The Cranberry Hush: A Novel (16 page)

“Is that what rich people do?” Griff said. “Play pinochle?”

“I don’t know, Griff. You’d know better than me.”

He was still grinning when someone behind us said, “Car
trouble?” It was the kid, our slippered guide, walking hand in hand with a girl
far taller and cuter than he was.

“Apparently,” Griff said.

“For another twenty bucks I can get it going for you,” the
kid said.

“Not unless you’ve got a spare fan belt hidden in that magic
coat of yours,” I said.

He laughed and he and his girlfriend kept walking. “We’re
going out for lunch,” he said to us over his shoulder, raising his hand and
rubbing his fingers together in the universal sign for cash.

“I’m kind of hungry myself,” Zane said.

We all were hungry by the time the tow truck pulled
up in front of the Jeep and a big-bellied man in a Red Sox cap climbed out.
Mason’s Garage
was stenciled in white on
the back of his brown jacket. A clipboard under his arm dangled a pen on the
end of a shoelace.

“It’s the fan belt,” I told him, poking the guts of my car
as he peered inside.

He pinched the broken end of the belt between his fingers.
“What are these, staples?”

“It broke once before and I stapled it back together.”

The guy laughed. “How many miles that get you?”

“I did it last fall, so... quite a few.”

“Last fall, huh? Not bad. You’re not looking for a job, are
you?” He laughed again.

“No, no thanks, I sell comic books.”

“Comics. Like
Superman
?”
It sounded like
Soopah-man
.

“That’s right.”

“You can close her up.” He put his foot on my bumper and
rested the clipboard on his knee, jotting notes in little boxes. “Should be
painless,” he said. “We’ll have a look at her tomorrow and get a new belt in there.
If you could fill this out.” He poked the form with a wide finger and walked
back to his truck. Towing apparatus began to unfold off the back.

“That’s not something you can get to today?” I said,
scribbling my name and address on the forms.

He shook his head. “It’s Sunday. Shop’s closed. Pop it in
neutral for me?” I did, and handed him the keys. He pressed another button on
his truck; the front of the Jeep lifted off the ground as though in a sling.

“So should we come with you or what?” I said.

“There’s nowhere for you to wait there. Like I said, shop’s
closed. Don’t live around here?” He glanced down at my address on the form.

“No, the Cape.”

He nodded. “I say get a room, go on a Duck Tour or something,
come to the garage in the morning. It’s the Washington Street stop on the B
Line. Call ahead if you want, but it’ll be done by noon.” He ripped off the
pink copy of the form and handed it to me. “Address is on there.”

Griff stood beside me and poked my elbow. “I don’t know how
I feel about sending all my stuff off with some random dude,” he whispered.

“I’m not gonna steal any of your stuff, bro, relax,” the guy
said. He hiked up his pants and opened the door of his truck.

“I know, of course, just... let me just cover up some things
first.”

He opened the door and unzipped his duffel bag, pulled out a
few sweatshirts and tossed them over the more valuable and obvious of his
possessions. Zane reached past Griff and grabbed the aloe plant off the seat.

“You can leave that in the car, dude,” Griff said.

“It’ll freeze,” Zane said. And responding to our dubious
smirks he added, “It’s mostly water.”

I folded the pink copy of the form I’d signed, stuffed it in
my coat pocket and watched my Jeep get towed away down the street.

“Didn’t that guy make you think of Bibbo?” Zane said,
holding the plant in the crook of his arm like a football or an infant.

“Ha. Yeah, kind of,” I said and then added, in what I
imagined Bibbo’s voice sounded like, “
Sooperman’s
my fav-rite.
”

“Who’s Bibbo?” Griff said.

“He’s a character who shows up in the
Superman
comics from time to time. Retired boxer, lottery winner,
owner of a famous bar...”

“You guys are such nerds,” Griff said. “Let’s go get
something to eat, shall we?”

We walked to a cheap bar and grill on Boylston
Street and were shown to a booth by a young guy with thick glasses and
too-short pants that revealed blue argyle socks. Griff slid into one side and
Zane the other, leaving me to make a quick decision.

I told Zane to push over.

The dorky host splayed three menus on the table and tripped
over something walking back to the little podium by the door.

“That’s got to be a cover,” Zane said.

“What?”

“That guy. The nerdiness. That’s totally his secret identity.”

“What’s his superpower?” said Griff.

“I don’t know, maybe a willy of steel?”

“No condom can hold him,” Griff said.

The aloe sat on the table between the napkins and a bottle
of ketchup. I opened my menu. Griff started to open his, left it and said he
was going to the restroom. He slid out of the booth.

Zane perused his menu and without looking up, said in a
goofy tone that resembled my impression of Bibbo, “Now it’s like a date.”

A date. My pulse quickened.

“It’s not a date,” I said, “it’s lunch. Do you know what you’re
getting?” I asked it without looking at him, my face buried in the laminated
menu. The light from the lamp swaying above the table reflected us both in the
plastic. We didn’t look bad together. But our shoulders were nearly touching,
and face-to-face contact would’ve almost been literal. And anyway, what did it
matter how we looked?

“A burger, I guess,” he said. “Maybe a shake too.”

“They make a good strawberry shake.”

“I like chocolate,” he said. “So you and Griff used to come
here, huh?”

“When we got sick of the dining hall. Which was often.”

“So it’s a memory-lane day for you guys.” He ran his finger
along the serrated edge of an aloe branch. White strings from a hole in the
thigh of his jeans swayed in the air from a baseboard vent like the fronds of a
sea anemone. My dick tingled. I wondered if those were the jeans he was wearing
at Golden Age the other night...

Griff once more filled the empty seat across from us. “Did
you order yet?” he said.

Maybe she’d been waiting for him to get back, but just then
a waitress appeared at the end of our table. A waitress who looked enough like
Melanie—had Melanie’s hair, her brown eyes—to make me do a full-on
double-take. I felt my throat tighten. With the three of them here it was like
I was surrounded, like I was being ganged-up on. My eyes spun like haywire compasses
from the hole in Zane’s jeans to Griff’s blond hair to the Melanie’s hips back
to Zane. Zane’s skin, Griff’s eyes, the Melanie’s hair. Zane’s lips, Griff’s
hands, the Melanie’s chest.

“Vince?”

“Oh sorry— Uh.” I was amazed again at how much she
looked like Melanie. “You guys can order first.”

“Uh, we did.”

“Oh. Ha.”

She took my order and then our menus, smiled. I unwrapped
the napkin from around my silverware and draped it over my thigh. I wished Zane
would do the same with his napkin and cover the anemone hole. It was too much.

Griff leaned forward. “Don’t you think she looks a little
bit like—”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.” He shrugged. “So what are we going
to do about sleeping?”

“I’ll hook us up with a hotel,” Griff said, shaking open his
napkin. “No worries.”

In a minute the Melanie returned with two beers and a
chocolate milkshake. Zane leaned forward to sip his shake from the flexible
straw and when he did his foot nudged mine.

“Your food’ll be right out,” the Melanie said.

“Thanks.”

She even walked the same as Melanie. Did Griff notice that
too? Why was he looking at me like that? Or was he looking at me and Zane? Was
he looking at
us
? When Zane’s foot
bumped mine a second time I clapped my hand over his leg, covering the anemone
hole.

“For fuck’s sake,” I said, “can you
stop doing that
?”

The straw slipped from his lips, sunk lazily into the
chocolate. He looked at me wide-eyed. Griff checked quick under the table as though
something lurking down there had bitten me.

“Not do
what
?”

“You’re all over me!” I said. “Give me some
space
, will you?”

“Jeez, I didn’t realize I was so toxic.” He slid across the
seat until his shoulder hit the wall.

I sighed, embarrassed, picked at the edge of the table with
my thumbnail. Our food came and I ate my turkey club in small bites.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, breaking the silence, when half my
sandwich was gone.

“OK,” Zane said.

“She looks like Melanie and I was freaking out.”

“OK,” he said again.

After observing me for a few minutes more Griff wiped his
mouth and tucked the napkin under his plate. “This place has always made me
feel the same sienna as a nice warm fire does,” he said. “I think that’s why I
like it.” He dipped a fry in ketchup and folded it into his mouth.

Zane looked at me curiously, and then at Griff. “Sienna?” he
said.

“Griffin feels in colors,” I said, opening the door for them
to discuss synesthesia for the rest of the meal.

We stood for a minute in the entrance of the
restaurant, not wanting to leave, not knowing exactly where to go when we did.
It was seven o’clock now and had been dark for almost an hour. The streetlights
and the glowing traffic gave the night a bustling immediacy.

“I guess now we find a place to sleep,” Griff announced,
velcroing the cuffs of his jacket sleeves tight around his thin wrists.

We let the door of the restaurant close with a thump,
sealing in music and heat and the Melanie, and we stepped out onto the
sidewalk. A few snowflakes were falling softly, without the coordination of a
flurry.

“Do you have your phone?” I asked Griff.

He unzipped his jacket and pulled it from an inside pocket.
It was small, like a silver tooth. I flipped it open.

“Do I remember Simon’s number?” I wondered aloud, running my
thumb over the glowing keypad. I felt hyperaware of myself, careful that
whatever I did or said was appropriate now in the context of my earlier
outburst. A delicate balance had to be found between remaining reserved enough
to convey my embarrassment but not be a total stick in the mud.

“Are you going to have him rescue us?” Zane asked.

“I’m just going to see if he’ll open the store for me
tomorrow.”

“It’s 508 585,” Zane started. “Five-three-five? Here, let
me.” He took the phone, poked the numbers, handed it back. “I think that’s
right.”

“It’s ringing.”

“Let’s just start walking this way,” Griff said, pointing in
the direction of the library.

Simon’s wife, Patti, answered on the third ring. Her voice
had the gentle authority I would expect from someone guiding me through the
purchase of a home. The phone was only big enough to reach from my ear to
mid-cheek; I talked loud to make sure she would hear. “It’s Vince, from Golden
Age—”

“Hi Vince!”

“Hi Patti. Is Simon around, by any chance?”

She told me he was working on his book and went off to find
him.

“Dude,” Griff said, “you don’t have to yell. It picks up the
sound from your jaw.” He tapped his right sideburn and then put his hands on
his hips. “I’m not sure I want to shell out the money for a hotel,” he said.
“Maybe we should just go back to Beth’s?”

Zane and I glanced at each other.

“Really? Is that a good idea?” I said, but then Simon was
saying hello in my ear. “Simon, it’s Vince.”

“Hi,” he said. “What’s up? Enjoying the snow?”

“Is it snowing there?”

“Yeah. —Why, where are you?”

“Boston,” I said, following Griff and Zane down Boylston
Street now. “I’m in Boston, and my car broke down, and it won’t be fixed until
morning, and I’m supposed to open the store.”

“I can do that for you, man,” Simon said. “Not a problem.”

“Great, thank you Simon.”

Zane turned around and asked if I thought it would be a
problem.

“I can take it all day if you want,” Simon continued. “Maybe
we should plan on that. I’m sure you’ll be tired when you get back. What’s
going on in the city?”

“Oh, I was helping my friend move. I’m sure I’ll be able to
get there by the afternoon.”

“Well either way,” he said. “Don’t worry about it, and don’t
hurry back. Do you have a place to stay? Hell, I could just come get you if you
want?”

“Oh, thanks, but I have to pick up the Jeep tomorrow morning
anyway. We’re just going to get a hotel or something.”

“So you’ve got company? That’s good.”

“I’m with my friend. And Zane is here too.”

“Ah, hey, put him on for a sec before you go, would you?”

“Sure. Thanks again, Simon.” I held the phone out to Zane.
“Boss wants a word.”

He frowned. “You said you didn’t tell him.”

“About the—?” I filled my cheek with my tongue. “No.”

He slid the phone up under his hat. “Hey Simon. —I
did, yeah, last Wednesday when it came out. —I know, it kicked ass.
Kerschl is at the top of his game. —Seriously, huh?”

Comic chat.

I walked faster to catch up with Griff. “So are you sure
about going back to Beth’s? Won’t that be—you know—a little
weird
?”

“It’ll only be for a little while,” he said. “We can just
crash late and leave early.”

“It doesn’t make any difference to me, I just don’t want you
to be uncomfortable.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”

Zane said goodbye to Simon and, like a gunslinger, flipped
the phone shut, handed it back to Griff. “He wanted to know if I’d read the new
Matt Morrow
.”