One Fat Summer (11 page)

“Michelle! Into the house!” shouted my mother. “Bobby! Into the house!”

I followed Michelle up the gravel path. She stopped at the front steps to bury her face in her hands and sob. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder, she seemed so shrunken up, but I had never done it before and I didn't know how. I patted her arm, and she reached out and hugged me and cried on my shoulder. It was a strange feeling, but not bad.

After a while, we went inside and looked out the window. We couldn't hear what they were saying in the driveway, but from the way Mr. Marino smacked his fist into his palm and my
father leaned toward him like a cobra about to strike, I figured it wasn't friendly. Pete was sitting in the front seat of his father's car. My mother was talking to him through the open passenger window, but he didn't seem to be talking back, just nodding or shaking his head or shrugging.

“I thought you were coming back tomorrow,” said Michelle. She had stopped crying, but she kept wiping her nose.

“Mom changed her mind. What happened?”

“He caught us here. Pete's father.” She started crying again. I gave her a piece of Kleenex I found in my pocket.

“You should have gone to the island,” I said.

“Pete wouldn't go. He doesn't think it's…right.”

The argument in the driveway didn't seem to end so much as just run down, like a windup toy. After a while, Mr. Marino wasn't pounding his fist so often, and my father's body relaxed, and their mouths weren't moving so fast. They began waving at each other, as if they were brushing away flies, and I could imagine them saying things like “Don't give me that,” or “Get off
it,” or “Why don't you just dry up and blow away.”

Finally, Mr. Marino got into his car and raced the motor until my father got into his car and pulled out of the driveway so Mr. Marino could back out.

“They're coming in now,” I told Michelle.

“All of them?”

“Just Mom and Dad.”

“Stay with me?”

“You betchum, Red Ryder.” I felt very protective toward her. It was a good feeling, it made me feel older and stronger, but it only lasted a couple of minutes. The first thing Dad said when he got into the house was “Robert. To bed. This instant.”

Mom took Michelle in her arms, and Dad stood there glaring at them, tapping his foot. That was the end of the show for me. I kept my ear at the open crack of my door, but I didn't hear another word that night.

I made myself invisible for a while. Like The Shadow. An old trick I picked up as a kid. Adults just want to know you're alive and healthy. So if you go about your business quietly, eat your meals, smile and always look like you've got something to do that will keep you out of trouble, nobody notices you much. I stayed out of everybody's way, didn't spend too much time on the toilet, and hardly ever spoke unless Mom or Dad spoke first. And they were so busy with themselves and with Michelle, they hardly talked to me for three or four days, and then mostly to remind me to wash my hands for dinner.

I went to work and came right home, trotting along the county road looking over my shoulder for Rumson's Chevy. I steered clear of Marino's
Beach. I didn't call Joanie. And every evening after dinner I weighed myself. That's the heaviest time. When I got down to 176 I danced around the bathroom and popped muscles in the mirror till they were sore. Wunderbar. I knew I'd be under 175 when I woke up. Another fifteen pounds and I'd be thin. Well, maybe not thin, but nobody would ever call me fat.

I took off my shirt one afternoon at Dr. Kahn's. That was a big thing. I hadn't walked around with my shirt off since I was little. Flesh still hung over my belt, but I felt like Charles Atlas compared to what I used to be. A 196-pound weakling.

Michelle and I didn't talk until the middle of the week. Her eyes were red for days, she couldn't look at anybody, and right after dinner she would go straight to her room and listen to her Johnny Ray records. All those dumb songs about crying. I felt sorry for her, but enough was enough. She might drown in her room if she kept playing those songs.

One night I was in my bed reading
The Book of Woodcraft
by Ernest Thompson Seton, just in
case I got trapped on the island again, when Michelle walked in without knocking.

“Just one question, Bobby? Why did you tell her I was out all night?”

“Why did you tell her about my job? We had a deal.”

She sat down on my bed. “Did she say you would be helping me? That if you really cared about me you'd tell her the truth?”

“How'd you know?”

“Because that's why I told her about your job.” She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “It's okay. Don't worry about it.”

“Are you ever going to see Pete again?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“We'll find a way.”

“Next month you'll be in the dorms, you'll do whatever you want,” I said.

“You better believe it.” She smiled for the first time in days.

I had a dream that night. I was standing on the highboard. There was no water below me, just a net, the kind they use in the circus for trapeze artists. Everybody was yelling for me to jump—
Dr. Kahn, Mom and Dad, Pete, Michelle, Willie Rumson, Jim Smith, Mr. Marino, even the man from the grocery store. I was scared, I didn't want to jump, but they kept screaming for me to jump, to show I was a man; if I didn't jump I couldn't be a man, I'd be a fag all my life. A rug, a beach ball, a Yo-Yo. But I couldn't jump. I was too scared. I turned around to walk back to the platform, but Joanie blocked my way. She was walking out toward me on the board. It didn't really look like Joanie, even with her new nose; she was taller and older and her hair was darker, but somehow I knew it was Joanie. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit and she had a bigger bosom than Joanie, but I knew it was her. And then she threw her arms around me and squeezed me tight, and suddenly I felt hot and wet, that good, exciting feeling, and then she shoved me off the board. As I fell, I saw they had dragged the net away, and I was just falling, falling, falling…

Naturally, I woke up before I hit anything. You always do.

I have dreams like that every so often. I've tried to look them up in a book we have about
dreams by Sigmund Freud, but all I can figure out is that they have something to do with sex. I really wanted to talk to somebody about it. But Michelle was busy crying and Mom was busy studying and Joanie would have looked down her nose at me. That's a joke, son. I might have tried Dad, he was so quiet and pleasant these days, but he was hardly ever around. He really knew how to make himself invisible. He just disappeared for hours and hours at a time. Tennis, swimming, softball games, golf, going to the lumberyard for special kinds of wood, working in the basement with his carpentry tools, going up on the roof to replace broken shingles. I could tell he just didn't want to talk to anybody. I know he knew about my lawn job, because he asked me one morning if I was using his work gloves, and when I said I was, he said he'd get himself another pair. And that was it. He didn't ask me any questions at all.

That Friday, Jim Smith came up to me and looked me in the eye for a few seconds and said, “Buddy, you're either crazy or you got the guts of a burglar.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're still here. Look, this is the last time I'm gonna say anything to you. Willie's been drinking all week, he's really getting himself mean. Nobody'll go near him. He's gonna come after you like gangbusters.”

“You told me that already. And nothing happened.”

“Look, you got three lousy weeks left on this job. Nothin'. Quit. You do that and I'll try to head him off.”

I got the feeling Jim was begging me, not warning me. I just shook my head.

But I kept my eyes peeled for Rumson the rest of the afternoon, and when I trotted home on the county road I did zigzags, just in case he was hiding somewhere in ambush, ready to run me down. Drivers must have thought I was crazy.

I wasn't crazy at all. I was rounding the last bend before Marino's Beach when I saw the blue-and-white Chevy coming fast in the other direction. I ducked behind an old stone farm wall. The Chevy passed without slowing down. I tracked it around the lake. It turned up to Dr. Kahn's.

I had to make a decision. I could run for it, all
the way home, and take a chance on getting trapped on the road or on the hill. Or I could go into Marino's Beach and play it by ear from there. If Willie was really hunting me, once he found I wasn't at Dr. Kahn's, he'd come back down the road, slowly. If he wasn't hunting me, he might just be on his way to Lenape Falls, and I'd be standing around Marino's Beach, trying to avoid Pete. I was still trying to figure out my next move when I saw the Chevy come tearing out on the county road. I ran all the way to Marino's Beach.

“Bob!” It was Joanie. She was behind the snack bar counter.

When I caught my breath, I said, “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” She really looked different now. A big red bow on her ponytail. Lipstick. A red bathing suit with white polka dots.
Beauty Hints.
She still didn't resemble the girl in my dream, but she was a lot closer. “Like a Coke?”

“Sure,”

She looked like she knew what she was doing. She pulled a frosty bottle out of the big red Coca-Cola chest, popped off the cap with one
flick of her wrist, and dropped a yellow straw into the bottle. “Here you go.” She banged the bottle down in front of me like a bartender in a western movie. “On the house.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Since Wednesday.”

“How'd you get the job?”

“I came down to talk to Pete and Connie about the project…”

“Our project?”

“I thought I'd write something about small businesses. For Economics.” She arched her eyebrows. I never saw that before. She must have practiced in the mirror. “Pete was too busy to talk because Connie was sick, so I helped out. I did such a good job he's giving me fifty cents an hour. It isn't very much, but I get lunch, and tips.”

“That's great.”

“Don't get carried away now.”

“No, I really mean it. Are you going to work the rest of the summer?”

“I don't know. Connie should be back soon, but Pete thinks I'm terrific, so…” She tossed her ponytail. Another new gesture. I wondered if
there was a special department for gestures in
Beauty Hints.
Or had the plastic surgeon given her a list of new moves to go with her new nose.

“Do you like the job?”

“It's fabulous. I'm meeting a lot of people.” Just the way she said it, I knew she meant boys. “What's new?”

“Nothing much.”

She leaned over the counter. “I heard Pete and Michelle broke up.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Ask them.”

“C'mon, you can tell
me.”

Whoever
you
are, I thought. I felt I was talking to a stranger.

“There's that creep again,” she said.

I turned in time to see Willie Rumson's face framed in his car window. He passed slowly, giving me the once-over. It sent chills up my spine.

“You know him?” I asked coolly.

“Seen him around. Don't you remember, he was one of those hoods at the carnival? He's been cruising up and down the road all week. He
stopped once and asked me for a date.” She made a face, but I could tell she was a little bit proud.

“What'd you say?”

“I told him I don't go out with strangers.”

“Have you…uh…been…you know, going out?”

“I might. There's another guy who's been hanging around the last few days. He's going to college next year.” She tossed her ponytail again. She was turning into a real tease. Probably try out for cheerleaders when we go back to school. “Pete doesn't like him too much.”

I was really getting tired of her. “Why don't you go make out with Pete?”

“Hmmmmmm.” She pretended she was considering it. “Hey, what's the story about Pete and Michelle? What happened?”

“Don't you remember, curiosity killed the cat?”

“But satisfaction…there he is again.”

Willie Rumson was cruising past again, really casing the joint. When he caught me staring at him, he hit the accelerator and burned rubber down the road.

I looked around. Marino's Beach was emptying out. The sky was overcast and the air was cool. It wasn't a good swimming or sunbathing day. And summer people go home early on Friday afternoons to make dinner for the men coming up for the weekend. There were just a few families left on the sand, and a couple of kids jumping off the diving boards. Pete was tying up the boats.

“How do you get home?” I asked Joanie.

“Sometimes I walk, but Pete said he'd drive me back today. You want a lift?”

“I think so.”

“Are you nervous about something?”

“Can I have another Coke?”

“You'll have to pay for this one.”

“Okay.”

She got it for me and started wiping down the counter. “Excuse me, I've got to clean up now.”

I looked for Rumson on the road. There was a
lot of traffic now, and I might have missed him.
Maybe he just gave up and drove away. I could still make a run for it; with all the cars on the county road he probably wouldn't try anything.
But if he was as crazy as Jim Smith said, he just might not care.

The kids on the diving boards were called in by their mothers. There were only two families on the beach, and they were packing to leave. Pete had finished tying up the boats and was raking the sand. He'd be closing in a few minutes. I didn't want to face him, but it was better than facing Willie Rumson.

It was getting chillier. It might rain tonight. The sun disappeared behind a gray cloud. It felt like a fall day. Fall was in the air. Then school. If I lived that long.

I thought I saw a blue-and-white car turn up a driveway a few hundred yards up the road. Rumson? Just waiting?

“Da dum,” said Joanie. “How's it look?” She waved toward the neat rows of candies and packaged cakes and paper cups. The faucets and the milk shake machine and the hot dog griddle gleamed.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

Pete walked up carrying the rake and a bag of trash. When he saw me he started to turn away.

“Pete,” said Joanie, “could you give Bob a lift home?”

“No, sorry,” he mumbled, and went behind the shack.

The last two families got in their cars and drove away. The beach was empty. Except for the Marino Express, the parking lot was empty. In the distance, I heard thunder. Or was it Willie Rumson revving up his car?

I found a nickel and called home. Mom and Dad or Michelle would pick me up.

The line was busy.

I panicked and ran around to the back of the shack. Pete was locking up the first-aid room.

“Willie Rumson's after me,” I said.

“He's nothing.”

“Maybe to you. But I can't take him. And he might have a knife or a tire jack.”

“Don't worry about it.” He wouldn't look at me. “He's all bluff.”

“I've been calling his bluff all summer and he keeps beating me up. Jim Smith said…”

“Another Rummie punk.”

“Could you drive me halfway up the hill?”

Pete finally looked at me. His face was twisted.
“I'm not allowed. I promised my father. I'm not even supposed to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“To any member of your family.”

“Aren't you ever going to call up Michelle?”

He turned his back on me.

I ran back to the telephone. The line was still busy. It could be Michelle talking to a girlfriend. Every so often she gets into a marathon, and this could be one of them.

“What's the matter, Bob?” asked Joanie.

“Pete won't drive me home.”

“C'mon, I'll talk to him.”

We walked around the shack. Pete was rearranging some tools in the storage shed. I realized he'd been stalling around till I went away.

“Pete,” said Joanie, “why can't you…”

Pete was looking over her shoulder, his mouth open. We turned to see Willie Rumson swaggering toward us with a .22 rifle in his hand.