Honey, Baby, Sweetheart (19 page)

The guy I didn’t know shoved off his hanger-on. She fell into the water with a great splash and came up shrieking. I noticed that these kinds of girls shrieked a lot. The guy heaved himself up off the side of the pool as if he’d just dropped a box he’d had to carry and was now done with the job. He de-clung his bathing suit from his legs, shook his hair, and buried his face in a towel.

“Brandon!” Travis called.

Brandon walked over and we were introduced.

“Ni-iice,” he said to Travis. I might as well have been
a new jacket Travis was wearing. “Hot in a girl-next-door way.” He grinned. I was no doubt supposed to find the grin irresistible. Calling him an idiot would be an insult to idiots. Jeez, these people you were supposed to want to be like could really be disappointing.

“How ‘bout a drink?” Travis asked. “Mai tai? Piña colada?”

“Mai tai,” I said. I hadn’t a clue what it was. It sounded like something orange juicy and fruity. Maybe it would come with a paper umbrella that would break if you pushed it too far up, like the one I got once in a smoothie.

We walked to the bar. They actually had a real bar outside there, with a bartender in a tuxedo and a bored expression. I felt sorry for him on the other side of that table. He was just a tuxedo with an outstretched hand, when he was actually someone who probably had a favorite color and memories of his first-grade teacher and foods he hated. The mai tai turned out to be red. No umbrella. I took a drink, and the heat of the alcohol stormed down my throat like it had plans to take over my body, which it probably did. I don’t know if that’s how strong those things usually are, or if the bartender had evil intentions to knock everyone out so that he could go home early.

“Tra-vis,” Courtney called from the edge of the pool. She waved her empty glass in the air. She and the other girl stood in the pool with their arms crossed on the pool’s edge. Up close, I could see that Courtney wore a little
gold cross around her neck that hung between the water balloons. Seth was underwater, obviously trying to see how long he could hold his breath.

“We’re empty,” the other girl said. You could say that again.

“Get it yourself,” Travis said. “I don’t do the princess shit.”

Courtney pouted. Seth popped up. Spit water out of his cheeks. “Seventy-four!” he announced. He took another gulp of air, ducked back down again.

“Brandon!” the other girl shouted. She held up her empty glass. Brandon came and picked up the glasses. She flattened out her lips in a
see?
smile directed at Travis. “Who is she?” she said, looking at me.

“Ruby,” Travis said. “Friend of mine. Tiffany.”

“Hi,” I said. I kind of wanted to step on her fingers.

Brandon returned with two drinks, squatted down in front of the girls. Seth popped up again. “Seventy-four again. Shit.”

I thought I caught Courtney looking into the dark hole of the leg of Brandon’s bathing suit. I was right. A second later, she stuck one finger up there, wiggled it around. Seth floated underwater, oblivious to the adventures of his girlfriend’s fingers. His arms circled his knees; they rolled up and his toes pointed from the water.

“What is this crap they’re playing?” Tiffany said.

“Beatles,” Travis said. “She probably hasn’t heard of them,” he said to me.

“I’ve heard of them. What do you think I am, stupid?”

Up popped Seth. “Seventy-five!” He beamed. Thank God. Seth was proving himself to be a really determined breath-holder. Like my mother says, it’s important to have goals.

“When can we ditch this party?” Courtney said. She’d taken her finger from Brandon’s shorts and was now working on her drink like she’d just ran a mile on a scorching day. A few of the adults in Hawaiian outfits were starting to dance. It struck me how the things that we consider normal are often extremely weird.

“You didn’t have to come,” Travis said.

“My parents brought me,” Courtney said.

“Look at my dad,” Travis said. “Trying to dance. Looks like a fucking moron.” I looked around the patio where everyone was dancing. “Straw hat,” Travis directed. The fucking moron who bought Travis the big house and the swimming pool and the motorcycle had his hands in a pair of fists up near his chest, and was bobbing his upper body from side to side without moving his feet. He beamed under his straw hat. He was dancing with a tiny blonde in a sarong who had her arms swaying over her head. Her hips swiveled and her eyes were closed as if she were in some kind of sexual trance. Mr. Becker, on the other hand, reminded me of those shows you see on TV for old people, where they can exercise from their chair.

Seth swam up behind Courtney, put his chin on her shoulder. “You’re getting me all
wet”
she said.

“You’re in a
pool,”
Tiffany said.

“My
shoulder
was
dry,”
Courtney said.

“Bitchy,” Brandon said.

It was difficult to break into this invigorating conversation, so instead I just stood there, feeling stupid for a thousand reasons. This was one of those events that sounded a lot better beforehand and afterward than it ever was during. I wished I could have some of that Play-Doh food, though.

“We can go to my house,” Courtney said. “My parents are
here.”

“Do what you want,” Travis said. “We got plans anyway.”

“I like this old shit,” Brandon said. He danced around a little. “Come on, Tiff.” He snapped his fingers.

“Forget it. I’m with Courtney for going to her house.”

“We can sneak a bottle of rum from the bar,” Courtney said. She heaved herself up from the side of the pool, showing us way more of her butt in that string thing than I ever cared to see. You know, maybe people don’t
want
to see your butt. She toweled off; her towel, which had been draped on a chaise lounge, said
I’M A BOY SCOUT.

Travis turned to me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “They bore the hell out of me.” He grabbed my arm suddenly, wove us through the crowd, and hurried us around the garage, past a trio of guys in Hawaiian shirts and smoking cigars. I was still holding my mai tai, one sip removed, and the jostling made a bit spill out onto the open toe of my sandals. I was sorry only to leave the Play-Doh food and that big white cake, tall and fancy as the one at Mrs. Wilson-now-Mrs. Thrumond’s wedding to
Mr. Thrumond. I pictured Mrs. Becker looking around the crowd for her family, spotting her husband in his hat and her eldest at the keyboards, but no Travis. I felt sorry for her then, blowing out her candles, the yellow light in her face, but her son not caring enough to stay around. I felt sorry for her, even if she had those little Kleenex packets.

“Where are we going?” I asked. This time I wanted to know. The person I was trying to be and the person I really was were having a little fight, and the person I really was had won. She’d been around longer.

“Hang on a sec. Stay right here.”

Travis trotted back the way we came. I stood alone, holding that stupid mai tai. I sniffed it, and the strong smell shot through my nostrils, a train through a tunnel. I tried to wipe the red splotch of drink off my toe onto the wet grass, and then was suddenly aware that the eyes of one of the cigar smokers were on me. Travis jogged back. He had a napkin full of wonderful Play-Doh food. I had a ridiculous surge of joy at the sight. He held it out to me. I took a round one that looked like a hat the queen of England would wear. Cream cheese with a mystery crunch.

“Let’s take the bike.”

I followed him to the garage. We went through a side door, happily away from the eyes of the cigar smoker. The Becker garage was quiet; inside, all the sounds of the party had disappeared. The garage was so clean it was eerie. There were no splotches of paint or motor oil on the
cement floor, no gatherings of dust or pine needles. It was large enough for three cars in there, but right then there was only a Mercedes convertible with the top down and Travis’s motorcycle. I thought of our garage. Here there were no garden tools or hammers or rakes with the clumps of grass still attached; no stacks of newspapers, cans of insect killer, and car wash soap, or badminton rackets and old baby crib frames. Sydney’s garage was much the same as ours, packed with grass seed and bags of fertilizer and bikes hanging from the ceiling. Here there was no real evidence of human life. Even Mr. Baxter across the street, whose tools were all hung up on a Peg-Board under labels with their names, still had grocery bags full of cans to recycle and a pouchy bag of golf clubs covered with socks with pom-poms on them. Frankly, that was something else I never understood—why people dressed up their golf clubs in goofy snow hats for what is supposed to be a dignified, nice-weather game.

“Doesn’t your dad play golf?” I asked.

“Of course he plays golf,” Travis said.

He handed me the napkin of food, which was the best thing that happened all night. I ate another queen’s hat and an anthill on a cracker with a suspicious fishy taste. Travis bent down and examined his motorcycle. If he were looking for dust or smudges, he’d be looking for a long time.

He straightened, opened the garage door by punching a keypad on the wall. We ate the rest of the stuff on the napkin, and Travis stuffed the napkin in his pocket. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Come on, Travis. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you love.”

And I was an idiot. I pictured us walking along the lake, hand in hand, with the houses along the shore glowing with warm light and cozy secrets. I pictured us sitting side-by-side at Mount Solitude, staring at its dark shoulder, imagining what it would feel like to leap off.

“What do I do with this?” I held up my glass. He took it from me, and in that moment I realized I might have made a terrible mistake. I had just given him the chance to down it in one gulp like Courtney had, and then get on his motorcycle with me on the back. I pictured a horrible accident; us splayed out on wet pavement. But he didn’t do that. Instead he placed it in the middle of that pristine garage.

It looked mean there, that glass. Cruel and deliberate, the red the same color left on a cheek after a slap. It occurred to me then that a lot of life was either about wanting and not having, or having and not wanting.

The arc Travis’ motorcycle made out of the Becker drive was delicious. I held tight to his waist. I settled into the feeling, the wind on my bare legs, my head wobbly and heavy from my helmet. It was the coldest ride yet, though, with the clouds full of rain and the sky dark. I was glad for my sweater. We passed Moon Point. The paragliders had a bonfire going, as they did some summer nights, and they were gathered around its warm orange light. By the look of the sky, though, they wouldn’t be there long.

I didn’t know how long we’d be riding, but I didn’t expect to stop after such a short while. No, I didn’t expect to stop right then at Johnson’s Nursery.

He stopped in a parking space, both feet on the ground. “Hop off,” he said.

“Why are we here?” The feathery wings of fear. Just a pulse beat of panic.

“Hop off. Shit, I’m just checking something.”

A wave of relief shot through my stomach. He turned the motor off. I got off, hugged my arms around myself. I hoped no one saw me there. It was quiet, and dark except for the round helmets of the landscape lights around the front of the store. I waited for Travis to check whatever he was going to check. He didn’t get off, though. Instead, he started walking the bike off the parking strip, toward the section of in-ground trees.

“I thought you were checking something,” I said. My relief disappeared as quickly as it came. A thread of fear snaked up my insides and settled in a coil around my heart.

“I am. I’m checking that no one will see my bike.”

“Travis,” I said. “No. I don’t want to be here.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, Travis, I don’t. I don’t want to be here.”

I heard the
threep
of crickets. A semi-truck rumbled down Cummings Road and made the air shudder.

He grabbed my wrist. He pulled me toward the path that led to the waterfalls. It was dark there. I thought of the ceramic toads and elves hidden among the plants,
watching from the blackness. Libby had set them there, placed them in the ground with her own hands. Travis gripped my shoulders. The moon edged from a bank of clouds and then was hidden again. The light shone on Travis’s face and then was gone. “Tell me where they keep the key to the cash register.”

“Oh, God, Travis, no.”

“Tell me.”

“She keeps it with her.” I shivered. In fact, I was starting to shake. I saw Libby with that cactus garden on her desk. I saw her fleshy arms and her warm eyes. I saw her looped writing on bills and invoices, the way she sighed and said,
Thank you, another day is done
whenever she locked the door behind her. The plants, her business, her labor of love.

“She doesn’t. I’ve watched her. She always gets it from the storeroom.”

“No.” Tears were building hot behind my eyes. My throat was thickening. “If you want money, she doesn’t have it anyway. She takes it to the bank.”