Dead Boys (3 page)

“The good part is you don’t seem a thing like Mom and Dad.”

“We got lucky, I guess.”

Tracy’s shoulders jerk. She turns her head and spits vomit into a potted plant. I’m not sure what to do. It would frighten her if I took her into my arms. We’re not that kind of people. I’m sorry, but we’re not. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and hits her cigarette again, then walks past me to stand against the fence, looking into the neighbor’s yard so that I can’t see her face. A gritty layer of ash covers everything now, and more is sifting down. The smell of smoke is stronger than ever.

“I still have some of the insurance money from the accident,” I say. “What if you take it? You should get that shop going as soon as possible.”

“Everything’s up in the air,” Tracy replies. “Maybe I’ll go back to school.”

“Use it for that, then.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”

“Hey . . .”

“It’s funny, that’s all.”

She kneels to drink from a hose attached to a faucet at the edge of the patio. After the rape, she drove herself to the hospital. Nobody else in the family had that kind of fortitude. Our dad was a notorious hypochondriac.

Carrie slides the door open with great effort and says, “Mommy, what are you doing?”

“Watering the flowers,” Tracy replies.

W
E PLAY UNO
and Candyland with the girls, and then it’s bedtime. Sundays are their father’s, and he’s picking them up early in the morning. Liz manages to get them upstairs without too much whining on the promise of a story. Tracy gathers the toys scattered about and tosses them into a wooden chest in the corner of the room while I go to the refrigerator for another beer.

“They love their Auntie Liz,” Tracy says.

I hope she means that in a nice way. I think she does.

There’s a knock at the door. Tracy looks worried, so I stand behind her as she answers. The police officer on the porch gives us an official smile.

“Mr. and Mrs. Milano?”

“Ms. Milano. He’s my brother.”

The cop scribbles on his clipboard. “Okay, well, we’re out warning residents that they may be asked to evacuate if this fire swings around,” he says.

“Oh God,” Tracy sighs.

“Right now things are looking good, but you should be prepared just in case.”

“God fucking dammit.”

When the cop leaves, Tracy turns on the TV, but there are no special reports or live coverage. Liz comes downstairs, and I fill her in. She asks Tracy what she wants to pack, and Tracy says, “Nothing. None of it means anything to me.” It’s embarrassing to hear her talk like that. Liz treats the comment as a joke, though, and soon the two of them are placing photo albums in a plastic trash bag.

I decide to venture toward the fire line to see if I can get more information. Liz insists on coming along. We drive down out of the condos to pick up a frontage road paralleling the freeway. There’s an orange glow on the horizon, and we make for that. A new squeak in the car gets on my nerves. I feel around the dash, desperate to locate it, and things get a little out of control. I almost hit a guardrail because I’m not watching where I’m going.

“Dammit, Jack, pay attention,” Liz snaps. “Are you drunk?”

The road we’re on descends into a dark, narrow canyon dotted with houses, the lights of which wink frantic messages through the trees. We hit bottom, then climb up the other side. As we crest the hill, the source of the glow is revealed to be a monstrous driving range lit by mercury vapor lamps. The golfers lined up at the tees swing mechanically. There is ash falling here, too, and the stink of smoke, but nobody’s worried.

We pull over at a spot above the range and get out of the car to watch. It feels like something teenagers might do. Balls soar through the air and bounce in the dead grass. Liz drapes my arm across her shoulders. She really is great with those kids.

“Are you sure you don’t want a baby?” I ask.

I watch her face. Nothing is going to get past me. When she wants to be blank, though, she’s so blank. “I’ve got you,” she says.

“No, really.”

“Let’s keep it simple. That’s what I like about us.”

We made a decision a few years ago. Her childhood wasn’t the greatest either. A gust of wind rattles the leaves of the eucalyptus trees behind us, and the shadows of the branches look like people fighting in the street. When I close my eyes for a second, my blood does something scary on its way through my heart.

T
OMMY BORCHARDT HANGED
himself in his garage after they gave half his accounts to a new hire. No note, no nothing. Three kids. That’s what I wake up thinking about after tossing and turning all night, waiting for another knock at the door.

We’re in the girls’ room, in their little beds. They’re sleeping with Tracy. On a shelf near the ceiling, beyond the kids’ reach, sits a collection of porcelain dolls. The sun shining through the window lights up their eyes and peeks up their frilly dresses. Their hair looks so real, I finally have to stand and touch it. Liz coughs and rolls over. Her clothes are folded neatly on the floor. She was in a rock band in high school. I wish I could have seen that.

Downstairs, I find some news on TV and learn that the fire has changed course and is headed away from any structures. They believe it was started by lightning. Tracy’s coffeemaker is different from ours, but I figure it out. It’s fun to poke around in her cupboard and see what kind of canned goods she buys.

The kids sneak up on me. I turn, and there they are. I ask if they want me to fix them breakfast, but Kendra says that’s her job. She stands on a stool to reach the counter and pours two bowls of cereal. I still remember learning to cook bacon. As far as I was concerned, I was ready to live on my own after that. Kendra slices a banana with a butter knife. She won’t even let me get the milk out of the refrigerator for her. Tracy shouts at them to hurry and eat, their dad will be waiting.

“Is it fun at your dad’s?” I ask as they sit at the table, shoveling Cheerios.

“It’s okay,” Kendra says, like that’s what she’s been told to say.

“We have bikes over there,” Cassie adds.

H
UNDREDS OF PIGEONS
have occupied the shopping center parking lot where Tracy meets Tony to hand off the kids. They perch on the streetlamps and telephone poles and march about pecking at garbage. Everything is streaked with their shit. When a car approaches, the birds wait until the last possible second to scoot out of its way. Tracy and Tony meet here because it’s equidistant from both their places. He won’t drive any farther than he’s required to by the court.

I had to beg Tracy to let me come with her. She’s worried that I’ll start something. I like that, that she’s worried, but I assure her that I’ll hold my tongue. My hope is that when Tony sees me, he’ll figure that she’s pulled together some support and back off his custody demands. He’s a hardhead, though. We almost came to blows once over who was going to pick up a check at dinner.

The girls wait like little diplomats, wise in their silence. Carrie, strapped into her car seat, reaches out to touch the window of the minivan. Five minutes pass with just the radio playing. I watch the pigeons, the people pushing their carts out of the supermarket and filling their trunks with groceries. A cloud wanders across the sky, and I track the progress of its shadow.

After ten minutes I ask, “Is this normal?”

“He’s very busy,” Tracy replies, sarcastic.

There’s a candy store next to the market. It’s just opening up.

“Take the kids in there,” I say. “You guys want candy? Take them in there and buy them something. Here’s some money. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

The girls are imbued with new energy. They screech and bicker and fight for the handle that slides open the side of the van.

“Look what you started,” Tracy says.

I shrug as she flips down the sun visor and checks herself in the mirror there. The girls, already outside, practice tightrope walking on the yellow lines painted on the asphalt.

“Calm down,” Tracy yells. “You want to get hit by a car just for some candy?”

Tony pulls up next to the van shortly after they enter the store. He’s driving a new Volvo. He squints when he sees me, then gives a lazy wave. I’m all smiles as I hop out and walk around to his open window. He grew up on the East Coast somewhere and moved to California after college. Tracy cut his hair, that’s how they met. He works in computers. I rest my palms on the roof of his car and bend over to talk to him.

“Yo, Adrian,” I say. I used to kid him that he sounded like Rocky.

“Jack.”

“They should just be a minute. The girls were getting cranky, waiting so long.”

Tony lights a cigarette. The ashtray is overflowing with butts.
Don’t you sometimes see a chick and just want to tie her up and slap her around?
He asked me that once while he was still married to Tracy. We were camping in Yosemite, all of us. The women and kids had gone to bed. I remember looking up at the stars and down at the fire and thinking,
Whoops!
He pushes his sunglasses up on his nose and flicks ash out the window, between me and the car door.

“How’s Liz?” he asks. “Good, I hope.”

“You know us. Slow and steady.”

“Are you still selling, what, restaurant stuff?”

“Why do you have to be that way, showing up late and everything?”

“Did she tell you to say that?”

I check to make sure Tracy and the kids are still in the store before continuing.

“She was raped, man, and you’re coming at her with lawyers? Have a little compassion. Act like a human being.”

“I said, did she tell you to talk to me?”

“I’m her brother. I took it upon myself.”

I meant to approach this a bit more obliquely. Three years ago, two, I’d have had him eating from my hand, but these days I feel like all the juice has been drained out of me. We stare at each other for a second, then look away at the same time.

“She was wasted,” he says. “Ask her. She was coming out of a bar. She barely remembers. Read the police report. There are doubts.”

My vision flickers and blurs. I feel like I’ve been poisoned. Kendra runs out of the store toward us, followed by Cassie. I push myself away from the car and search the ground for something — a stick, a rock. The pigeons make horrible fluttering noises in their throats.

“Hi, Daddy,” the girls sing. They climb into Tony’s car. Tracy watches from the store, half in and half out. I wish I was a gun. I wish I was a bullet. The girls wave bye-bye as Tony drives off.

“Can you believe that a-hole has a Volvo, and I’m driving this piece of shit?” Tracy says.

“He shouldn’t smoke in front of the kids,” I reply.

We pass an accident on the way back to her place, just a fender bender, but still my thoughts go to our parents. When they died I was almost to the point where I could see them as people. With a little more time I might even have started loving them again. What did they stand for? What secrets did they take with them? It was the first great loss of my life.

T
RACY WANTS TO
treat us to lunch in Tijuana. We’ll ride the trolley down and walk over the border to a steak house that was written up in the newspaper. That’s fine with me. Let’s keep moving. What Tony said about her is trying to take root, and I won’t have it. She’s my sister, see, and what she says goes. I don’t want to be one of those people who need to get to the bottom of things.

We drive to the station. The crowd that boards the trolley with us is made up primarily of tourists, but there are also a few Mexicans headed for Sunday visits. They carry shopping bags, and their children sit quietly beside them. Tracy and Liz find two seats together. I’m at the far end of the car, in the middle of a French family.

We skirt the harbor, rocking past gray destroyers big as buildings. Then the tracks turn inland, and it’s the back side of trailer parks and self-storage places. The faded pennants corralling a used car lot flap maniacally, and there’s always a McDonald’s lurking on the horizon. Liz and Tracy are talking to each other — something light, if their smiles are any indication. I wave, trying to get their attention, but it’s no use.

The young son in the French family decides to sing. He’s wearing a Disneyland T-shirt. The song is in French, but there are little fart sounds in it that make his sister laugh. His mom says something snippy to him, but he ignores her. Dad steps in, giving the kid a shot with his elbow that jolts him into silence. There’s a faded tattoo on Dad’s forearm. Whatever it is has teeth, that’s about all I can make out.

T
O CROSS INTO
Mexico, we walk over the freeway on a bridge and pass through a turnstile. I did this once before, in high school, me and a couple of buddies. If you were tall enough to see over the bar, you could get a drink. That was the joke. I remember a stripper in a gorilla suit. Tacos were a quarter. The only problem was that the cops were always shaking someone down. The system is rotten here. You have to watch where you’re going.

Tracy’s got things wired, though. Apparently she’s down here all the time. It’s fun, she says. She leads us to a taxi, and we head into town, passing ramshackle body shops and upholstery shops and something dead squished flat. Dirt roads scurry off into the hills, where entire neighborhoods are built out of old garage doors and corrugated tin. The smell of burning rubber sneaks in now and then and tickles the back of my throat.

Calle Revolución is still the main drag, a disco on every corner. It looks tired during the day, like Bourbon Street or downtown Vegas. Hungover, sad, and a little embarrassed. It’s a town that needs neon. We step out of the cab, and Tracy laughs with the driver as she pays him off. I didn’t know she spoke Spanish.

I want a drink. The place we go into is painted bright green. Coco Loco. They sell bumper stickers and T-shirts. We get a table on the second-floor terrace, overlooking the street. Music is blasting inside, and lights flash, but the dance floor is empty except for a hippie chick deep into her own thing. The waiter is all over us as soon as we sit down.