Читать книгу What We Remember - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 10

1982

It took him a moment to realize that the reason the shoe wouldn’t go on was because he was trying to put it on the wrong foot. Once he figured that out, he easily slipped the red pump over the delicate toes and tucked the heel into the back. He repeated the process on the other foot. The shoes were pretty, much better than the white sandals he’d tried first. Those had not matched the dress at all.

Billy took the Barbie and laid her on the carpet. Turning his attention to Ken, he removed the flower-patterned swimming trunks and replaced them with a pair of tuxedo pants. The garish Hawaiian shirt was abandoned in favor of a shirt and jacket. Black shoes completed the outfit.

With both Barbie and Ken now appropriately dressed for an evening out, he held one in each hand. Turning them to face one another, he took turns providing them with voices.

“Thanks for asking me to dinner,” Barbie said sweetly.

Ken nodded. “Thank you for coming,” he replied, his voice deep and manly. “You look beautiful.”

Barbie turned away, embarrassed. When she looked back at Ken she said, “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”

Ken leaned in, his lips touching Barbie’s. Billy watched them, envious.

The door to the room burst open, startling him and causing him to drop the dolls. Behind him, James stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the clothes scattered across the floor. Billy began to quickly sweep them into a pile.

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” James said. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Billy. “Just fooling around.”

“I thought Celeste told you to keep out of her stuff,” James continued.

“She doesn’t even look at these anymore,” said Billy. “She says she’s too old for them.”

“Well, she is,” said James. “And so are you. Also, you’re a boy.”

Billy shrugged as he picked up Ken and Barbie and put them back into the plastic carrying case. “It’s just a game,” he said.

“A girl’s game,” James said. “And you’re almost thirteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Mom told you not to say Christ like that,” Billy reminded him. “It’s a sin.”

“Whatever,” said James. “Just put that shit away. Dad wants you to come help outside.”

“Help do what?” Billy asked. He slipped the dolls’ carrying case back into Celeste’s closet, then shut the door.

“He’s working on the car,” said James. “He wants you to learn how to change the oil.”

Billy stood up. “Why?” he asked. “Isn’t that why they have garages?”

“Because a guy should know how to change the oil in a car,” said James.

They left Celeste’s room and walked down the hallway toward the living room. As they did, James put his hand on Billy’s shoulder.

“You’ve really got to grow up, Bill,” he said. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

“My name’s Billy,” Billy reminded him

“See,” said James. “That’s what I mean. Billy is a little kid’s name. You should go by Bill.”

“But I like Billy.”

They passed through the kitchen, pushing open the back door and exiting the house. In the driveway their father was standing in front of the family car. The hood was open, held in place by the thin rod that Billy was always afraid would snap in two at any moment, bringing the hood down on his fingers or his head.

“I found him,” James said to their father.

Billy waited for his brother to tell their father where he had found him. But James left it at that. Sometimes he wasn’t a total jerk, Billy thought. But not often.

“Come take a look at this,” their father said, waving both boys over.

Billy followed James to the car. He stood a little bit back, peering down into the tangled knots of unidentifiable metal pieces. He had no idea what any of it was, nor did he care. It was just a car.

“See this?” his father said. He held out a long, thin piece of metal. It was covered in slick black oil. “This is the dipstick. It tells you how much oil is left in the car.”

Billy hadn’t the vaguest notion of why he should care about such a thing, yet he nodded gravely. He watched as his father took a rag and wiped the stick clean. The oil on the rag was a greenish black, ugly, like the insides of a bug.

“You want the dipstick clean when you slide it back inside the engine,” his father continued, demonstrating. “That way you get an accurate reading when you take it out.”

He pulled the dipstick from its sheath and held it out toward Billy. “See those two dots?” he asked. “You want the oil line to be between them. What do you do if it isn’t?”

Billy hesitated. He looked at James, who was biting his lip as if to keep from blurting out the answer. But the question had not been directed at him, and Billy knew his brother would not come to his rescue.

“Um, take it to the garage?” he tried.

His father shook his head. “Maybe if you were your mother, you would,” he said, laughing. “Or your sister. But you, me, or your brother would just add a quart of oil.”

James laughed along with their father, as if the two of them were sharing a joke that Billy didn’t understand. Billy tried to laugh as well, but it sounded too loud to him, and he was embarrassed by his attempt. He saw James glance at him, and he felt his cheeks flush.

“Now you add oil to the engine,” his father continued, seeming not to notice. “Here, you do it.”

He handed Billy a can of oil. It was heavier than Billy expected. Then his father handed him a metal spout with a single sharp metal tooth on one end.

“You snap that onto the can,” his father explained. “Try it. It’s easy.”

Billy pressed the metal tooth against the top of the can. Applying pressure to it, he was surprised when it easily pierced the top and clicked into place.

“Good job,” his father said. “Now just pour it into the hole where the oil goes.”

Billy waited for his father to show him where the hole was. He could see several possibilities. But his father didn’t offer any help, merely saying, “Go on. It’s easy.”

Billy stepped forward. In order to look for the oil hole he had to put his head beneath the raised hood. He looked once more at the flimsy rod holding it open. It was hooked into a hole in the edge of the hood. That could slip out, he thought. He turned his eyes away from it, concentrating on finding the correct hole in which to pour the oil.

He knew that his brother and father were watching him. He knew, too, that James at least expected him to mess up. James was always good at everything, while he, Billy, was always doing things the wrong way. It was as if James had gotten all of the common sense, while Billy had been given all the imagination. James had very little of that. He was practical, where Billy was always dreaming.

“You need to—” he heard James say.

“Let him do it,” their father interrupted. Then he said to Billy, “You can do it, Bill.”

Now he’s calling me Bill too, Billy thought. He wondered when he had stopped being Billy.

He chose the hole from which he thought he recalled his father removing the stick and tilted the oil can toward it.

“That’s the radiator!” he heard James shout.

A hand reached for the can, knocking Billy’s arm. The can flew from his grip. The spout fell off, and oil spewed from the gash in the top. It sprayed Billy’s T-shirt with heavy, wet drops. A thick smell filled his nose.

“Shit!” His father’s voice was loud, harsh with anger.

Billy whirled around and looked into his face. His father looked disgusted as he reached for the can of oil, now on its side and pouring its viscous contents all over the car’s insides. Billy reached for the rag in his father’s hand.

“I’ll clean it up,” he said.

His father snatched his hand away. “Just go inside and clean yourself up,” he said.

Billy backed away. James moved in to take his place. Their father handed James the rag, and James began mopping up the results of the spill. Neither paid any more attention to Billy.

Turning, he ran not back toward the house but away from it. The oil-slick shirt stuck to his skin, and the smell made him want to throw up. He wiped his arm across his face, leaving streaks of oil behind that only increased the stench in his nose.

He ran down the block, past the houses of neighbors, some of whom looked up from their porches and yards as he dashed by. He ignored them, looking straight ahead. At the corner he turned and continued on. He had no destination in mind. He just ran.

After another three blocks he stopped, gasping for breath. His lungs burned and his heart pounded. Feeling that he might throw up, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it to the sidewalk. Staring at it, he realized that it was his favorite—the blue one with the Tron iron-on. Now it was stained with oil, filthy and ruined.

He started to wipe his hands on his jeans, then thought better of it. Picking up the shirt, he attempted to use the still-clean part of it to remove some of the oil from his skin. He succeeded only in smearing it around.

He sat down on the sidewalk, feeling the warmth of it soaking up through his jeans. Goddamn James, he thought. Why had his brother had to do that? Why couldn’t he have just minded his own business? Their father wouldn’t have let him pour the oil into the wrong hole. James had just wanted to be right all along. He always wanted to be right. No, he had to be right.

His anger at James wasn’t the worst of it, having disappointed his father was. He still saw the look on his father’s face. He was the cause of it, his inability to do something as simple as put oil in a car engine. James was right; at his age he should know how to do that. He bet every other guy at school did.

But he didn’t. Just as he didn’t know how to hit a baseball or put a worm on a fishhook or shoot a rifle worth a damn. These were all things his father had tried to teach him, and at which he had failed. He didn’t understand how these things came so easily to other people—to his father and to James in particular. What was missing from him that he couldn’t do them? What defect prevented him from being like everyone else?

His father had never said as much, but Billy feared that he was a disappointment to him. But he has James, he thought. Isn’t that enough? Why can’t they just leave me alone?

He thought sometimes that he must be adopted. Somehow he had been switched at the hospital with another baby, one who belonged to a family that was even now wondering how they had ended up with a boy they didn’t understand at all. They were waiting for him to come back to them, anxious to give up the practical, boring son they’d gotten by mistake and welcome home the one they’d wanted in the first place.

Someday he would find them. Someday he would get away from this small town and the people who had gotten him by mistake and kept him prisoner. Then James will be sorry, he thought. Then they’ll all be sorry.