Little Blue Lies (12 page)

“Where is she?” I say calmishly.

“Kiss my ass.”

“I won't. Might kick it, though.”

“Eat me.”

He stands up, wobbles a bit, then makes his way toward the beach.

“If anything bad happens to her,” I call at his back, still on my knees as the waves bump and nudge at me.

He stops to address me directly.

“Know what? Trifling with you is one thing. Junie could
mess with you forever and never get burnt. But that chick's had a lesson in humility coming to her for a long time, and I hope now she gets it.”

I jump up out of the water. He turns and bolts.

I stand there watching him run and letting the horseflies stab at me mercilessly.

•  •  •

“Are you serious?” I say to Mom.

“You know I treat art with the utmost seriousness and respect,” she says.

We are standing in front of the pair of portraits she has done, of Mr. and Mrs. Blue, and I do not believe I have ever been prouder of my gentle mental mother.

“You captured them both, so uncannily, spookily well.” I know she feels likewise because she has even framed them.

“Well,” she says theatrically, “that is what I do.”

“I thought you said, though, that you needed another sitting with Leona?”

“I didn't
need
one. I just wanted one.
She
needed it. But when her rutting rhinoceros of a husband stole her date, I thought it best just to finish up. We'll get together some other way.”

“Well, damn, you got her. She's luminous.”

“Thank you, Son. That means a lot to me.”

We continue to consider the works before us, silently
studying like real art gallery patrons. Then I start laughing, rumbling, cackling.

“He is going to be so furious.”

She allows herself a small giggle, then goes all professional once more.

“Thank you, Son. That means a lot to me.”

•  •  •

I phone Maxine, possibly to inform her that the portraits are ready.

“Is she there?” I ask.

“Yeah, O, she is.”

I hear loud voices in the background. In that household this does not have tremendous meaning.

“I'll come over. To deliver the pictures.”

“Maybe not,” she says over increasing volume.

“I'll be right there.”

“No—,” she says as I hang up.

“Mom,” I say, “can I deliver the portraits for you?”

“What, are you going to lug them over under each arm? Those are good, solid oak frames.”

“How delicate do you think I am, Mother?”

“Oh, I'm not worried about you. It's my good work I'm trying to protect.”

“Guess you'd better lend me your car, then, huh?”

“Guess I'd better, then.”

•  •  •

I can hear them even before I turn off the car's engine. I park at the curb right in front of the house, then quick-step up the walk.

I knock once, and Maxie throws open the door.

“I thought I told you . . . ,” she says, only half-angry. She walks into the house, and I follow.

Junie's parents are shouting at each other across the breakfast bar in the kitchen, and I don't care. I look around not-so-subtly until Maxie points me up the stairs. I still have the pictures under my arms as I take the stairs two at a time and knock on Junie's door with my forehead.

“If you're female, come in,” she says.

I lean one of the pictures on the floor against the doorframe and open the door.

As soon as I see her, my heart fills, my eyes fill.

She is sitting like a schoolkid on the side of her bed, back straight, hands folded in her lap as she stares at the floor. I see her in profile. Then slowly she turns to face me.

Her Creamsicle pillow of a top lip is clearly swollen. There is a bruise on her forearm that looks like she's been hit with a baseball.

“Ah, Junie,” I say.

“Ah, O,” she says.

I put the pictures against the wall, close the door, and
inch my way over to the bed. I kneel down on the floor and fold my hands over her folded hands.

“I boldly came in, even though I'm not a female.”

“Yeah,” she says, puffing out a pained little smile, “but you're pretty close.”

I feign shock and hurt, because I am not man enough to manage the real thing.

“Hey, I nearly killed a guy over you, I'll have you know.”

The statement is too far outside normal reality for her to consider. “Thanks,” she says.

The hollering continues downstairs. I hear Ronny shout, “You know how she's making me look? Huh?”

“I may have to do it again,” I say, tipping my head in the direction of the racket and the racketeer.

“He's concerned about the way he
looks
,” she says, shaking her head. “Is that the biggest joke you ever heard, or what?”

“It's a pretty big joke,” I say. “I'll laugh later, though.”

I am still kneeling at her feet, holding on to her, and desperately searching my brain and my experience for a clue as to what comes next. I've got nothing, so it's down to guesswork.

“You got stuff you want to tell me?” I ask.

“I do not,” she says.

“You got stuff you do not want to tell me but should tell me anyway?”

“I do not.”

I nod and stare a little more, which I could do all night if she wouldn't eventually kick me out.

“Well, this is progressing well,” I say. “How 'bout I get the ball rolling, then. Um, did you win the lottery, Sweet Junie Blue Lies?”

“No, I did not, Lyin' O'Brien.”

“Well, then. It sure would be helpful if whoever did win it came forward and claimed, huh?”

“Yeah. S'pose it would.”

“Then they could take up the amazing offer and proceed to lead a charmed life, while the rest of us could calm down.”

That balloon just floats there, in the limited space between us.

“I
say
,” I say, “then they could take up—”

“Charmed,” she says, floaty, an incantation.

Ronny is clearly now bellowing up from the foot of the stairs. “There are rules. You don't have to love the rules, but you do have to play by them. It's about the principles.”

“Principles,”
Junie repeats, with a bolted-on grin that looks chillingly like a doctor's dummy skull. “If he gets any funnier, I might have to start applauding.”

I cannot help staring at her. I probably did that too much in the past, and that didn't help my case too much. But I
couldn't help it then and I cannot help it now, even if the staring is more specific and concerned now.

I reach up and touch her face, cupping her chin in my hand and lightly brushing the swelled lip with my thumb.

“Is that him doing this? Ronny?”

She pushes my hand away. “Well, since there is no
this
, I guess the answer is no. Or yes, since there is no
this
, so both answers are equally true.”

“Or equally lies,” I say.

She stands up, leaving me genuflecting to her absence as she paces angrily. “Don't talk about me like I'm some kind of victim, O, 'cause I'm not, okay?”

“Okay, okay, of course you're not. It's just—”

“Just nothing. Don't even try, right?”

“You could use some help, though, surely.”

“Surely not.”

“Come
on
, Junie. You need help.”

“I do not
need
anything, thank you.”

“Yes, you do.” This may be the first time I have ever attempted to speak sternly to her. “You don't want to admit it, but you need me. Jesus, your pigheadedness.”

She stops pacing and turns on me, and her body language alone is enough to discourage me from ever attempting the stern-speak again. She has both index fingers in front of her—in between us—pointing toward the ceiling as she bites off
each word with ruthless precision. “I do not need you, sweetheart. That's for damn sure. I have been fine and will be fine without you or anyone else. Hear me clearly on this, Oliver, and world: I am nobody's bitch. Nobody's.”

I feel the weight of her words, of her feelings, practically increasing the force of gravity itself. It's probably a good thing that I am already on my knees, in supplicant pose.

“Sorry, June,” I say. “I know all that already.”

“You should,” she snaps.

“I do,” I say.

“Well, you should,” she says, reviving a familiar old debating style that got us nowhere on several occasions. But for the circumstances, I could really enjoy that right now.

For whatever reason Ronny is raging with increased vigor downstairs.

“Where does this wind up?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “He could have a stroke. Which would be nice.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Password?” Junie says.

“Ronny sucks the big one,” Maxine says solemnly.

“You may enter,” Junie says.

“This has been quite a while,” Max says, closing the door behind her. “You guys getting busy up here? Even with all that racket? I'd never be able to concentrate, myself.”

“How's it going down there?” I ask as jovially as the situation will allow.

“I should ask you the same thing,” she says, noting that I have not managed to get up out of my kneeling pose. “You getting kinky, or are you doing that confession thing you people are so keen on?”

I stand to attention.

“Honestly, Maxie,” Junie says, gesturing toward the door, the stairs, and the jackass.

“I know, I know,” she says. “But first, sorry, I am required to ask you . . .” She drops into a robotic voice. “June Blue, have you won the lottery, by any chance?”

“No, ma'am,” Junie answers in the same voice.

“Righteo,” she says. “Now that that's out of the way, I should tell you he's into the tequila.”

“Aw, hell,” Junie says.

“Hell. Exactly,” Maxie says. “I estimate that we are now at approximately hell minus eighteen minutes.”

Junie sighs and walks around to the other side of her bed, looks like she is going to sit or lie down, then changes her mind, walks back to her sister, back to her bed.

This is a vision I never expected to see. It is a vision nobody should ever see; Junie Blue lost. She is right now unsure and unsettled, and it is so unnatural to her and just plain wrong that I am physically queasy just being present for it.

“That does it,” I say. “I'm going to go talk to him.”

Both of the women rush to get between me and the door, both protesting the unwisdom of that idea. They seem genuinely worried for me, though Maxine is simultaneously spluttering laughter at my folly.

“I think you should get out,” Max says to her sister.

“Well, that's my plan, Maxie, and you know that. I'm moving just as soon as I—”

“I don't mean that. I mean, like, now. Clear out so that his little mind will lack a focal point for his meanness. Nothing good can come from you being here tonight.”

“Excellent idea,” I say. “Superb idea, Maxie. We'll go to my house. It'll be great. My mom will—”

Junie is shaking her head.

“Junie,” I plead, “why not?”

“Yeah,” Maxine says, “why not? I've been there, and that place is wonderful. What's not to like? Beats this dump every which way.”

Junie just continues to shake her head, and I don't need to ask her again, because we both already know how she feels about it. She rarely ever came to my house. Said the place made her uneasy. The house did, the roses did, the neighborhood did, the smell did. My parents did, even though she said she liked them fine and my father was charmed to near baby talk by her, and my mother clearly sensed the situation and
worked up a sweat trying to put her at ease. Junie went so far as to say one time that the house gave her the creeps.

“What if we go someplace else, then?” I say.

She eyes me suspiciously. She is hanging in there, but it is clear that events have been taking their toll, and she is looking weary. The sound of a glass shattering in the kitchen adds a little fillip of specialness.

“Where?” she says.

“Not sure, exactly,” I say, though I am a little sure. My insides have shifted into an entirely different realm as I contemplate the romance of running away.

And I do realize that if Junie could hear my thoughts, I would not have gotten past the word “romance” without a clap across the ear. Still, I persevere.

“Just a place, a hotel, like, to get away for a night. Or maybe two—”

“Ah,
two
?” she says.

“Go, O!” Maxie cheers.

“Quiet, you,” Junie says.

“Fine, but I won't be quiet for long, because this sounds like a superb offer you're getting. And if you're silly enough to pass . . . Well, let me just say that
one
of us will be keeping this lovely gentleman company.”

My body shoots through, toes to top hat, with adrenaline or testosterone, or whatever combination my inner chemist
has just produced, but my foolish head is spinning with that talk, and the rest of my parts are about to join it.

But that's not even the best part. The best part is Junie Blue's reaction to the provocation.

She looks at her sister with eyes narrowed and sideways. Her nostrils flare. Her lips pull in, tight and hard.

That bothered her.

And I am delighted beyond words at this. It is a mighty effort to fight down a gigantic smile, until she finally says the two most romantic words, “I suppose,” and I need to fight no more.

She throws a few things into a bag, and Maxine goes over to where the framed portraits are leaning, wrapped in their brown-paper protection.