Читать книгу The World of Normal Boys - K.M. Soehnlein - Страница 12

Chapter Five

He makes it to a road that he recognizes, running beneath a vast slope of dead, flattened grass. Surrounded by chain link at the top is a mansion, a gray silhouette against the sky, that’s been uninhabited for years and is rumored to be haunted. In the winter kids sleigh all the way down from the fence, though it’s dangerous because you have to turn sharply at the bottom or wind up in the line of traffic. Up ahead are two more landmarks: the Dairy Queen, where he and Victoria used to hang out before she went away for the summer, and beyond that the town dump, where he’s accompanied his father with bottles and newspapers for recycling. A CLOSED UNTIL APRIL sign is nailed to the front of the Dairy Queen.

The parking lot is lit up but empty—except for a van parked near the back, which seems suspicious to him. He wheels his bike toward the pay phone. He’s got some change in his pocket but isn’t sure who to call. Nana Rena, by now mad with worry? Maybe Uncle Stan is back at the house. She’ll send him out looking; everyone will be pissed off. As he rounds the corner of the low building he’s startled by a noise.

A boy his age is sitting on the ground, his head tilted back against the wall. Robin can see dried blood around the boy’s nostrils, little clay-colored flakes on the white stretch of his upper lip. He’s wearing a baseball cap; dark hair pokes out around his ears and neck. His ears are the perfect kind of ears, delicate and flat, the right size for his thin face. Robin’s seen this guy before, in school.

“What’s up?” Robin says, digging into his pocket for a dime.

The boy stares at him, startled. His face is sad or angry or something that sends out a warning. He wipes the bloodstain from under his nose with the cuff of his flannel shirt.

Robin puts a dime into the slot. No dial tone. He flicks the coin-return lever but gets nothing back.

“It doesn’t work,” the boy mutters.

“Oh,” Robin says, and then just stands there. “The hospital’s not far from here?”

The boys squints up at him. “I don’t need no fucking hospital.”

“No, I mean for me.”

“What’s wrong with you? You sick?”

“No, my brother is. He’s . . . hurt.”

The boy shoots a quick look toward the van at the back of the lot. Robin sees some motion in the trees behind the vehicle, makes out the blurry figure of a man stooped over, picking something up. Then the boy stands up, dusts off the seat of his jeans, and speaks. “I know who you are.”

Now Robin recognizes him from phys. ed.: the other kid hanging out at the top of the bleachers, trying to avoid the Skins vs. Shirts punchball game. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. Gym class. Pintack? Fourth period?”

“I fuckin’ hate that guy,” the boy spits out. “Fuckin’ asshole jock. He fuckin’ hates me and I hate him back.”

Robin nods, happy for something in common. “Yeah, I can’t stand him. He acts so tough and gets everyone all riled up about all those stupid games and—”

“Yeah, I know about you,” he interrupts.

Robin tries to figure out what he means—does he know him from somewhere besides gym class?

The boy starts walking away toward the van, muttering, “Shit.” He’s caught sight of the man back by the van, who has emerged from the woods, carrying a plastic garbage bag stuffed full. He’s also in a flannel shirt, jeans, and a cap: the logo is General Motors. He’s not very tall but there’s something instantly mean about him. He clears a big gob from his throat and spits against the gravel. When he looks their way he drops the bag.

“Get the fuck over here,” he yells.

Robin watches Scott take his time. There, he’s remembered the boy’s name: Scott Schatz. He’s one of those kids no one pays any attention to, though Robin’s always been curious about him. How has Scott managed to sit out the same games as Robin but avoid the kind of name calling Robin has put up with?

“I got another bag back there,” the man says to Scott. “Go get it.” Robin can’t figure out what’s going on back there. Is this man barking orders Scott’s father? His mind races: a dead body in the bag, a pile of drugs, something illegal. One too many weird possibilities. Just get out of here. He’s pretty sure that there’s a turn somewhere not too far down the road that would curve him back toward Tappan Boulevard. Pretty sure, but not positive, and his instincts have been off all night. And then Scott turns back to him and lifts up his index finger as if to say, Wait one minute, and there’s something in his eyes, not quite comforting, but friendly in a simple way, for which Robin feels instantly grateful. So he decides to wait. Maybe Scott will give him directions after he does whatever it is being demanded of him. He takes a deep, steadying breath and leans his bike on its kickstand.

The man at the van has opened a beer and is swigging it down. Scott returns from the woods, dragging another full bag with both hands. He struggles to lift it into the back of the van until the man gets impatient and does it for him, shoving Scott out of the way. Then they talk for a minute in very low voices, glancing back his way. Finally Scott waves Robin over.

The man asks in a slurry voice, “You going to the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Robin answers timidly.

“What the hell you doing over here?”

“I got lost. I wound up driving around Marble Road.”

“Hah!” The man spits again. “You’re lucky you didn’t get the shit kicked outta you.” He chugs his beer.

Scott rolls his eyes and frowns. “Shut up, Dad. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dad, Robin thinks. This scary guy is Scott’s father.

Scott looks at Robin. “We practically live on Marble Road.”

“Practically ain’t the same as actually,” Mr. Schatz says. He crushes the empty can in his hand and chucks it at Scott. “Throw your bike in the back.”

“You don’t have to. I mean, you could just tell me how to get there.”

Scott reaches out and grabs his handle bars. “It’s not that close, man.” Together they lift the bike in the van. The front wheel falls on one of the bags and the insides let out a tinny crunch.

“Don’t you rip those goddamn things,” Mr. Schatz says, “or you’ll be carrying cans to the drop off one by one between your fucking teeth.”

“Shut up, we’re not ripping nothing,” Scott says. “C’mon,” he says to Robin and climbs in. Robin props himself at Scott’s side. Scott reaches across him, the tail of his oversize wool shirt brushing prickly against Robin’s arm, and shuts the door. It’s dark as a cave.

Mr. Schatz starts up the motor. Rock-and-roll music jangles the air. Robin thinks it must be Elvis, but he’s never been able to tell any of those ’50s singers apart. The air inside grows stuffy very quickly, filled with the stench coming from the empty cans: moldy beer, rotting sugar. Then there’s sharp burning of a match and a cloud of smoke from Mr. Schatz’s cigarette. Scott calls out to his father, “Hey, pass the smokes back.”

Mr. Schatz ignores him. Scott picks up a can and hurls it into the dash. “C‘mon, give ’em over.”

“You better calm down, motherfucker, or you’re gonna get it.”

Scott rubs his nose self-consciously. “A little late for that,” he mutters.

Robin nods and says, “Guess so,” which is all he can come up with. He hasn’t been hit by his father since he got a spanking at age six for who knows why—he can’t even imagine getting a bloody nose from him. Scott acts as if it’s not such a big deal, but with his eyes adjusting to the darkness, Robin can again make out that sad-angry combination he first saw on Scott’s face.

Scott stamps his feet on the metal floor a couple of time. “Cigarettes, man!” he yells over the doo-wop harmonies.

“You’re too young to smoke,” Mr. Schatz yells back, but in the tone of voice that sounds like he doesn’t really care. A pack of Winstons comes flying back at them and bounces off the spokes of Robin’s bike.

Scott squints at him. “You don’t smoke probably.”

“I’ve smoked my mother’s cigarettes plenty.” A lie: only once or twice, with mostly unpleasant results.

“You can have a drag of mine. I don’t want you hacking to death.”

Robin forces a laugh. “OK, that’s fuckin’ cool,” he says. He thinks he should say things like “fuckin’ cool” with Scott.