North American Lake Monsters (6 page)

Tim held out his hand, still closing the distance, and Jeremy took it. “Hey. Jeremy, right? Tara’s husband?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, you are?”

“Oh I’m Tim Duckett, we met last year, at that teachers’ union thing?”

“Oh yeah. Tim, hey.”

“I just saw you over here by yourself and I thought, that guy is frickin lost. You know? Totally out of his element.”

Jeremy bristled. “I think you made a mistake.”

“Really? I mean, look at these people.” He shifted to stand beside Jeremy so they could look out over the crowd together. “Come on.
Tea
chers? This is hell for
me!
I can only imagine how you must feel.”

“I feel just fine.”

Tim touched his glass to Jeremy’s. “Well here’s to you then. I feel like I’m about to fucking choke.” He took a deep drink. “I mean, look at that guy over there. The fat one?” Jeremy flushed but held his tongue. These people didn’t think. “That’s Shane Mueller,” Tim continued. “Laughing like he’s high or something. He can afford to laugh because he’s got the right friends, you know what I mean? Goddamn arrogant prick. Not like her.”

He gestured at the woman Jeremy had been talking to just a few moments ago. Where was Tara?

“Word is she’s not coming back next year. She won’t be the only one, either. Everybody here’s scared shitless. The fucking legislature’s throwing us to the wolves. Who cares about education, right? Not when there’s dollars at stake.” He took a drink. “
English?
Are you kidding me?”

Tim sidled up next to him, so that their arms brushed. Jeremy gave a small push with his elbow and Tim surrendered some ground, seeming not to notice.

“I always kind of envied you, you know?” he was saying.

“. . . what?”

“Oh yeah. Probably freaks you out, right? This guy you barely even know? But Tara talks about you in the lounge sometimes, and it got to where I felt like I kind of knew you a little bit.”

“So you like to talk to Tara, huh?”

“Oh yeah man, she’s a great girl. Great girl. But what you do is real work. You hang out with grown men and build things. With your
hands.
” He held out his own hands, as though to illustrate the concept. “I hang out with kids, man.” He gestured at the crowd. “A bunch of goddamn kids.”

Jeremy took a drink. He peered into his glass. The ice had almost completely melted, leaving a murky, diluted puddle at the bottom. “Things change,” he said.

Tim gave him a fierce, sympathetic look. “Yeah, you’ve been through some shit, haven’t you?”

Jeremy looked at him, dimly amazed, feeling suddenly defensive. This guy had no boundaries. “What?”

“Come on, man, we all know. It’s not like it’s a secret, right? That fucking wolf?”

“You don’t know shit.”

“Now that’s not fair. If you don’t want to talk about it, okay, I get that. But we were all here for Tara when it happened. She’s got a lot of friends here. It’s not like we’re totally uninvested.”

Jeremy turned on him, a sudden wild heat burning his skin from the inside. He pressed his body against Tim’s and backed him against the fireplace. Tim nearly tripped on the hearth and grabbed the mantel to keep his balance. “I said you don’t know
shit.
”

Tim’s face was stretched in surprise. “Holy shit, Jeremy, are you gonna hit me?”

Jeremy felt a hand on his shoulder, and he heard his wife’s voice. “What’s going on here?”

He backed off, letting her pull him away, and allowing Tim to regain his balance. Tim stared at the two of them, looking more bemused now than worried or affronted.

Tara laced her hand into her husband’s. “Do you boys need a time-out?”

Tim made a placating gesture. “No, no, we’re just talking about—”

“Tim’s just running his mouth,” Jeremy said. “He needs to learn to shut it.”

Tara squeezed his hand and leaned against him. He could feel the tension in her body. “Why don’t we get some fresh air?” she said.

“What?”

“Come on. I want to see the lights outside.”

“Don’t you try to placate me. What’s the matter with you?”

Tim said, “Whoa, whoa, let’s all calm down a little bit.”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up.”

The sound of the party continued unabated, but Jeremy could sense a shift in the atmosphere around him. He didn’t have to turn around to know that he was beginning to draw attention.

“Jeremy!” Tara’s voice was sharp. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

Tim touched her arm. “It’s my fault. I brought up the wolf thing.”

Jeremy grabbed his wrist. “If you touch my wife one more time I’ll break your goddamn arm.” His mind flooded with images of operatic violence, of Tim’s guts garlanding all the expensive furniture like Christmas bunting. He rode the crest of this wave with radiant joy.

Astonishingly, Tim grinned at him. “What the fuck, man?”

Jeremy watched Tim’s lips pull back, saw the display of teeth, and surrendered himself to instinct. It was like dropping a chain; the freedom and the relief that coursed through his body was almost religious in its impact. Jeremy hit him in the mouth as hard as he could. Something sharp and jagged tore his knuckles. Tim flailed backwards, tripping on the hearth again but this time falling hard. His head knocked the mantel on the way down, leaving a bloody postage stamp on the white paint. Manger pieces toppled over the side and bounced off him.

Someone behind him shrieked. Voices rose in a chorus, but it was all just background noise. Jeremy leaned over and hit him again and again, until several hands grabbed him from behind and heaved him backward, momentarily lifting him off his feet. He was grappled by a cluster of men, his arms twisted behind him and immobilized. The whole mass of them lurched about like some demented monster, as Jeremy tried to break free.

The room had gone quiet. “Silver Bells” went on for another few seconds until someone rushed to the stereo and switched it off. All he could hear was his own heavy breathing.

He resumed a measure of control over himself, though his blood still galloped through his head and his muscles still jerked with energy. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He found himself at the center of the crowd, most of them standing well back and staring agape. Someone was crouched beside Tim, who was sitting on the hearth, his face pale; his hands cupped beneath his bloody mouth. One eye was already swelling shut.

Tara stood to one side, her face red with anger, or humiliation, or both. She marched forward and grabbed him forcibly by the bicep, and yanked him behind her. The men holding him let him go.

“Should we call the police?” someone said.

“Oh
fuck you!
” Tara shouted.

She propelled him through the front door and out into the cold air. She did not release him until they arrived at the truck. The night arced over them both, and the world was bespangled with Christmas-colored constellations. Tara sagged against the truck’s door, hiding her face against the window. He stood silently, trying to grasp for some feeling here, for some appropriate mode of behavior. Now that the adrenaline was fading, it was starting to dawn on him how bad this was.

Tara stood up straight and said, without looking at him, “I have to go back inside for a minute. Wait here.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“Just wait here.”

He did. She went up to the front door and rang the bell, and after a moment she was let inside. He stood there and let the cold work its way through his body, banking the last warm embers of the alcohol. After a while he got behind the wheel of the truck and waited. Soon, the front door opened again, and she came out. She walked briskly to the truck, her breath trailing behind her, and opened his door. “Move over,” she said. “I’m driving.”

He didn’t protest. Moments later she started the engine and pulled onto the road. She drive them slowly out of the neighborhood, until the last big house receded into the darkness behind them, like a glittering piece of jewelry dropped into the ocean. She steered them onto the highway, and they eased onto the long stretch home.

“He’s not going to call the police,” she said at last. “Small miracle.”

He nodded. “I thought you wanted me to confront him,” he said, and regretted it immediately.

She didn’t respond. He stole a glance at her: her face was unreadable. She drew in a deep breath. “Did you tell Mrs. Winn that we’re Jewish?”

“. . . yeah.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

He just shook his head and stared out the window. Lights streaked by, far away.

Tara sobbed once, both hands still clutching the steering wheel. Her face was twisted in misery. “You have to get a hold of yourself,” she said. “I don’t know what’s happening to you. I don’t know what to do.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He felt his guts turn to stone. He knew he had to say something, he had to try to explain himself here, or someday she would leave. Maybe someday soon. But the fear was too tight; it wouldn’t let him speak. It would barely let him breathe.

When they get home Jeremy cannot bear the strained silence. After an hour of it he escapes in the truck, making a trip to the attic before he leaves. Now he’s speeding down a winding two-lane blacktop, going so fast he can’t stay in his lane. If anyone else appears on this road, everybody’s fucked. He makes a fast right when he comes to the turn-in for Wild Acre, the truck hitting the bumps in the road too hard and smashing its undercarriage into the dirt. He pushes it up the hill, the untended dirt road overgrown with weeds. The truck judders around a bend, something groaning under the hood. The wheel slips out of his hands and the truck slides into a ditch, coming to a crunching halt and slamming Jeremy’s face into the steering wheel.

The headlights peer crookedly into the dust-choked air, illuminating the house frames, which look like huge, drifting ghosts behind curtains of raised dirt and clay. He leans back in his seat, gingerly touching his nose, and his vision goes watery. The full moon leaks silver blood into the sky. Something inside him buckles, and acid fills his mouth. He puts a hand over it, squeezes his eyes shut, and thinks, Don’t you do it, don’t you fucking do it.

He doesn’t do it. He swallows it back, burning his throat.

He slams his elbow into the door several times. Then he rests his head on the steering wheel and sobs. These are huge, body-breaking sobs, the kind that leave him gasping for breath, the kind he hasn’t suffered since he was a little kid. They frighten him a little. He is not meant to sound like this.

After a few moments he stops, lifts his head, and stares at the closest house frame, bone-colored in the moonlight. The floor is covered in dark stains. The forest is surging behind it. In a scramble of terror he wrenches the rifle from its rack, opens the door and jumps into the road.

The gun is slippery in his hands. He strides into the house frame and raises the gun to his chin, aiming it into the dark forest, staring down the sight. The world and its sounds retreat into a single point of stillness. He watches, and waits.

“Come on!” he screams. “Come on!
Come on!”

But nothing comes.

S.S.

In the morning
before
going to work, Nick
found his mother and gave her a kiss. He used the flashlight to locate her, careful as always to keep the beam from touching her. This time she was in the kitchen, her wheelchair backed into a small alcove between the refrigerator and the oven. She seemed only barely conscious when he reached her, which was not unusual; her head bobbed gently when his lips touched her cheek, as though nodding in recognition. When he backed away from her he almost tripped over a plate she had left lying on the floor. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed the bright red splash of blood on the china, a glaring arc of beauty like a detail from a Pollock canvas. Nick retrieved the plate and placed it in the sink. He went back to his mother and made sure the blanket was secure around her legs, and that she was warm.

The kiss was an act of duty and of love; if there was a difference between them, Nick did not recognize it.

Miss Josephine’s was
a little Cajun restaurant half a block off the distal end of Bourbon Street, in what Nick had always thought of as the Fag District. It was far enough from the main drag that the owner claimed to be unable to afford an air conditioner in the kitchen. So the staff opened the delivery door, admitting the warm, viscous subtropical air, laced with the perfume of rotting garbage coming from the trash bags stacked along the curb every afternoon. The kitchen was tiny and cramped, even with only the three employees: Nick, who labored over the steamy exhalations of the power washer; and the two black line cooks, Tyrone and Big Jake. When business was slow—which was nearly always—and there were few dishes to wash, the owner justified Nick’s hours by having him prep food for the night shift and sometimes for the following day. This work consisted of peeling potatoes, cleaning spinach, de-veining shrimp, and skinning and cutting long, phallic ropes of andouille sausage. In this way, Nick was paid as a dishwasher but employed as a prep cook. Nick reasoned to himself that the owner, being a Jew, was only acting according to his nature, which made it easier for him to accept. Furthermore, the circumstances at home did not allow him the luxury of quitting.