that, I had a brief fantasy of pushing her in and getting that pretty little white sundress all wet.

  “I worked out a deal with your dad. I’m paying off the amount of the deductible he has to pay to get your fender fixed.”

  “I’m not even going to get it fixed. I’m getting a new car next week.”

  I could feel a slow burn starting in my gut and making its way up through my lungs and throat until it felt like I was one of those cartoon characters with steam coming out of my ears.

  “Sucks to be you,” I said.

  “Why? Why does it suck to be me?”

  She stared at me from behind those sunglasses that looked like giant black bumblebee eyes. Maybe that was it. She was a bee—no, a yellow jacket like the one that stung Papa in the face and ultimately landed him in the hospital for a week with a bagful of broken bones. But, nah, that wasn’t it. She was no bee. Not even a yellow jacket.

  “It’s a joke. Obviously, it doesn’t suck to be you. You get a dent in your car and then you get a new car the next week.”

  “They’re never the same once they’ve been in an accident. You can’t trust them anymore.”

  “Oh yeah, is that so? A fender bender is going to make your Range Rover inoperable? I don’t think so.” Whoa, Beau, slow down. Shut your mouth before you say something you regret. “Anyway, congrats. Must be nice. What’re you getting?”

  “I don’t know, Dad hasn’t decided yet. But anyway, you can go. I didn’t know you were here because of that and I don’t want you to work here to pay off some stupid debt my father says you owe.”

  “Umm . . . I think that’s up to your dad. Trust me, I’d love to go if it was up to me. And by the way, it seemed like you thought it was a pretty big deal when it happened. My mom said you hollered at her and took pictures of her and the car. So—”

  “I had to do that. Otherwise, my dad would blame me. Who’s going to believe a kid over an adult?”

  I thought about that one and was pretty sure my parents would believe me over some random adult. But maybe her dad was different, and I didn’t want to stir up more trouble than I already had.

  “Why wouldn’t your dad believe you?” There it was. The Beau who didn’t know when to shut up.

  “This isn’t my first accident. So if it was my fault, he probably wouldn’t have gotten me a new car.”

  I couldn’t stand there and listen to the pity party she was throwing herself. “I’m going to put the net back in the shed. Then you can tell me what you want me to do next.”

  I walked through the space in the oleander hedge that led to the dollhouse shed. I ducked my head as I went in to return the net to the exact spot where I’d found it. Then I ducked back out and almost ran smack into Bettina. She was waiting for me just outside the door.

  “Wow, you scared me for a second,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t expect you to be standing there.”

  “I thought we were going to find something else for you to do.”

  “We were but . . . I just didn’t expect you to follow me to the shed, that’s all. Why do you have to question everything?”

  “How am I going to know the answer if I don’t ask the question?”

  Her giant bee eyes were starting to really creep me out. “Could you please take off your glasses, so I can see who I’m talking to?”

  She pushed her glasses up with the tip of one finger and I saw eyes that were softly slanted and . . . kind of pretty. Then she let her glasses fall back down against the bridge of her nose.

  “Satisfied?”

  Ten

  “Okay, what now?” I asked, ignoring her last question. “You said you wanted me to wash your car but if you’re going to sell it, why bother? You’ll probably just trade it in at the dealer and they won’t care.”

  “Let’s wash it anyhow. It’ll give me time to think up your next job.”

  “Your decision,” I said. “Lead the way.”

  “Go back the way you came, and I’ll go through the house and open the garage door.”

  I retraced my steps over the lawn, through the orchard, through the gate, across the open parking area, and to the garage. Where I waited. And waited. After about ten minutes, I went and sat on the open tailgate of my truck. After about twenty minutes, I was pretty sure she had no intention of coming out and was just playing a dirty trick on me. Which made me more than a little mad and started a bunch of dark thoughts swirling around my head, like, If that’s the way she wants to play it, I can wait her out. And, When her dad gets back, I’ll talk to him before she does, so I get credit for my time.

  In the middle of all that angry plotting, the garage door rumbled open in slow motion the way they do. First thing I saw was two feet in high-wedge sandals; then a pair of (nice) legs; then some denim shorts; then a close-fitting T-shirt tied in a knot to expose the slightest bit of belly, two arms holding a tray with two glasses; then Bettina’s face with no sunglasses but nearly completely covered by a huge floppy hat. She stepped out of the garage, holding the tray carefully so as not to spill, and wobbled over to the truck because of those ridiculous shoes that were totally unsuitable for walking on gravel. I don’t know how she could see from under that hat but somehow, she made it without spill
ing a drop.

  “Care for a refreshment?” she asked.

  “Thanks.” I took one of the glasses, which appeared to contain lemonade. “Why’d you change your clothes?”

  “If I have to be out here supervising you, I don’t want to get my dress dirty.”

  I took a big swallow from the glass, and then half-gagged, half-spit it out. “What is this?”

  “Lemonade,” she said innocently. “I spiked yours a little. I assumed you’d be a little more grateful since there’s no adult supervision.”

  “Umm . . . no!”

  She glanced down at her shirt. “Look, you spit on me. Good thing I changed out of my dress.”

  “I . . . you . . . ,” I sputtered. How was I getting blamed for spitting on her? This girl!

  “Fine then, take mine. It’s just lemonade.” She took the glass from my hand and tossed the contents on the gravel. “I was just trying to be nice.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was really pouting because her face was engulfed in a shadow from the hat, but I didn’t want to offend her and cause more trouble for myself.

  “I’m not saying you weren’t nice.” I sniffed the new glass she handed me. It smelled like lemonade. I took a sip and it tasted like lemonade. “I’m just sayin’ you have a funny way of showing it.” I took a few more sips and it did taste pretty good.

  “Here, hold this.” She shoved the tray at me with the empty glass. “I’ll pull my car out. There’s a hose over there.” She pointed to a low wall about ten feet away. Behind the wall was the beginning of the avocado grove.

  I set the tray and two empty glasses in the bed of my truck and walked over to unroll the hose from its reel. Bettina, meanwhile, backed the Range Rover next to where I was standing and then disappeared into the garage. Then she emerged holding a bucket, some soap, and a sponge.

  “I’ll sit on your truck so I don’t get wet,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.”