Significant Others (27 page)

Then he ran away.

Booter kept groaning through the gag.

He heard the boy go yelping through the underbrush like a scalded pup. Then the silence closed in again, and he was left panting and sore, indignant in defeat. What the hell was the matter with the stupid brat?

Then the voices came back.

“If you’re lying, Philo …”

“I’m not. I swear. His face was like … the Mummy or somethin'.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I swear.”

“Which tent?”

“That one.”

“You better not be lying. I’ll report you to the Brigadier.” Only slightly less terrified than Philo, the tough one seemed to be stalling for time.

Booter awaited them in silence. Moaning and twisting would only scare them off again.

The tent flap opened. Another beam, this one brighter than the last, found its way to Booter’s tape-wrapped head.

He decided to wiggle a little, just to show them he was alive.

“See?” said the redheaded boy. He was standing next to the flashlight-wielder, his eyes big as quarters, his jaw even slacker than before. “Maybe they’re holdin’ him captive, huh?”

“Who?”

“I dunno. The chem-frees or somebody.”

The boy with the flashlight steadied the beam on Booter’s face, blinding him momentarily.

The redhead added: “He could be really dangerous.”

There was no reply from the other boy. He knelt and leaned forward slowly to examine Booter’s features.

Booter blinked several times, then beheld the familiar face of a handsome half-breed child. When their eyes met, the boy made an expression like a clenched fist and leaned even closer. “Booter?” he said.

Just as amazed, Booter uttered a grunt and nodded.

The boy turned to his henchman. “It’s Booter,” he said.

“Who?”

“He’s married to Gangie. My mom’s mom.”

“He’s your granddad?”

“No, booger-brain. He’s married to my mom’s mom. That doesn’t make him my—”

Groaning indignantly, Booter cut him off.

“You better do somethin',” said the redhead.

Edgar tugged a piece of tape off Booter’s cheek. It stung like hell. He made a sound to say so.

“Be careful,” said the redhead.

Seizing another piece of tape, Edgar tugged more gently this time, until the whole sticky webbing, gag included, came away from his face. He gulped air and licked his parched lips.

“You O.K.?” asked Edgar.

He nodded, still filling his lungs. Then he said: “Where’s your mother?”

“At her camp,” the boy replied.

“Where’s that?”

“Down by the river.”

“Get her for me.”

Edgar shook his head gravely.

“Why not?”

“It’s women-only space.”

“What?” It was a madhouse, this place, pure and simple. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t go,” the boy said earnestly. “They won’t let me.”

“Untie me, then. Help me, you little idiot! Don’t just stand there!”

The redhead frowned and peered at Edgar for the final word. Edgar, in turn, gnawed on his fingernail and pondered. “Did you do something bad?” he asked.

“No,” thundered Booter. “Of course not!”

“We better go,” the redhead told Edgar. “Somebody’s gonna come back and—”

“No,” Booter blurted. “Don’t go. Just untie my hands.”

Wrinkling his brow again, Edgar began to pick ineffectually at the knot.

“Hurry up,” said Booter.

“I can’t. It won’t untie.”

“Find a knife, then.”

The redheaded accomplice tugged on Edgar’s sleeve. “I’m gettin’ outa here.”

Edgar kept his eyes on Booter. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, how come they tied you up?”

“I fell asleep in a canoe, Edgar. It drifted ashore. They tied me up because I’m a man.”

The boy bit his lower lip.

For emphasis, Booter added: “I swear.”

Edgar studied his step-grandfather a moment longer, then grabbed the redhead’s arm as he tried to leave. “Philo,” he barked, “get Jackson and Berkowitz and the two Zacks. Tell ‘em I need ‘em here. On the double.”

“Hey, Edgar, I’m not—”

“On the double!”

“Isn’t there a knife?” asked Booter.

Edgar shook his head. “We’ll get you outa here. Don’t worry.”

As the other boy scrambled into the night, Edgar squatted on his haunches next to Booter’s head. “You wanna sit up?” he asked.

“Yes, son. Please.”

The boy helped him into a sitting position, propping bedrolls behind his back. When he was done, he searched his blue quilted jacket until he found a chocolate bar. Breaking off a piece, he said: “Want some?”

“Please,” said Booter, opening his mouth for the proffered chunk. Its dark sweetness tasted sacramental on his tongue. When it was gone, he said: “When will they be back?”

“Not long. Few minutes.”

“Those women could come back at any time.”

“I know.” Edgar patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, O.K.?” He looked at Booter gravely, then plopped down next to him against the bedrolls. “Hey,” said the boy, brightening. “What’s blue and creamy?”

Booter looked at him, utterly confused.

“It’s a riddle,” said the boy. “Guess.”

“Edgar, this is no time—”

“C’mon,” urged Edgar. “What’s blue and creamy?”

“I told you … no!”

Edgar looked crestfallen for a moment, then broke off another chunk of chocolate. “Want some more?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Booter evenly. Like taking candy from a baby, he thought bitterly.

Edgar fed it to him in small pieces this time, licking his fingers when he was through. “Is your canoe still down there?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Booter.

“Where did you come from?”

Booter thought for a moment, then said: “The Bohemian Grove. Has your mother told you about that?”

“I don’t think so,” said Edgar.

“It’s sort of a camp. Your grandfather Halcyon used to belong.”

“I was named for him,” said Edgar.

“Yes … exactly.” The boy was quick, at least.

“What do you guys do?”

“Where?” asked Booter.

“At your camp.”

Booter wet his parched lips. “Well … we talk a lot. We go to plays, concerts. Read books.”

Edgar screwed up his face. “It’s a camp?” Booter nodded. “More or less. Look … are you sure your friends are coming back?”

“Positive. Was my grandfather your best friend?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Who’s your best friend now?”

Booter took the easy way out. “Well, of course, your grandmother and I … Gangie …”

“No,” said Edgar. “Girls don’t count.”

Booter hesitated. “I guess I don’t have a best friend right now.”

The boy looked concerned. “Why not?”

Booter felt an unexpected little stab of pain. “What are you doing here, anyway? Pinching candy?”

Edgar’s eyes narrowed.

“I won’t tell them,” said Booter.

“It’s just a game.”

“I know. Don’t worry, son. We’re on the same side.”

Philo returned breathless, with four other boys in tow.

“Who brought the knife?” asked Edgar.

No one had.

“Goddamnit,” Booter muttered.

“O.K.,” said Edgar, “here’s the deal. We carry him back to the compound.”

“Sure,” said one of them.

“It’s easy,” said Edgar. “We spread out this sleeping bag, and we put him on it, and we each grab some of it … three to a side.”

Booter didn’t like it. “Wait a minute …”

“We gotta,” said Edgar, checking his watch. “The concert’s almost over.”

“What concert?”

“C’mon, Zack … gimme a hand. You other guys wait outside.”

Edgar and Zack seized Booter under the arms and pulled him over to the sleeping bag. Then they dragged the bag out into the open air, where the other boys were already in position, ready for the hoist.

“Hey, Edgar,” said Philo, “what if he hops instead?”

Edgar groaned. “He’s an old guy, numbnuts. He can’t hop.”

Booter didn’t argue. He was an old guy, all right. Hopping was out of the question.

Edgar surveyed his henchmen. “Jackson, swap places with Zack Two. He’s stronger.”

“He is not,” said Jackson.

“Just shuddup,” said Edgar. “O.K…. Lift when I say so. One … two … three …
lift.”

As he ascended, Booter gazed up at six intent little faces and thought of them suddenly as his pallbearers.

“Where are we going?” he asked Edgar.

“Back to Brother Sun.”

“Where?”

“The boys’ compound. Brother Sun.”

The boys began to walk, carrying him perilously close to the ground. The darkness was almost total; the terrain seemed strewn with obstacles. There were rocks and spongy spots, impenetrable thickets, prickly branches that swooped down without warning, thrashing the boys like vindictive schoolmarms.

“Is it far?” asked Booter.

“No,” said Edgar.

One of the boys broke stride, then stumbled.

“Philo!” barked Edgar. “Stop spazzing out.”

“I heard something,” said Philo.

“Big homo,” said someone else.

“I did. Hold up, you guys.”

Amidst groans of protest, the boys came to a halt, still holding Booter aloft. He could see the moon through the trees and not much else, but he didn’t move for fear of upsetting the balance of their cargo.

The woods seemed quiet enough. An owl or two. Guitars and voices in the distance, dim and harmless.

“It’s nothing,” said Edgar. “What did you think it was? The boogeywoman?”

The other boys shared a laugh at poor Philo’s expense as Booter’s magic-carpet ride began anew, faster this time. They seemed to be going down a slight incline, and the foliage had grown more sparse.

“How much further?” asked Booter.

“Not far,” said Edgar, puffing a little.

“What is this place, anyway?”

“What place?”

“Here. This camp. These … ladies.”

“Wimminwood,” said Philo, obviously eager to redeem himself.

“Aren’t there any men here?”

Philo said: “You’re lookin at ‘em.”

Philo’s tormentor snorted derisively. “Big homo.”

“Zack, shut up,” said Edgar, slowing their pace a little. “I think I heard something.”

“Now he hears it,” muttered Philo.

“What the hell?” came a voice from the darkness. It was growly and female.

The boys shot panicked glances at one another and began to trot. Booter winced as the sleeping bag banged against a protruding stump.

“Stop right there,” bellowed the voice.

“We’d better stop,” whispered Zack.

“No way,” said Edgar, picking up speed.

From Booter’s viewpoint, the moon was caroming crazily off the treetops. Vertigo overwhelmed him, so he shut his eyes and set his jaw and waited for the worst. Their nemesis was so close he could hear her lumbering Sasquatch gait, the sound of her labored breathing.

One of the middle boys deserted his post, hightailing it into the woods.

“Hey,” called Edgar, his reedy voice full of anger and despair.

The boy next to Edgar stumbled, dropping Booter’s legs. The whole flimsy mechanism jerked rudely to a halt and Booter was deposited on the ground, his fall somewhat softened by the sleeping bag.

Another boy fled. Then another. Only Edgar was left, staring down into his step-grandfather’s stunned face. “Get outa here,” said Booter, giving the boy the absolution he sought. “You did your best.”

Edgar regarded him gravely for a moment, then darted off into the forest. The same faint scampering sounds that had marked the arrival of this band now betrayed its departure. Booter swallowed hard and tried to right himself.

The growly voice said: “What the hell?”

Turning his head, he saw a short, heavyset woman emerge from the underbrush. She approached him warily, raking her fingers through the short gray hair over her ears. Even from here, he could tell she was drunk.

“Please,” Booter began, “can you help me?”

She inched forward and regarded him in a pitcher’s squat, legs spread, hands clamped on her knees. Her mouth hung slack for a moment before she said: “Well … if that don’t beat all!”

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

“Hurt me?” She threw back her head and hooted. Her voice was raspy with nicotine and whiskey. “Oh, yeah … please don’t do that.” Laughing again, she was seized by a sudden coughing jag, which threw her off balance and sent her tumbling ingloriously to the ground.

She rose slowly, but only to a sitting position. “Damn,” she said.

He licked his lips and swallowed. “If you help me, I’ll pay you anything….”

“Who the hell are you?”

He remembered what had happened the last time he used his name. “I came down the river,” he told her. “By canoe. I fell asleep, and I—”

“Who did this?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. She hit me on the head first. Look, I haven’t done anything….”

“She just tied you up and left your ass?”

“Yes.”

“You see her? What’d she look like?” He decided to risk the truth. “Her head was shaved. In patterns.”

“Oh, hell.” Catching her breath, she rose falteringly to her feet. “O.K. Ol’ Mabel better get her ass in gear….”

“No,” he said, “please don’t go.”

“Sit tight,” she answered, hulking away into the night.

Passions

I
N THE KITCHEN AT WREN’S LODGE, BRIAN WAS POURING
juice into Flintstones glasses. He bounced around jauntily, with self-conscious aplomb, like a television chef confronting his first national audience. Why, Wren wondered, do men always retreat a little after sex or confession?

“You think the guys got lost in there?” he asked. She had told him about Booter’s disappearance, about their shack-up arrangement, even about the check Booter had left for her. One confession had seemed to merit another.

“Maybe it’s a black hole,” she said, leaning against the doorway.

“Yeah. Sort of a Bohemian Triangle.” He handed her a glass of juice.

“You and Michael are pretty close, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.”

“Why?”

“Well … he told me to call you, for one thing.”

“When? Tonight?”

“When else?” Seeing his expression, she added: “I would’ve done it anyway.”