Wolves, Boys and Other Things That Might Kill Me (21 page)

Three weeks can feel like a long time. But three weeks of brutal homework, fixing up the shop, my dad not speaking to me, no trips across the park to see the wolves, and Virgil avoiding me feels more like an ice age. On the upside, I’m getting pretty decent at jumping out of the tree house.

 

Dennis takes the note from the office for Mrs. Baby. She’s late again. Dennis likes being the editor. I like reading the notes he puts on Baby’s desk.

It’s from Eloise. Virgil has a cold, again. For the last three weeks he’s probably made it to half of his classes. And when he’s here he just puts his head on his desk and sleeps. I have asked him what’s going on but he just says, “Not sleeping well.” A girl can only ask a guy what’s wrong so many times and then it’s nagging.

I’d ask Addie what to do, but she’s busy right now. Making Virgil so tired he can’t even come to school.

Sondra says, “You want to meet for lunch?”

I nod.

In spite of my attempts to inoculate myself by hurling myself into space, I have come down with the silence flu. A highly contagious form of social dysfunction, spread by my father, who talks less than most rock formations. He doesn’t even harass me about school. He eats dinner in front of the news so he doesn’t have to look at me. His silence feels like shouting. I am as silent as he is.

Mr. Muir corners me after class. “How’re we doing?”

I shrug.

“How’s your studying for the ACT?”

I shrug again. I don’t have enough words to explain how much I don’t want to talk to him right now.

“You know what I’ve figured out about you?”

I brace myself for a lecture on my poor work ethic, my poor attitude, and the dirt under my fingernails.

“You aren’t great at math, KJ. But it’s being afraid to fail that kills you. There isn’t any room in your head for numbers.”

Adults. Sometimes they’re less dumb than they look.

I still don’t want to talk to him.

He pats me on the back as I walk to his door. “It’s a good thing it’s a written exam.”

 

At work there is a note from my dad. It begins, “To Be Completed.” I’ve been relegated to the passive voice.

I go to the grocery store to get cleaning supplies. They’ve added a fourth piece of paper to The List to accommodate all the signatures. People must be making a special trip into town just to sign up. I’m sure glad we had that nice meeting to clear up all the hard feelings.

CAN’T LIVE WITH ’EM. CAN’T SHOOT ’EM.

MEN. BOYS. BEASTS.

I wish I didn’t care what Virgil is doing. I wish I could hate him or blame him or forget him. That would be a lot easier than watching him talk to Addie after school and then disappear into Aunt Jean’s Cadillac with no idea where he is going.

“Hey, Addie,” I say, after Virgil drives off.

“Yes,” she says coyly.

“What are you doing after school today?” I say just as coyly.

“Working. Like usual. Mom has five quilts she’s doing for a show in Bozeman so I get to do all the dirty work.” Addie’s mother makes quilts and then sells them at craft shows all over the state. Addie says she gets her “intuitive side” from her mother. My intuition tells me Addie is not just helping her mom this afternoon.

“That must be really hard,” I say.

“Not really,” says Addie. “I like housework. It’s relaxing.” She talks quickly and keeps walking.

I keep pace with her even though I know she wants to get away.

“How’s the shop coming?” she says with a dose of perky.

“Oh, you know . . .” I say. “We never stop laughing at our place.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh,” she says with a pout. “Well, just keep sending out those positive feelings to your dad. He’ll come around. That’s why you’re in such pain. . . . you are a warrior for good.”

At this point the only warlike thing I want to do is throttle Addie, so I have to leave. I can handle guilty lies, but the pseudo-psychology perky hypocrisy is too much even for a warrior like me. And yes, it’s possible I am slightly out of my mind with rampaging jealousy.

I walk to the shop and Dad is talking with a contractor. They are arguing about money, so I don’t go in. Dad comes outside and actually speaks to me. “KJ. I need you to drive out to Charlie Dalton’s in Ennis and get the wood sample he has for me. Here’s the address. I need it yesterday. This guy in here is jacking me all over, saying he can’t do the finish the way I want. I’d go myself but I’m waiting for the plumbers.”

In spite of my seething over Addie, this is news. I bask in the light of my father’s sentence structure, and the fact that he has actually entrusted me with a job that involves me leaving the city limits.

“Sure,” I say.

I hop in the truck and head for Ennis. The roads are dry today, so it’s only marginally stressful. My job is to get the sample and come home. I make a mental note to myself:
“Whatever you do—don’t screw up.
”

I roll down the windows and breathe in the cold air. I turn on the radio full blast when I hit Highway 287. Sixty-two miles of nothing but road, music, and gray sky. I have two hours before the store in Ennis closes, so I don’t have to speed. I look at the ranch homes as I pass. I look out over at Hebgen’s icy shores, wondering if we will get the store put together before the snow melts.

The radio bleats a horrible country song. I know all five words, so I sing along. I pass the dam and the visitor’s center for the ’88 earthquake. Within minutes I am passing prime stream water on one side and prime ranch property on the other. I see the muddy entrance to the community where Kenner and Addie live. At the front of the entrance, parked next to a dirty snowbank, I see Aunt Jean’s Cadillac.

I nearly swerve off the road.

I turn off the radio and concentrate on the lines that keep me from crashing. There is nowhere to pull over. But then again, if I flip the truck it might be good, as long as I don’t actually live. I can’t remember where I am going. I am overreacting. I am OverReActIng. I AM OVERREACTING.

I roll up the windows. I crank up the heat. It doesn’t help. I turn the radio back on. The sound makes my ears ring. I turn it off again. I concentrate on getting to Ennis without wrecking Dad’s truck.

When I get into town I find the shop, the man, and the sample. The man asks me if I need a glass of water. I don’t make a good impression. I head home. For fifty miles I tell myself that even if the Cadillac is still at the gate I have to keep driving. There isn’t anything to do. He’s not breaking a law. He’s just dumping me.

When I get to the Cadillac I slow down and then I stop. I get out of the truck. I get back in the truck. I promised. I drive every miserable mile back to the store, give Dad the sample, and ask him if I can borrow the truck.

“What for?” he says, impatient to get back to the plumber.

“I need to talk to Addie,” I say.

“Can’t you call her on the phone?” he says.

“Boy trouble . . . you know, it’s better in person,” I say sympathetically.

He nods. I walk for the door.

“One hour.”

“You got it,” I say as calmly as possible when you are a green-eyed lunatic. I can barely get out there and back in one hour. But then, how much time to do you need to confront your worst nightmare?

 

There is just enough light to see inside the Cadillac. I peer at Virgil’s health book on the backseat. Looking at that book sears me with humiliation. Health class. The day I stuck my nose in it with Kenner and embarrassed Virgil. And here I am again. What am I going to say? What am I doing here? I walk back to my car. I stew ten minutes. Dad is expecting me back. I get out of the car and start walking.

I follow the path into the two-family development. When I reach the fork in the road I see truck lights coming toward me from Addie’s house. It’s Addie.

She pulls up next to me. “Hey. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, I’ve been telling him for a week that he needs to come clean.”

I look at her with as much neutrality as I can muster. I know it’s not her fault I drove him away. But I also know she had this in mind all along. “Well, thanks.”

“I think they’re all up at the house.” Then Addie does the darndest thing. She points up the road to Kenner’s house. “You won’t believe it. You know, he’s not half bad for a city kid.”

I stand in the road. This must be what the deer feels like right before the lights from the semi connect. What is Virgil doing at Kenner’s? Why isn’t he at Addie’s house, sucking her face off and eating all her home cooking? I have to catapult from one betrayal to the next, without completely exhibiting my whole inner freak show to Addie. “I . . . I . . . Yeah. Well, thanks,” I repeat.

She looks out her truck window with nauseatingly empathy on her face. “Do you want me to go with you? I could drive you up and smooth it over for you like I did for Virgil. I know it must be hard for you since I know you’ve figured . . . well, you know. This really is so brave of you.”

I am so far from brave right now I’m not even the opposite of brave. I look up the road to the Martins’ silos. At least there are answers up there. I nod and climb into Addie’s truck.

As we bump up the drive Addie keeps peering at me. Finally she says, “I’m glad he called you. I was getting pretty tired of covering for him.”

I peer back. Addie has been telling Virgil to be honest with me, while I have been silently hating her for being a conniving backstabber. I hate it when discovering something wonderful about someone else requires me discovering something pathetic about myself. “Thanks for driving me,” I say.

“Oh, geez, no. I just hate this whole ‘secret’ thing, no matter how rude you’ve been to me. I think what Virgil is doing is so . . . well, you know it probably won’t help anything as far as the wolves go, but maybe it will help Kenner and his family. Virgil says it’s a lot harder than he imagined it would be. They’ve both had to let go of their persona. I think it’s very empowering.”

I look over at Addie, dwarfed by her family’s huge truck. “You’ve been reading a lot of psych stuff this winter, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes! My mother says I’m going to wreck myself.”

“No,” I say. “I think it’s great.”

I can see Kenner’s mom, Mrs. Martin, in the window of her kitchen doing dishes.

Mrs. Martin comes out front and stands on her porch. She’s followed by Kenner’s little towheaded sister, Heidi. Heidi is holding a cat so pregnant it hurts me just to look at it. Mrs. Martin looks over me but not at me and rests her irritable gaze on Addie. “Yes, Addie?” she says in clipped succession.

Addie’s voice turns to one-hundred-proof honey. “This is KJ Carson.”

“I know who she is,” says Mrs. Martin.

“She’s here to see Virgil, aren’t you, KJ?” I can tell Addie wants me to say something, but anything I say is going to betray how little I understand about what is happening. And this doesn’t look like a woman who suffers fools, so I start with the only true thing I know. “Mrs. Martin, I’ve come to talk to Virgil but I was wondering if I could use your phone first. My dad is expecting me and I don’t want him to worry.”

Mrs. Martin sighs, as if I’m confirming her worst fears about me. “The phone’s in here.”

As I step into the small, clean house I hear her say, “I’m not running a hotel here.”

Inside the home there is little free space. In one corner, there is an ancient upright piano covered with family photos, a pint-size violin on a stand, a bookshelf, a green couch, and a covered rocker. In the other end of the room is a round dinner table and chairs made of varnished wood. On the wall next to the kitchen sink there is a cross and a calendar. Not exactly the Ponderosa.

I call the shop. No one answers. Not good. I call home. “Hey, Dad? Are you okay?”

“Where are you?” he says, no doubt looking at the caller ID.

“I’m at the Martins’ place.”

“The Martins’? What in blazes are you doing there?” His voice is more of a threat than a question.

“Can I tell you when I get home? I promise to get up at four and work on the store.”

“What are you doing, KJ?”

“Dad, I need to sort some things out.”

“Katherine Jean. Those people . . . You can’t go into a person’s home and accuse them of something.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Is this another one of your civil discourse ideas? The last one didn’t turn out so good for me.”

“Dad . . .” I want to make him happy, but there is no way to do that right now, even if I hang up and walk out of the house with no answers. I can only manage the disaster in front of me. “How about thirty minutes, plus drive time?”

“That’s plenty of time to start a mess,” he says, and hangs up in my ear.

I turn around to the sound of boots clomping on the wood floor and boys’ voices. I hear Virgil laugh. It sends a wave of fear and pleasure through me. I hear Kenner say, “No way. You were off by five feet. You nearly shot a hole in the barn.” It’s Kenner’s voice but without the edge.

Virgil laughs and walks into the kitchen. I feel the red blotches of embarrassment sweep up my throat, and I am grateful for my scarf. He looks up, his eyes startled. I don’t know which is more mind-boggling to me though, that I am standing in Kenner’s living room watching Virgil pal up with Kenner or that the two of them are holding shotguns.