Preston Falls : a novel (20 page)

Shit—the envelope. Now he really does remember.

He parts the plastic sheeting and these cheesy-religious shafts of morning light are pouring through gaps in the barn siding. The good old truck's where he left it, next to the Econoline; the other cars are gone. There's a note or something on his windshield. He sets the guitar and amplifier down in the wet grass and takes a piece of yellow legal paper out from under the wiper: Drive safely. He unlocks the truck and feels behind the seat: envelope's still there.

PRESTON FALLS

He goes around behind the barn to piss, out of sight of the house. Just the tiniest steam rises where it hits the ground, so he huffs out his breath to see if it smokes and of course, oi course, manages to piss on his fucking boot. To punish himself, he bites into his lower lip with his leftside canines: hurts like shit, which serves him right. He sucks the lip, tastes salty metal and spits blood on the boot he pissed. Fucking teach you, you fuck.

The sun's just above the treetops. As he goes bumping down the driveway, he looks over at the house: a light on in the low-roofed part and wavy clear air above the cinderblock chimney. Probably the bass player's wife is getting ready for work, if she works. A woman's disapproval: you can feel it radiating.

All along the two-lane road, Willis sees little girls and little boys waiting for the bus, wearing blue denim jackets, or red-and-black-checkered wool jackets, or puffy nylon jackets in combinations of turquoise, red and yellow. Some peer from shacks their parents built to shelter them, others bounce up and down on their toes in the cold. One little boy sits reading inside a sentry box with a Union Jack painted on it. At the corner of a dirt road, near a bunch of mailboxes, a mom in sweatpants stands talking with a mom in jeans as five or six kids play tag, getting their shoes wet in the long grass. He's tempted to yank the wheel and plow through the bunch of them. Well, not tempted, exactly: alive to the possibility. He squeezes the wheel tighter and passes by.

The temperature gauge is up a hair now, so he tries the heater; sure enough, warm air blowing on his shins. A chill goes through him, the body giving up the tension it maintained against the cold; at least that's Willis's little theory. His head's starting to feel better, so maybe he'll stop off in Preston Falls for some coffee and pick up a paper. Jesus, reading the paper. But when he gets to where you can either turn off into Preston Falls or keep going straight until you hit Brown Road, he figures why push it. With this envelope behind the fucking seat, all you'd have to do is have a brake light or a turn signal out.

Willis turns into Calvin Castleman's drive; Calvin's truck, heaped high with split cordwood, almost blocks the way. When he shifts down to creep around it, the clutch feels funky again. Could be the cold, maybe: isn't there grease inside a clutch? That hardens and softens? He taps his horn and climbs out; in a window of the trailer he sees a corner of curtain pull to the side, then drop. The door opens and Calvin comes out in his shirtsleeves, unlaced work boots flopping.

I 3 7

"Hey," WiUis caUs.

Calvin stares at him. "You were supposed to been here last night."

"Well, we sort of ran late," says Willis, "so I ended up sleeping there. We were over—"

"Yah, I know where the fuck you were. Reed know you stayed there instead of coming here? Look at me when I talk to you."

Willis meets his eyes. They're set so close together that he can't stop the thought: genetic inferiority. If Calvin can somehow read minds, he's fucked. Willis blinks. Blinks again. Calvin's not blinking. Willis sucks his lip where he bit it. Which must look submissive.

"Look," he says. "If there's a problem about this, you need to take it up with Reed. All he told me was—"

"Yah, there's a problem. There's a big fuckin' problem. These guys I deal with, these are fuckin' serious guys, you know what I'm talkin' about? I was supposed to left here last night."

"Look," says Willis, putting up both hands, "I don't know anything about it."

"Well, that's nice for you, ain't it?" He shakes his head. "Son of a bitch moxh^vfucker. You got it, right?"

Willis points a thumb at his truck and Calvin follows him over; when Willis reaches behind the seat, Calvin grabs the envelope. "Let's go in the house."

"What for?" says Willis.

"Fuck are you worried about? All here, ain't it?"

"Whatever was in it is in it."

"Then you ain't got a thing to worry about." Calvin starts for the trailer. "Long's he ain't out to fuck you"

"How would he fuck me}'' says Willis, catching up to walk beside him.

Calvin looks at him. "How would he fuck you? All right, let me ask you something. I bet you ten dollars he didn't tell you how much is in here. Right or wrong?"

"Okay," says Willis.

"Let's say we go in here and I open it up." He steps onto his cinder-block doorstep and turns to face Willis. "And you're short a thousand— whatever it is. So all's he's got to do is turn around and go. Well, it was all there when I give it to him. You with me here?"

Willis says nothing.

Calvin nods. "All new to you, ain't it?"

PRESTON FALLS

"I see what you're saying," says Willis.

"Anyways," says Calvin Castleman, "I doubt he try to dick around on this end of the deal, see, because he knows nothing's about to go down till I get that straightened out. And he's got people waiting on him. Me, though, I'd watch my ass on the back end." He opens the door to the trailer, and Willis follows him into the smell of stale woodsmoke.

Willis sits on the old car seat facing the display case with boxes of shells and bottles of Hoppe's No. 9. Calvin rests a buttock on his gray metal stool, lays the envelope on his workbench, picks up a box-cutter and slashes through the tape. He sticks a hand inside, looks at Willis, stands up and turns his back. Willis looks around the room. The skin of some animal, tail hanging down, pushpinned to the paneling. A yellowing Far Side cartoon he can't quite make out from here, taped up with yellowing tape.

"Yah, okay." Calvin opens the top drawer of a metal file cabinet and sticks the envelope inside. "So you come by here Saturday. What time you come by?"

"We're supposed to start around nine. He wants us there eight, eight-thirty to set up. So—seven o'clock?"

"Best make it quarter to. Bring all the shit you're going to bring, and you go straight there from here."

"Right."

"And you tell Reed he can go fuck himself. The last fuckin' time, tell him. I like to know what the fuck I'm deaUn' with. And I ain't so fuckin' stupid I don't know you get more than a taste."

"Then you know more than I do."

"Yah, so what is this, fun for you? Your fuckin' weekends up from New York? You ought to stuck to auctions. Church suppers, that shit."

"TeU me about it," Willis says. "This is not my idea of fun. Yours either, I guess."

"Yah, I give up on that shit a long time ago." Calvin spits on his floor, rubs it with his boot. "So I guess you got the biU."

Back at the house, Willis starts coffee and checks the machine. Four blinks. He hits Play.

"Hey, man, it's Reed. Listen, you got to come rock and roll tomorrow night. Give me a jingle, right? It's real real important we get together." Beeeep. "Hey. Reed again. You there? Shit." Beeeep. Long nag-

I 3 9

ging buzz. Beeeep. "Willis. It's Marty. Listen, bud, I hate like hell to bother you up there, but we've got a mini-situation on our hands, and I was sort of figuring. Well, by now he's probably bored out of his mind up there staring at the trees, so, ah, if you get a chance. It's Wednesday morning? Eight-fifteen? Actually, tell you what. You have a fax up there, why don't I just fax the thing to you. At the very least you'll be amused." Beeeep.

So Marty Katz is still on the planet. Dandineau Beverages. All very strange.

Up in his study he finds the fax curling out of the machine: a page of Time magazine with the Sportif ad where the sweaty blonde's tipping one back and it's, like, do you really see her nips or is it just a trick of the light. So? He wrote a form letter to cover this six months ago. Willis tears it off the roll and takes it over to his worktable. Oh. Next to the ad there's a photo of a syringe poking into a forearm (inset, head shot of teenage boy) to go with a story about high school jocks and steroids, plus some thought-provoking shit about values. Who among us is not implicated when some high school jock someplace shoots steroids? Willis picks up the phone.

"Steroids," he says when Marty answers. "Make-a you strong like bool."

"Hey," says Marty. "Mighty white of you to call, old man."

"So do we really care?"

''You don't care. What do you care? You got trees to stare at. Bucky, however, cares deeply. And through Bucky I'm learning to care."

"Well, so that's good, isn't it?" says Willis. "There's too little caring in this world. That's why our young people are turning to steroids."

"So you have any thoughts?" Marty says. "He wants a statement."

''Awright, good idea. That way we can point out the irony, just in case anybody missed it. Somebody should tell Bucky it's now okay to bottle up your rage. I read somewhere that it doesn't give you cancer after aU."

"Why don't you tell him? Here, I'll transfer you."

"Okay, okay. Uncle," says Willis. "I take it you already tried talking him out of it?"

"We don't all have your raw courage. I got Carey Wyman started on the thing."

"Oh, well, hell. Then you don't need my help."

"Very funny," says Marty. "Any chance you could look over his efforts?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Sure, no problem. With or without him knowing?"

"Oh, he knows. Probably easiest to talk with him online. You're wired there, right?"

"If you only knew," says Willis.

"I appreciate this. It shouldn't take up too much of your morning. What exactly are you doing up there?"

"Oh, you know. Drinking heavily. Doing drug deals with the locals. Got thrown in the slammer the other day."

"What did you, rape a cow?" Poor Marty thinks this is still heartless businessman badinage. "So you're getting stuff done on your dacha?"

"Little bit," says Willis. "Mosdy sitting on my ass."

"What the good Lord made asses for. Something to sit on while you're watching football. Except you don't watch football, right?"

"No, I'm an intellectual. Don't you read my stuff?"

"I swear to God, if you're writing a fucking novel up there . . . Anyway, look. I told Carey you might be in touch. And I'll make sure Bucky knows you were pulling an oar on your time off. Might help you out of the doghouse. I told you what he said, right? When I told him we were having a pour for you? He said, 'I think I'll be busy.' "

"So he was probably busy."

"You know, you worry me, little guy," says Marty. "You're kidding, yes? When you come back, you're going to have to be a very good boy. You let it be known that you have a life. That's the mother of all no-nos."

"CaU this a life?" says WiUis.

"Bite your tongue. Somebody's apt to hear you." Marty's big on counting your blessings.

Willis hangs up, turns the computer on and types an E-mail message to [email protected]: just spoke to marty. you have my sympathy, how far along are you?

He goes downstairs and gets another cup of coffee. When he comes up again, he's got a thing back: hopefully i'll be finished by noon, do you think this works as a through-line? we start out deploring any form of drug use {flick at our say no msgs on labels for last five years), then transition {still need to work this out) to idea of sportif as healthful alternative to empty-calorie soft drinks, minerals etc. etc. cheers, carey.

Ah, youth. But that's unfair to youth. What explains Carey Wyman is that Buckridge has a soft spot for job candidates from the shit-ass college he went to in Indiana. Willis hits Reply to Sender and types: starting off with antidrug shit seems fine, the lie du jour, right? but think we

need a whole other level of bogosity slash deviosity here, since we've already got the name out there for free {which is the object of the game), why not bag the ad copy {bound to look self-serving and just say we vigorously applaud time's reporting, over and out. or what the fuck, maybe we're even proud to be associated with, the high road, valderi, valdera.

A message comes back: thanks, i'll try that, do you think b will go for it, though? cheers, carey.

Willis hits Reply and types: marty can probably sell it to him. {if you want, i'll sell marty.) one thing in its favor, from b's pee oh vee: it'll come from you, not me. i predict a happy honeymoon.

Message back: thanks, but hopefully i can sell m. don't want to take up your time, cheers, carey. The one endearing thing about Carey Wyman is how right out there he is about wanting Willis's job. Willis hits Reply and types: go for it, with an old man's blessing.

He's still logged on, to see if Carey Wyman is going to try a snappy comeback, when the phone rings. So he was smart to get separate lines; Jean said it was a waste since he was only there weekends.

And in fact it's Jean.

"Am I interrupting you?" she says.

"Nope," he says. "Just—you know. What's up?"

"The school just called. Apparently Roger hit a litde boy this morning."

"Is he okay?"

"Roger? Yes, he's okay in that he didn't get hurt. I wasn't going to call you, but then I thought you should know."

"Right," he says. "What about the other kid?"

"He's fine, apparently. They took him in to see the nurse, but she sent him back to class."

"So I guess we'll have a codefendant when the parents sue. Was this self-defense?"

"Apparently not," she says.

"Hmm. Well, that's not so good. So how's the school playing it?"

"Mr. Giles sent him to the Quiet Room for the day." This is the school's euphemism for detention; Roger's done time there before, though never a whole day. "He'll have to make up the work, and—okay, I'll be right there."