Creeps (8 page)

Your son who blames everyone but you,

Wayne Pumphrey

THIRTEEN

Wayne lifts his head and sees his mother standing there. He wipes the corner of his mouth and closes his notebook and looks at the clock on the kitchen wall.

His mom puts her suitcase down and sits beside him. Covers his hand with one of her freezing ones. “You should be in bed.”

Wayne rubs an eye.

“Where's your father?”

“Asleep on the chesterfield.”

“Passed out, you mean.”

He stays quiet while his mother takes off her coat and drapes it on the back of her chair. “You eat supper?” she says.

“Mm-hm.”

She gets up and fills the kettle and places it on
the burner, then leans back against the counter. Crosses her arms.

“You back for good?” he says.

It takes her so long to answer that Wayne thinks she didn't hear the question, but finally she says, “Who'd cook for your father? Dead in a week, he'd be. What?”

“Nothing. Thought you were gone for good.”

She uncrosses her arms and looks like she might go over to him, but she stays where she is. “How can I leave
you
? Wanda too, but especially you because when I look at you I see me.” She pauses. “What'd he say after I left?”

“Not much. Rocked in the rocking chair, then went over to the chesterfield and fell asleep.”

His mother reaches up into the cupboard and takes down two mugs. Drops tea bags in. “Besides, I can't very well up and leave my Woolworths job, can I? People depend on me and the place is always packed and Jerry, the cook, says it's because I'm good with the customers. Sure, just the other day I had a man say I was the prettiest thing he ever met and what a shame it was that I was married and who was the lucky devil?” She pauses. “Don't tell your father.”

It's quiet for ages, then the kettle whistles.

His mom prepares the tea and brings it over.

Wayne blows and takes a sip.

“Too sweet?” his mother says.

He shakes his head. “Perfect.”

They drink and say nothing. Finally his mother goes, “Should be more like Wanda. The world could blow up and she wouldn't care.”

Mumbling from the living room then. They listen. It goes quiet again. His mom says, “Even in his sleep he's got to have the last word.”

They just sit there.

The fridge kicks in.

The grandfather clock chimes.

“You sick of us fighting?”

Wayne gazes into his mug. “I don't know.”

She slides forward, her face close to his. Green green eyes and she smells like Juicy Fruit. She goes to speak but stops herself, then tries again. “He's an alcoholic.”

Wayne holds her stare.

“You know what that is, I suppose?”

He nods.

She sits back. Rests her hands in her lap. Looks past his shoulder and, for a moment, appears lost.

Wayne lets the word settle.
Alcoholic.
He thinks about needing things—his notebooks and his Razor Point extra-fine pens and his alone time— wondering if that might make
him
an alcoholic, too.

“We'll always come second to him,” his mother says.

Wayne takes his final gulp and pushes his mug aside and figures that second isn't so bad. In a race that's a silver medal. If you're the second chosen in street hockey that means you're nearly the most sought-after player. In a play, second best might mean being relegated to a supporting role. No shame in that though. Supporting characters often steal the show. People notice seconds. And thirds. Fourths even. Wayne would be happy being fifth or sixth. No, there's nothing wrong with second. Even if what's first is a bottle of Bacardi Dark.

“At least there's always food on the table,” his mom says. “Hot water. And you've got plenty to wear. Wanda's always got the latest gadget.”

Wayne thinks of Marjorie's sneakers. Her hands without mittens.

“Certainly couldn't survive on my Woolworths salary.” She finishes off her tea and says, “Are you coming by after school tomorrow for your free fries and gravy and Pepsi in the tall glass you like?”

Wayne nods. Gets up and takes their mugs to the sink.

His mom says, “Thanks for waiting up.”

Wayne looks at her, then away.

“Your father certainly wouldn't do it. Not unless I had a case of Canadian tucked under my arm. Scraping at the door like a dog then.”

Wayne dries the mugs and puts them away. Folds
the drying towel and hangs it over the oven door handle.

“Wish you'd rub off on your father.”

Wayne yawns.

“Go to bed. You won't be fit tomorrow.”

He turns to go.

“No kiss or what?”

He goes over and kisses her cheek and when he starts to pull away she grabs him and holds on and her hair smells like the outdoors and her breath's hot on his neck and she says, “Don't ever drink.”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

She lets him go and it occurs to Wayne how tightly she's been holding him. “Go on,” she says, “you'll never wake up.”

Wayne lingers a moment longer, then goes.

Dear Mom,

I can't imagine what things would be like with just Wanda and Dad and me. We'd probably live on hot dogs and Kraft Dinner and the laundry would never get done and Wanda would drink even more Diet Coke and Dad wouldn't stop drinking
PERIOD
. Then he'd lose his job and the heat and lights would get cut
and someone would board up the windows and throw us out and we'd have to find an apartment on Fallow Crescent with the welfare crowd and the too-loud music and the fistfights and the crying babies and the cop cars, but seeing as you're back I guess there's no need to worry, although what happens if someday your leaving sticks? I'll be like Marjorie then, except it'll be you and not Dad.

Why'd you marry him anyway? He's always been a drinker, you've said, so did it not bother you before?

I always thought people got more used to things over time. But maybe that's only true with certain things … snoring or peeing on the toilet seat or chewing with your mouth full. Perhaps drinking and cursing and breaking perfectly good ornaments are another matter.

Can you catch being an alcoholic? Is it in the genes like say … cancer or heart disease? And if so, would I get hooked after only one sip and forget to bring home the butter and start banging into things? Would you have to hit ME with the frying pan, too?

It's hard when you go. Wanda acts like she couldn't care less but I know she does because she needs another girl to even things out. And Dad cares, too. You should hear some of what he says when he thinks no one is listening. Sometimes he sings that Irish song, you know the one, and it makes me wonder why that poor lassie pines away for her lover that never comes back and then she's old, so it's too late anyway.

Sometimes he forgets the words and starts over. Other times he'll fall asleep in the middle of a verse and drop his tumbler.

Is it hard to see love through all the fighting?

Your son who wonders if it's hard to see love through
all the fighting,
Wayne Pumphrey

FEBRUARY

As If It Couldn't Get Any Worse

ONE

Wayne's running, but he's not going nearly fast enough. It's the big boots, he guesses, and the soft snow, the knapsack filled with books. Harvey's laugh is in his ears. Kenny's snowballs are striking his legs and back. Pete The Meat's chanting: “You're dead Wayne Pumphrey, you're dead Wayne Pumphrey, you're dead Wayne Pumphrey …”

Where's Bobby? No sign of Bobby.

Wayne fakes left, but goes right.

“Sneaky fucker!” Harvey says.

“We got 'em!” Kenny says.

Pete The Meat goes, “You're dead Wayne Pumphrey, you're dead Wayne Pumphrey …”

Suddenly Bobby juts out between two houses and tackles him. Wayne lands hard on his back, biology and math digging into his lungs. No air. Bobby's on top of him, grinning, saliva pooling and
then dangling from his lips. Wayne turns his face just as the spit lands on his right cheek. Twists his head to the other side and wipes the mess off in the snow.

Bobby bears all his weight down. Presses his face so close to Wayne's they're touching noses. “You owe me a tooth, faggot.” Bobby grabs Wayne's chin and says, “Open up.”

Wayne squeezes his mouth shut.

Pete The Meat appears then, staring down at him. “Thought you could fool us by taking a different route, eh, Pumphrey?”

“He thinks we're idiots,” Bobby says.

Kenny's there now too, hardening a snowball. Harvey comes and stands beside Kenny and says to Pete, “He does, thinks he's smarter than us.”

“Does he now?” The Meat says. Then to Bobby, “Get off him.”

“Just a minute longer, Pete,” Bobby says.

“Get off, I said!”

Bobby does, then takes his place alongside the others. “Fucker owes me a tooth.”

“Fuckin' rights,” Kenny says.

Wayne sits up.

Pete The Meat leers down at him. Arms folded. No mitts. Knuckles the size of scallops. “Take all the back trails you want, Pumphrey. There's no place I can't find you.”

Wayne goes to stand, but Pete knocks him back
down with the toe of his boot. Laughs. “You're weaker than a girl, Pumphrey. I almost feel bad.”

“Kick him in the face, Pete,” Bobby says.

Pete shakes his head. “Naw, no kicking. He's going to get what was meant for him the other day.” The Meat turns to Kenny. “You ready?”

Kenny holds up his snowball. “Fuckin' rights.”

“Hold 'em steady,” Pete says to Harvey and Bobby. Both boys go over and stand Wayne up and grab his arms.

Kenny finds a spot no more than six feet away. Digs in his heels. Rounds the snowball despite its being round already. Gives a look to Pete.

The Meat unfolds his arms. “Hold still, Pumphrey, this won't take a minute.”

Wayne looks off in the distance. Not a soul.

Pete says, “Girlfriend's not coming this time, Pumphrey. Got tied up at the butcher.”

Kenny laughs, but no one else seems to get the joke. Then Wayne says, “It's her body now, isn't it? What's it to any of you what she does with it!”

No one moves.

A kind of quiet then that reminds Wayne of early morning when it's still dark and everyone is sleeping and his dad is pacing the driveway waiting for the company bus to take him to the mine and how can his father live in a full house yet look like the loneliest man on earth?

A finger is jabbing into his chest. Pete's finger, although it feels more like the tip of a screwdriver. And The Meat's smiling and nodding his head and saying, “I get it now, Pumphrey.” He looks back at the others. “Get it, boys?”

Kenny keeps hardening his snowball and Harvey shrugs and Bobby says, “Get what, Pete?”

The Meat shakes his head. “Pumphrey finally got his dicky bird wet, idiot.”

Kenny laughs and Harvey groans and Bobby sticks his own finger down his throat to hide his envy.

The Meat breathes StarKist on Wayne and says, “What's she like, Pumphrey?”

Wayne says nothing.

“Stuck it in the wrong hole, I bet,” says Kenny. “

Either that or he blew his wad before he could get it in,” goes The Meat.

Bobby says, “Probably did it in his shorts, eh, Pete?”

The Meat nods. “That what happened, Pumphrey? You jizz in your sister's panties—”

“Fuck off!”

Who said that? Harvey? Kenny? Probably Kenny. Although it could have been The Meat. The first word Pete learned probably, Wayne thinks, before
jail
and
punch
. Why is everyone staring? Does Bobby's mouth usually hang open wide enough to see the cavities in his back molars? And The Meat's
face … it's never
that
red, is it? Kenny has just dropped his snowball and is not bothering to pick it back up. What's Harvey saying: something about being dead because no one tells The Meat to fuck off and lives. Now Bobby's repeating what Harvey has just said and it suddenly occurs to Wayne that it was he himself who said it and he wonders how a person can say something without thinking about it. Then The Meat comes forward and he's got his arms raised like he's ready to fight and Wayne shuts his eyes because it's better not to look sometimes and that's when he feels the warmth in his shorts, which runs down his leg and into one sock, one boot. He opens his eyes and sees that Pete has already noticed, followed by Kenny, Harvey, and Bobby at pretty much the same time.

The loudest laughter that Wayne thinks he's ever heard then. The gut-holding and stomping feet kind, and then they're letting Wayne go because they can't breathe. Bobby actually falls to his knees; Harvey bends over and holds his thighs; The Meat, uncharacteristically, jumps on the spot.

And Wayne runs. His boots might have slowed him earlier, but not now, no. He's like the wind now, Flash Gordon, a cheetah, his feet aren't even touching the ground. No sound, not even their laughter. Pants hardening from the piss. Is it possible to run forever? he wonders. He'll try.