Only Love Can Break Your Heart (22 page)

“All of them,” my mother said.

“You know he bought that gun in Belgium,” Paul said. “After the war. It means a lot to him.”

“Maybe your
pal
Rayner will store it for you,” she said.

“And what about the others?” Paul asked.

“Just get rid of them,” she said.

Paul wrapped up the three guns—the pistol, Dad’s Browning, and his own old sixteen-gauge—and took them out to the truck. A few days later, he handed my mother a crumpled wad of bills.

“Here,” he said.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Four hundred and fifty bucks,” Paul replied.

“What did you do with them?” she asked.

“Rayner knows a guy,” he said.

19

BY THE SECOND WEEK
of March, the lingering snowdrifts disappeared from the long meadow between our house and Twin Oaks. For the first time in months, we saw Brad Culver again, out in his field pulling a shiny new Bush Hog behind a blue tractor. Back and forth he went across the field, up and down along the fence line. Culver passed our house at close range no less than half a dozen times, his eyes fixed on the air in front of his nose, never turning or even tilting his head to make a sidelong glance.

“Son of a bitch,” Paul muttered, rubbing his thigh where Culver’s bullet had pierced it.

When I passed the test for my learner’s permit, Paul took it upon himself to teach me how to drive stick. We spent a few afternoons in the church parking lot, Paul patiently advising me on how to balance the clutch and the gas pedal. Once I mastered the art of engaging first gear from a stop on an uphill slope, Paul started picking me up and letting me drive home from school while he smoked in the passenger seat. Paul had gathered that I preferred him to show up a little late so that I could linger on the loading dock with Cinnamon as she waited for the latest bass player in his Pontiac Fiero or Mustang 5.0 to pull up and sweep her off, either for her shift at Kroger or, I assumed, to some dingy garage to listen to his stupid band practice.

They developed a curious rapport, Cinnamon and Paul. Whenever he pulled the red truck up to the curb and hopped out to walk around to the passenger side, Cinnamon would wave and grin at him, as if they shared some private joke. Paul always waved back sheepishly, without looking at her.

“Why does she wave at you like that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “I guess she thinks we’ve got something in common.”

“Like what?”

“She grew up around the same kind of people I used to be,” he said.

“The same people?” I asked.

“Not the
same
people,” he said. “The world isn’t
that
small. But we have some common experiences. Cinnamon’s a pretty cool chick, if you want to know the truth.”

“You’re on a first-name basis now?”

“We had a conversation.”

“When?” I demanded. “Where?”

“At the Wahoo,” Paul said. “She came up to me.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Relax, Rocky, I’m not interested in your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said.

“Put it into third, bro,” he said.

I eased the stick forward and accelerated into the turn onto Boone’s Ferry.

“We ought to go up to the parkway one afternoon,” I offered.

“When the weather gets better, maybe we will,” Paul said. “If your mom’s cool with it.”

“Maybe we could take Cinnamon with us,” I said. “And Leigh.”

“Might be a little tight in the cab,” Paul said.

“Me and Cinnamon could ride in the back,” I said. “I bet she’d like that.”

“She probably would,” he said.

Paul’s face was shrouded beneath his beard, his eyes soft and sad behind the spectacles. I remembered how those eyes had flashed in the glow from the end of his cigarette in the blue darkness up there in John’s Gap—how I could feel their muted spite even through the nausea and delirium.

“You used to tell the best stories,” I said. “Remember all those stories you used to tell me?”

“It runs in the family,” he said.

“The Old Man sure loves a good story, doesn’t he?” I asked.

“The Old Man never heard anything sweeter than the sound of his own voice,” Paul said.

“He never talked to me the way he talked to you,” I said.

“That’s because when I was a kid he didn’t have anyone else to talk to,” Paul said.

“I guess.”

I took a deep breath.

“Say, Paul,” I said, “why don’t you tell me a story?”

“What kind of story?” he asked.

“A true story,” I said.

He looked down. In one hand he palmed his old Zippo, burnished from years of riding around in his pockets. In the other he held his cigarette, the trail of smoke that trickled off its end fingering its way up and out the open window.

“I don’t remember any true stories,” he said.

When we reached the house, William was outside, shooting baskets. It was to be his last week with us. He had seen it coming when Paul started taking his hours in the afternoons. William tried to be cool about it, but you could tell he felt burned. I hadn’t thought it would be that hard to find another sick person who needed to be looked after, but apparently we weren’t the only people having a hard time affording home health care that year.

Ironically, after months of abusing William with abandon, the Old Man began to regard him as a saintly personage. He grew prone to fits of weeping over how helpless he’d be without William, with no one but the selfish, inept Paul to look after him while his faithless wife was off giving blow jobs to the neighbors. William clearly agreed with the Old Man (about Paul, not the blow jobs).

We met him at the edge of the side yard by the basketball goal. He tucked the ball under his arm and took out a cigarette. Paul lit one of his own and offered his lighter. William grudgingly tipped his Kool into the flame.

“How’s the Old Man?” Paul asked.

“Ah-ight,” William said. “He sleeping.”

“Good,” Paul replied. “Is Leigh still here?”

“Uh-huh,” William said. “She visiting with a friend.”

“A friend?” I asked.

“Yeah,” William said. “Her friend from up on the hill.”

William pointed his cigarette past us, down to the fence, where we saw the Culvers’ Velma, saddled and bridled and tied to the fence.

Paul couldn’t have failed to notice the shock on my face, but he didn’t say a word. He knew about me and Patricia—I’d told him everything. He’d said it seemed like a good experience for me to have had. He was a bit angry at me for selling Leigh out, until I pointed out that if I hadn’t, Leigh might well have ended up living in a gilded Manhattan penthouse as Mrs. Charles Culver. Still, we’d all been a bit too preoccupied with surviving the winter to wonder what might happen when Patricia came back.

Paul dropped his cigarette to the ground and clapped his hand on my shoulder.

“Well, come on then,” he said. “I’d like to meet Leigh’s friend.”

We found them in the living room. On the coffee table was a silver tray bearing a pair of teacups and saucers, cream and sugar, and a plate of the kind of cookies Patricia would refer to as “biscuits.”

“Oh, hello, boys,” Leigh said. “Look who’s here.”

They stood from their seats on the couch in front of the tea tray. I must have been staring quite helplessly at Patricia. She looked fit in her weathered jeans and black turtleneck. Her cheeks were freckled and still rosy from the Florida sun. She wouldn’t look at me; instead she stared at Paul, who regarded her with a like measure of bemused curiosity.

“I went out with William to have a cigarette after your father went down for his nap,” Leigh said. “Lo and behold, there was Patricia, trotting along on Velma. We had so much to talk about, so I thought we might come in and have a little tea party. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’m glad you did,” Paul said. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

“I know,” Patricia said, extending her hand to him. “Patricia.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paul said.

“And you,” Patricia said. “You’re quite the legend around here.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed,” Paul said.

“How was Florida?” I asked.

“Oh, fine, I suppose,” she said, her eyes still fixed on Paul. “Humid. Warm. A bit dull. I always find the place disorienting. Winter should be cold. Sunny and eighty-five degrees makes the Christmas tree look a tad out of place. But it’s good for the horses.”

We heard the Old Man’s voice from down the hall. William disappeared back through the living room door while Patricia continued to scrutinize Paul—mostly, I thought, so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

“And how is Charles?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”

“He flew in for Christmas and spent the day with us,” she said. “Then back off to New York, and then back to Venezuela. His company has business there. Very serious and important, I’m told. Normal stuff for Charles, you know—spreading capitalism round the globe.”

“Charles got married,” Leigh blurted out.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“I’m afraid so,” Patricia said, in that exasperatingly disingenuous tone of polite sympathy I had found so pretentious before she won me over with booze and sex. “Mummy and Daddy were quite shocked. It all happened very fast. They met in Caracas. She’s the daughter of some significant personage in the government down there. Daddy claims the marriage was part of a business agreement—like Charles’s company gets a break on barrels of oil in exchange for his marrying the daughter of the local
jefe
.”

Patricia grasped Leigh’s hand.

“It was my understanding that Charles had spoken to Leigh beforehand,” Patricia said. “It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“I’m very happy for him,” Leigh murmured.

With her free hand, Patricia touched Leigh on the shoulder as if she were comforting a gurgling half-wit.

“Are you back for good, Patricia?” Paul asked.

“Actually I’ve found a place just outside Charlottesville,” she said. “I think Mummy and Daddy were ready for me to move along, and I’ve loads of friends in the area.”

Loads of friends? I thought. She’d never mentioned anyone in Charlottesville to me.

“She’s found someone,” Leigh said in a comically hoarse stage whisper.

“Please, Leigh,” Patricia said.

Patricia blushed. I felt my own face getting hot. I hoped I didn’t look as stung as I felt.

“Who?” I asked.

“Just a friend from the circuit,” Patricia said.

“I’d like to meet him,” I said.

“Maybe I’ll bring him around for a visit,” she said. She smiled at me—exasperatingly, I thought. Despite my attentions having shifted elsewhere, I still felt more jealousy than relief.

“I’m just glad I got to see Leigh before I left,” she said.

“I hope it won’t be the last time,” Leigh said.

“I’m sure we have many more little tea parties in our future,” Patricia said.

She sighed and stretched her back like a sleepy cat.

“Well,” she said, “I must be off. Can’t leave poor Velma tied to the fence all afternoon. I hope I didn’t impose.”

“Tell your father I said hello,” Paul said with no discernible trace of irony.

“I most certainly will,” Patricia said.

“It’s so good to see you,” Leigh said.

“I’ll be in touch,” Patricia said.

“I’ll walk you out,” I said.

I held the door open for her and followed her down toward the fence where Velma stood waiting.

“I’m very sorry about your father, Rocky,” she said. “What an unkind twist of fate, especially after his and Daddy’s unfortunate dealings.”

“We’re getting along all right,” I lied.

“Leigh told me about what happened at your school.”

“Yeah, I guess I blew it.”

“It sounded a bit out of character for you.”

“Maybe you don’t know me that well. So,” I said, “Charles ran off and got married.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“He might have told her himself, at least.”

“Maybe Leigh forgot the conversation. Given her state, she might prefer to block out such painful memories. Then again, Charles can be rather cruel and remorseless.”

“He’s not the only one,” I said.

“Don’t be that way, Rocky,” she said. “It’s so childish, really.”

Her jaw hardened and her eyes turned cold with spite. I glanced down at the ground. When I looked up, her face had relaxed into the old, intimate air of September.

“Have you found a girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I lied, again.

“Tell me about her.”

“She’s nothing like you.”

“Goodness, Rocky,” she said. “I feel a bit wounded.”

“Why?” I said. “It’s what you said you wanted.”

“Come again?”

“For me to find someone more—how did you put it?—worthy.”

“Now you’re just being spiteful,” she said.

“What about your new friend?” I asked.

“Oh, Nelson?” she said. “It’s nothing serious. Just someone to pass the time with. A little fling, you might say.”

“That’s what you used to say about me,” I said.

“If I did,” she said, “I meant it differently.”

Velma snorted and tossed her tail.

“What happened between us was very special to me, Rocky,” she said. “I mean that, more than I expect you will ever know. But you must have realized it couldn’t last. It was terribly dangerous, more for me than for you. Quite frankly, it still is. If you were to tell anyone . . .”

“I would never do that,” I said.

“What about Leigh? She knows.”

“Not for sure. I mean, she knows, but I never actually
told
her.”

“And Paul?”

I shrugged.

“Do you see, Rocky?” she said. “Do you understand why I just couldn’t carry it on any longer?”

“Paul would never get you in trouble,” I said. “He thinks it’s cool.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said dryly.

She crossed her arms and smiled softly at me.

“I know you don’t believe me,” she said, “but it was just as painful for me to leave you behind as it must have been for you to let me go.”

I didn’t bother to summon a response. I knew Patricia well enough to know that she couldn’t be made to feel chastened by how much more favorably things had turned out for her than for me or anyone else.

Patricia mounted the fence and stepped over and pulled herself up onto Velma’s back.

“I hope I’ll see you again, Rocky,” she said. “I’m sure I will.”