A Plague Year (17 page)

Arthur’s eyes lit up. “And they let me in on that deal! On the day before Thanksgiving, we load up with Frasier firs and Douglas firs for seventeen dollars each,” he explained. “Then we drive to a lot in Orlando and sell them for eighty to a hundred dollars each.”

“Florida—that’s cool. That’s a cool profit, too.”

“It can be, yeah. Unless there are problems. Last year, a Boy Scout troop staked out a lot next to us and really hurt our business. These Boy Scouts had an air horn that they blew whenever somebody bought a tree. That must be some kind of Florida thing. I never heard of blasting a damn boat horn over a Christmas tree. That horn was getting on my last nerve.

“One night, right before closing, Jimmy fell asleep in a chair tipped back against the truck. Two Boy Scouts crept over and blasted that air horn in his ear, making him crash to the ground, hurting his neck and ear something serious. Then they ran away, laughing.

“Jimmy and Warren and me all walked over and complained to the Scout master, some fat dude. A buncha Scout mothers started yelling that it wasn’t true, like their precious little darlings would never do that, so the Scout master started saying it wasn’t true, too. Then a bigmouth woman asked us, ‘Why don’t you go sell your trees someplace else? Let the Scouts make their money. They need it for camping and equipment and stuff.’

“Warren said, ‘We rent this lot every year from Mr. Peterson. We pay good money for it, so we have a right to be here.’ Then Warren called this Peterson dude and told him what was going on and told him to get out there and talk to the damn Scout mothers.

“Well, when Peterson arrived, he got all scared of the Scout mothers because they all had big mouths and they were all yelling
and calling us liars and out-of-staters and crap. He backed down right away. He told us, in front of them, ‘Y’all will just have to make the best of the situation. Let these boys sell their trees. It looks like they’re about to run out. Then you can sell yours.’ ”

Arthur shook his head. “Well then, don’t another shipment of Boy Scout trees arrive the next day?

“Warren called Peterson back. Peterson told him he was sorry again. He said it would never happen again, because a Jiffy Lube was going up on the Boy Scout lot. So we decided to let it slide, but it did hurt our business. Near the end, we were selling those trees for forty bucks each.”

“That’s tough.”

Arthur assured me, “God will visit his wrath upon the infidel, upon those damn Boy Scouts, wherever they are.”

I looked at him curiously. “Arthur, do you really believe all those things you say about God and heaven and hell and all?”

He seemed confused. “Of course I do. I live in Caldera, cuz. I know there’s a hell. I grew up with it under my bed.”

It was dark when we arrived back at the school. Mrs. Weaver was parked there, waiting. So was a guy who turned out to be Ben’s father. (At least Ben got in the car and left with him.)

Arthur was giving me a ride home, which was a major concession from Mom. I was heading for his car when I heard a voice behind me.

Wendy’s voice.

She hadn’t even looked at me the whole trip, but now she was standing next to the idling Suburban, demanding to know, “Hey! What’s going on with you?”

I mumbled, “Not much.”

“Are you not talking to me or something? I thought we were good.”

I answered as evenly as I could, “I thought
you
weren’t talking to me.”

She shook her head no. Then she shrugged in a
Whatever
gesture. She pointed over my shoulder toward the Geo Metro and said, “How about poor Mr. Giles, huh?”

I turned and looked. Wendy said, “Catherine has been working with him, trying to desensitize him, but I guess he wasn’t ready. It was too much too soon.”

I watched Jimmy talking to Arthur at the car. I finally answered, “Yeah. That was rough.”

Wendy sounded empathetic. “It’s so sad. He takes two field trips, and he has two breakdowns. If I were him, I wouldn’t take a third.”

I actually considered correcting her grammar, “If I were
he
,” but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Well, they say you have to take it one step at a time.”

She frowned at my cliché of an answer, but I didn’t care. Then Catherine Lyle beeped the horn, causing Wendy to turn and glare at her. She wasn’t even looking at me when she said, “Okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer. I watched her climb into the passenger seat and ride away.

By the time I got over to the Geo Metro, Arthur and Jimmy were sitting inside with the engine running. Arthur opened his door. He leaned forward and unlatched the seat so I could squeeze into the back. He pulled me into their conversation right away. “So, cuz, I just talked to Jimmy, and we got a proposition for you.”

“Really?”

“The Christmas-tree run this year is gonna start on November twenty-first.”

“The day before Thanksgiving?”

“Correct. We will drive down to sunny Florida in the big truck. Jimmy and Warren will stay for twelve days”—he turned toward me—“but
I
won’t. We are going to tow the Geo Metro, so that I can leave after
five
days. I’ll be back on November twenty-fifth, the following Sunday, in time for school on Monday.” Arthur paused for dramatic effect. “And Jimmy here says you can join us if you want.”

I was astounded. “Me?”

“Yep. Jimmy says they will even pay you for your labor.”

Jimmy confirmed this. “Three hundred dollars for five days’ labor.”

“Wow! Really?”

Arthur said, “Yeah. And it ain’t hard labor, cuz. People point at a tree; you pick it up and tie it to their roof.” He smiled and asked, “What do you say?”

I was thrilled. Three hundred dollars! Florida! But I must admit, I was a little scared, too. I didn’t really know Jimmy and Warren, except as people my parents kept me away from. I asked, “Are you sure we would be back in time for school?”

“Yep. Most trees get sold the first few days after Thanksgiving. That’s when they need our help. Jimmy and Warren will keep selling trees for another week after that. What they haven’t sold at eighty bucks by then, they’ll sell at forty and skedaddle.”

Jimmy repeated, “Skedaddle.”

Then I heard myself say, “Okay. Yeah. Count me in. Absolutely.”

It all sounded really really great to me.

Of course, it would not sound great at all to Mom and Dad.

Mom tries to do a traditional Thanksgiving at our house. But here is how it usually goes: Dad, Lilly, and I work late at the Food Giant
on Wednesday night. Dad goes in for a few hours on Thursday morning, too, to catch up on Centralized Reporting System stuff.

I get up early and play video games on the TV in the parlor (like Banjo Kazooie on my old Nintendo, or Super Mario Brothers on my N64). Mom has her portable TV in the kitchen, blaring the Macy’s parade as she cooks. I’m not sure what Lilly does, but it probably involves hair and makeup.

Dad times things so he arrives at home just as Santa arrives at Macy’s. We gather in the kitchen. We fill our plates with food and carry them into the dining room. We hold hands (which is always a bit awkward), and Dad prays.

Then we have dinner—just the four of us—because our only other relatives are Aunt Robin and her crew from Caldera, and Mom doesn’t want them in the house.

It’s a tradition, I guess, but it’s a tradition that nobody seems to like, so why do we keep doing it?

I sure don’t want to do it this year. I have a better idea.

I want to go to Florida.

I was hoping to plant the idea of the Florida trip at dinner—to plant it with Mom, at least, since Dad couldn’t get away from the store. But before I even had a chance to speak, dinner took an awkward turn.

Mom suddenly asked Lilly, “So, are you and this Uno boy a serious couple?”

Lilly did not explode, as she normally would have. Instead, she answered calmly, even maturely, “He’s going by his real name now—John.”

“Good.
Uno
makes him sound like a Puerto Rican.”

Then
Lilly exploded. “Mom!”

“What?”

“What is the matter with you?”

Mom held out her hands. “What?”

“That’s a racist thing to say.”

“No it isn’t.
Ooh-no
is Spanish. That’s a fact. There’s nothing racist about a fact.”

Lilly stopped talking.

After a few minutes, Mom tried another line of conversation, as if the first one had never happened. “You know, your uncle Robby and your aunt Robin met when they were very young.”

Lilly clenched her jaw.

“Robin snagged him when he was seventeen, and she was only sixteen. Some girls think they have to snag their men fast, because the bloom is quickly off the rose. Personally, I don’t agree with that. I think a girl should take her time.”

Lilly just stared at her food glumly.

Thankfully, the phone rang in the kitchen. I was relieved to get up and answer it. I leaned against the refrigerator and said, “Hello.”

I heard a familiar perky voice. “Tom?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Wendy.” She started in chattily, like nothing was wrong. “Did you hear Ben Gibbons on the ride home today?”

“No.”

“He described eating a chair—a whole wooden chair—when he was two years old. It took him, like, six months, but he did it.”

“No. I didn’t hear him. I was listening to Arthur.”

“Catherine says Ben is a classic example of a designated patient.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a disorder. Not as weird as pica, though. It’s when a whole family—parents, siblings, everybody—has serious issues but won’t admit it. Instead, they pick one family member to be
the designated patient. They pretend that only that one family member has a problem, so the rest of them can pretend to be okay.”

All I could think of to say was a generic “That sucks.”

After a few seconds of dead air, Wendy finally got down to business. “Hey, I talked to Joel about that website. He was really embarrassed and, like, really sorry. He said he must have been wasted when he put me on there, because he didn’t even remember doing it, and he didn’t mean any of it.”

I interrupted. “Joel? That’s his name?”

“Yeah. He’s one of Dad’s top students. Really brilliant but, like, really immature.”

“And he lives across the street?”

“Yeah, in one of the frats. Anyway, Joel promised he’d take the whole website down. Like, permanently.”

I didn’t respond, so she went on. “But, you know, none of that stuff about me was true. I don’t even know what some of that stuff means. Okay? I am not like that. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So will you stop being mad at me all the time? And start talking to me again? Because now you know that none of this is true?”

I thought to myself,
I have no idea if this is true or not
. But I finally repeated that everything was okay.

After a pause, she answered, “Okay. We’re good, then?”

“Yeah. We’re good.”

“Good. Well, see you at school.”

“Yeah. Bye.” I leaned against the refrigerator for one more minute. I let myself fantasize one more time about a kiss from Wendy Lyle. A beautiful piece of candy corn rising up toward me. The feel of her tongue in my mouth. Then I thought about that
same piece of corn lying on the ground, in front of the railing. It’s just not the same after it’s been thrown up.

The Wendy thing was over.

But the Joel thing was not.

He had called me a “little townie.” Then he’d made out with Wendy right in front of me, like I didn’t exist. He would have to answer for those things. And for the website.

You don’t do that kind of stuff around here and get away with it. Maybe in California, and Florida, but not here.

I went in to work with Dad at 7:00 a.m. and stocked shelves for five hours.

Arthur picked me up in the parking lot a little after noon. The first thing he said was, “You ready to go up there and kick some ass, Tom?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“
Uh, yeah
? What kind of answer is that? You ready or not?”

“I’m ready.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Not exactly. I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

Arthur sounded doubtful. “Okay. So, we are gonna go to the campus and look for a yellow Corvette.”

“Right. Wendy told me the guy lives in a frat house across the street from her, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“We just have to find the right frat boy and let the mayhem begin. Let the wrath of God befall him.”

I gulped. “Yeah.” Then I asked him, “Do you think we’ll get in trouble?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. This is a matter of honor, right?”

“Right.”

“Then you got to do it. End of story.”

“Yeah. I know.”

We retraced the route we’d taken on Halloween—up the main road leading to Blackwater University, around the big quadrangle, then onto Wendy’s street. This time, in the light of day, I could see that many of the brick houses were frats. They had banners with big Greek letters hanging over their front doors.

We passed the Lyles’ house, with its three-sided porch, its
white railing, and the dirt below it. I wondered if they’d cleaned up that candy corn.