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CHAPTER THREE

Older Boys

When field hockey practice ended on Friday, Lisa Doyle and Janice Bledsoe headed for the bus loop to wait for Janice's mother, who was always late.

“I'm sick of field hockey already,” Janice said, zipping her parka. “Why do we have to practice in the off-season?”

Lisa shrugged. She was tired, too. And cold. The clouds overhead were dark and rumpled, like the sky in a landscape painting. She rubbed her arms inside her sweatshirt and wished she'd changed out of her field hockey shorts. “So how'd you know to wear a coat?” Lisa asked. “It was sunny this morning.”

“Weatherdude,” Janice said. “Very watchable weatherdude on CBS.”

A fat drop of rain spattered on the sidewalk, then another.

“Mother,” Janice said impatiently, jiggling her legs. “Where art thou?”

From the gymnasium behind them came the dull clunk of a metal door. It was a compact, muscular guy wearing baggy pants, a tight, striped T-shirt, and no coat, in spite of the weather. “I think it's Popeye the Sailor Man,” Janice said, but Lisa recognized the approaching face.

“It's the wrestling guy from three years ago,” she said. “His picture's all over the trophy case.”

Lisa looked away, but Janice didn't. She stared frankly, waited until he got within ten feet of them, and said, “Hey, are you the wrestling guy?”

He was handsome, Lisa had to admit. Buff and handsome. But older, maybe twenty or twenty-one. He stopped and, smiling, let his eyes settle first on Lisa, then Janice. He seemed to be chewing something. “I wrestled a little, yeah.”

“I never wrestled,” Janice said. She was using her zingy voice, the one Lisa knew she saved for serious flirting. “Is it fun?”

The wrestling guy kept his smile and made a slow blink. “Depends who you're wrestling with.”

This was smoothly suggestive, and while Janice laughed some emotion quickened within Lisa, but it wasn't a pleasant one.

“What're those?” Janice said, staring down at the stack of yellow papers he held in his hand.

“Job flyers,” he said, and peeled off two, one for each of them, and upon looking it over Janice let out a jingly laugh. “We already saw these. In fact, we'd already decided to apply. You going to be there?”

While replying to Janice he looked at Lisa. “Wouldn't miss it.” From between his lips a small pink bubble appeared, expanded, and abruptly snapped back into his mouth. Then—it took him a while to free his eyes from Lisa—he said to Janice, “Maybe I'll see you Saturday, then.”

The raindrops, which had been fat and scattered, now began to fall in real volume. The wrestling guy turned to walk away, had in fact taken a few steps when Janice said, “So what's your name?”

He stopped and smiled. “Maurice.”

A strange nervous chuckle escaped from Janice.
“Maurice?”
she said.

Very calmly Maurice nodded. Rain streamed down his face. “That's right. Maurice.”

Janice said, “Well, could we just call you Maury? Or maybe Mo?”

In slow succession Maurice winked, widened his smile, and said in a low, calm voice, “No.”

He walked away.

They watched him go.

He got into a customized black Honda.

“Okay,” Janice said when he'd closed the door, “that was definitely the closest I've ever come to a hands-off orgasm.”

“Ja-nice! Eeee-
yew.
” Lisa squinched her nose comically, but the truth was Janice's blunt talk bothered her. “Besides, that guy is a yikes. A complete reptile.”

Janice turned to Lisa with what looked like genuine surprise. “Are you kidding, Leeze? Those eyes could melt butter.” Then, looking over Lisa's shoulder toward the street, “Finally—here comes the mother ship.”

Down the block, Mrs. Bledsoe's vast brown Electra was idling at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Raindrops merged on the pavement and started reflecting the whites and reds of head- and taillights. The Electra began to move, and swung into the far end of the bus loop.

Mrs. Bledsoe's car smelled peculiar, as always, but it was blissfully warm. It was also a mess. To settle herself on the backseat, Lisa had to pick up a Mozart CD on which something pink had dribbled, an empty container of Frappuccino, a copy of
Ms.
magazine, a tape recorder, a pair of sling-back pumps, and a dry-cleaning bag.

“Excuse the detritus,” Mrs. Bledsoe said, flashing her familiar gap-toothed smile over her shoulder at Lisa and then flipping on the windshield wipers. She turned out of the bus loop and up Indian Hill Drive, where, a few blocks farther on, she pulled up at a signal alongside a low-slung black Honda. “Popeye,” Janice said over her shoulder to Lisa, and nodded toward the car.

Lisa glanced over—the rear and side windows were all tinted—and said, “Mr. Lizardo.”

“Who're we discussing here?” Mrs. Bledsoe said.

“Guy in the Honda,” Janice said. “He used to be a wrestling jock at Jemison.”

Mrs. Bledsoe leaned forward and gave the car a quick study. “And now he expresses his vanity vehicularly.”

Lisa laughed, but Janice didn't. She said, “And, let's see, in the world according to Mom, that's some kind of crime?”

The light changed. “Only if he's capable of something more than window tinting.” As she pulled ahead of the Honda, Mrs. Bledsoe gave it a last glance. “Okay, I'm going on record here,” she said amiably. “Mr. Honda is a bad bet.”

“Says the mom who really knew how to choose,” Janice said.

Mrs. Bledsoe, who had twice been married and divorced, nodded good-naturedly. “Point to daughter,” she said.

No one said anything for a few moments, and through the back window Lisa watched the Honda slowly splash through a right turn onto a side street. What was weird was how slowly Maurice drove.

Up front, Mrs. Bledsoe said, “I have to exchange a bathrobe at the mall. You girls mind riding along?” The mall was in Syracuse, twenty minutes from Jemison. “When we get there, we'll probably have to check in at Starbucks for hot chocolate.”

“Yum,” Lisa said.

“Hot chocolate,” Janice said matter-of-factly. “Very Mormon. Makes Lisa feel at home. Very obliging of the mother ship.”

Mrs. Bledsoe grinned and said, “The mother ship will herself partake generously of caffeine.”

“Could we look at shorts afterward?” Janice asked.

“Nyet,” her mother said. “But we could look at job apps. Dog on a Stick is hiring, I heard.”

“Have you even
seen
the uniforms they wear?” Janice asked, and gave Lisa a grin over her shoulder. “We'd look like a couple of doggy dipsticks! Besides, Lisa and I are on to serious job possibilities at Village Greens.”

Lisa leaned forward over the backseat to get nearer the heat vents and, trying to dispel the bad feeling about Maurice, said, “Healthy outdoor labor. We're going to be yard girls.”

Mrs. Bledsoe studied a chipped red fingernail as they waited for a red light. “Yard girls, huh?” Her tone was definitely dubious.

Janice began to sing, “Greeeen acres is the place to be, Faaaarm livin' is the life for me,” and Lisa jumped in with, “Land spreadin' out so far and wide . . .”

Mrs. Bledsoe interrupted. “You two are going to mow lawns at Village Greens? Have either of you so much as touched a lawn mower before?”

“No,” Janice said. “But the boys can do that. We'll clip and prune. Rake and sweep. Wave at the old gentlemen.”

“What boys?” Mrs. Bledsoe said.

“The yard boys,” Janice said. “Tanned, buff yard boys.” Then, mock serious, “Hardworking, college-bound boys who would never ever window tint. Which is why we need new shorts.”

“What part of nyet don't you understand, sweetness?” Mrs. Bledsoe said, and even though her tone was friendly, Lisa could tell that she meant it, and Janice seemed to understand it, too, because she let the matter drop. Probably the issue was money— with Janice and her mom, it usually was.

The windshield wipers went
ka-tick ka-tick ka-tick.
For no reason she understood, Lisa found herself thinking of a boy she'd been watching lately during sacrament meeting, only he wasn't really a boy, he was a missionary, which meant he was at least 19, or maybe 20. His name tag said only Elder Keesler—she had no idea what his first name was. Still, once or twice in the past week she'd found herself writing his last name over and over in the same place until KEESLER was impressed in the paper.

Lisa felt the heat on her face and looked out the window at downtown Syracuse. Smith Restaurant Supply. Red turrets like in a gothic movie. Gold brick, gray stone, spires here and there, old concrete, bare trees, wet streets. Elder Keesler was too old for her, Lisa knew, and he was technically off limits while he was an elder, but who else was she supposed to think about? There were no Mormon boys that she liked in Jemison, or even in Syracuse. “Just wait until you get to BYU,” her mother said, but what kind of lame idea was that? Wait until
college
for your first boyfriend?

“Penny loafer for your thoughts,” Janice said.

“Oh, I was just thinking about something,” Lisa said.

“Something or some
one
?”

“Someone,” Lisa admitted.

“Gender, please.”

Lisa didn't really want to talk about it, but Janice was insistent. “Gender, please,” she repeated.

“You could almost say neither,” Lisa said. “He's a Mormon missionary.”

Janice pounced on this. “
Neither?
So the Mormonoids
neuter
their poor missionaries?”

Lisa laughed, but uncomfortably, and in a mild, mock-warning voice Mrs. Bledsoe said, “Play nice, Janice.” Then she said, “I was just reading that Mormons on average live eight to eleven years longer than your comparable standard-issue American. Why do you think that is, Lisa?”

Lisa gave what she supposed was the right answer: no smoking, no drinking, no caffeine.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Bledsoe said, “researchers chalk some of the actuarial difference up to that, and also to the interconnected-ness of their lives, but some of it they can't explain.”

Mrs. Bledsoe's voice trailed off, and it was clear she was lost in her own thoughts.

Lisa stared again out the wet window. No smoking, she thought. No drinking, no caffeine. No boyfriends. No fun.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jeeps

The Village Greens, according to an expensive-looking sign out front, was A RESIDENTIAL COMMUNITY FOR DISCERNING ADULTS 55 OR BETTER. The entrance was marked by elaborate rock columns and ornate black auto gates that were divided by a small, natural-seeming waterfall. Behind the waterfall was a little house right out of
Snow White,
but the person who stepped out of it as Mick Nichols approached on foot was no dwarf. He was a burly older man in a blue security uniform. “Howdy-ho,” he said.

Mick said, “Hi,” and hoped howdy-ho was not some kind of password.

“You here to apply for one of the maintenance positions?”

Mick said he was, and after giving his name, address, and telephone number, the man asked for some form of ID. Mick showed him his Jemison student card.

“Alrighty then,” the man said. “I'll call ahead and let 'em know you're coming.” He pointed off. “Proceed to Narragansett, turn left, and head for the maintenance shed. It's got a green roof. You can't miss it.”

Mick could miss it, of course, and did. Village Greens was enormous, with pleasant bungalows nestled among oak trees along streets that curved and meandered in all directions. Occasionally the trees and houses gave way to the wide expansive fairways of a golf course. The day had broken sunny and there were quite a few walkers on the streets, older women in jogging gear mostly, and a number of people—also old—moving quietly along in battery-powered carts. Then Mick came to a large, brown-shingled building with a green metal roof. He tried three different locked doors before the fourth door opened onto a good-sized room with maybe a dozen kids scattered out among folding chairs. A man stood up in front of the blackboard talking, but fell abruptly quiet when Mick came in and slid into the back row. The man picked up his clipboard and ran a pencil down the page. “You must be Mick Nichols,” the man said, and when he looked back at Mick all the kids turned in their seats to look, too.

One of them had coppery red hair.

One of them was Lisa Doyle.

The rest of the morning passed in a rush. Mick completed an application form, went through a two-minute interview, and was pronounced qualified. Then, along with the others, he was given the Village Greens Younger Employees' Handbook, the Village Greens Injury Prevention Program, and a demonstration on the safe use of such small equipment as blowers, Weed Eaters, and mowers. The man, a Mr. Blodgett, said, “It's all common sense, but Uncle Sam's never happy unless he's whipped up a batch of paperwork,” and here he passed out Safety Training Acknowledgment Forms for everyone to sign.

When Lisa Doyle signed hers, she leaned close to Janice Bledsoe and whispered something that made Janice laugh. Except for their own brief interviews, they'd been sitting together all morning.

“Okay,” Mr. Blodgett said, “we're ready to break into teams. The building you're in sits roughly at the center of the community, which, for maintenance purposes, we break into four quadrants”— here he pointed as he talked—“northwest, southwest, southeast, and northeast. Take a look at your Employees' Handbook. In the upper right of the back cover you'll see your designation.”

There was a shuffle in the room as everyone found their handbooks and flipped them over. Mick's said NE. Northeast.

A boy in the front said, “Mine says ess double-ewe—what does that mean?” and everyone laughed.

Mr. Blodgett said, “That would stand for southwest. You'll be working in the southwest quadrant.” He pointed to four older boys standing against the wall. “I'm going to introduce you now to your crew chiefs. They've all worked here for at least three years and have proven themselves able workers and supervisors. Okay, beginning with the northwest team—”

Mick stared at the four. They all wore work boots and khaki shorts. Their T-shirts and caps were embroidered with the Village Greens logo. They all smiled and looked more or less ruggedly handsome.

This time it was Janice Bledsoe who, red-faced and excited looking, leaned over to Lisa Doyle and whispered something that made her laugh.

“And the leader of the northeast team,” Mr. Blodgett was saying, “is Maurice Gritz.” Maurice took a half step forward, nodded, and very slightly widened his smile.

Mick thought, He looks okay, I guess.

Mr. Blodgett said, “Alrighty then, the team leaders will go to separate corners, and each of you will join his or her team leader for further orientation.”

Alrighty then, Mick thought.

Everyone stood, and most of the kids started moving toward one corner or another, but Mick noticed Janice Bledsoe and Lisa Doyle standing uncertainly, then going over to Mr. Blodgett. They were asking for some kind of favor, Mick could tell by their body language, but Mr. Blodgett just smiled and shook his head no. Then he turned to the room in general and said, “I'm sorry, people, but assignments can't be changed or traded. You must report to the crew leader you've been assigned to.”

This seemed to affect Janice more than Lisa. Janice's shoulders drooped. She gave Lisa one last look and headed off to the southwest team. Lisa turned and walked toward the group gathering around Maurice Gritz.

The northeast team.

Mick's team.

Maurice Gritz blew pink gum bubbles while he waited for his new recruits to assemble. When they had, he expertly deflated the bubble, sucked it into his mouth, and led the group outside, where it was quieter. “Okay,” he said. “Bad news, good news. The bad is that we've got another hour or so of orientation. The good is that you're now on company time and will be paid for it.”

This was met with a general murmur of assent. Mick was at the back of the half circle of kids that curved around Maurice. Lisa Doyle was in front of him, so close that, if he leaned forward, he might smell her shampoo. If she leaned to the side and let the sun through, it gave her hair a coppery aura. Otherwise, he knew no one in his group, although there was a pretty Hispanic girl he thought he'd seen around school.

“Question,” Maurice said, and scanned his group. “Who knows what Lilliput is?”

After a second or two, Lisa Doyle said, “Where the Lilliputians live.”

Maurice smiled. “And what are Lilliputians?”

Lisa said, “Little people.”

Maurice's gaze was now fixed solely on Lisa Doyle. “And where exactly is Lilliput?”

Lisa shrugged. “Someplace in England?”

Maurice slowly separated his gaze from Lisa. “I suggest you all look around, because you're standing in it,” he said. “This
is
Lilliput. The old coots you see around here look normal sized, but they're not. They're Lilliputians, and they want their little village to look a certain little way.”

Mick had the feeling none of this was coming from the company script. There was a strange suppressed vehemence to Maurice's words.

Maurice gazed beyond the crew for a second, then was looking at them again. “Making Lilliput look a certain little way is what you and I are paid to do, and we're going to do it efficiently and we're going to do it right. Are you with me on this?”

Everyone nodded.

“Okay,” Maurice said, “for your first six Saturdays, you guys will be officially known as jeeps, which is hand-me-down service slang for new guys. After that you're normals—those of you who make the grade—and if you're good enough, you'll work full-time during summer. While you're jeeps, you get minimum wage. When you're a normal, you get minimum plus a buck.” He grinned. “Which ain't bad, considering.”

He went through his roll sheet, using only last names. Doyle, Furman, Gallagher, Nichols, Traylor, and then he stopped. “Uhoh,” he said. He looked at the last new recruit, the pretty Hispanic girl. “Are you Lizette Uribe?” He pronounced it in sluggish separate syllables:
you-rib-bee.

She nodded. “Except it's
oo-ree-bay.
”

“That's the problem right there,” Maurice said. “It's too hard to pronounce. I'm what you might call monolingual, and I don't want to offend you by mangling your name. So how about we go to something easier? Something I can pronounce?” He grinned at Lizette Uribe. “How about if we just call you Gomez?”

One of the boys laughed. Traylor.

Lizette Uribe just stared, as if confused.

Mick thought he ought to say something, but didn't know what.

“Okay, then,” Maurice said. “It's Gomez then. I'll just make a note of it.”

Lisa Doyle blurted, “Couldn't you just call her Lizette? That's easy to pronounce.”

Maurice turned sharply, snapped a quick bubble, and stared at Lisa for a long still moment. “Problem is, Lizette is too close to Lisa. That could lead to confusion, and confusion can lead to safety problems.” A sudden grin split his handsome face. “But high marks, Doyle, for looking for solutions.” He kept his eyes directly on her. “There's nothing I like better than a good little problem solver.”

The hour went quickly. Maurice showed them the men's and women's locker rooms, the time clock, and the sheds where tools were kept and trucks stored. They all climbed into a Village Greens minivan and he drove them around “their territory,” the common areas of the northeast quadrant. Mick had taken the seat right behind Lisa Doyle, but by the time the tour was over he hadn't thought of a thing to say to her.

Back at the maintenance shed, Maurice brought out two big boxes of Village Greens hats and T-shirts. “Here's the deal,” he said. “You show up every day on time wearing your official three-color Village Greens shirt and hat in good condition during any pay period, and you work all day without leaving early in that pay period, then you get a fifty-cent bonus for every hour in that pay period. So wash 'em, iron 'em, and wear 'em with pride. The half bucks add up.” He scanned his grin around the group and let it land on Lisa Doyle. “Okay, the hats are like me. One size fits all.”

Everyone laughed because they knew they were meant to laugh.

“The shirts come in five sizes,” Maurice went on. “Small, medium, large, extra large, and V.O.” He waited a beat. “V.O. is for very obese.”

Another weak laugh from the jeeps.

Maurice said, “I wouldn't have said that if anyone here were actually in that category.” Another beat. “Wouldn't want to be accused of sizeism.”

This time Traylor was the only one to laugh, but that didn't seem to bother Maurice. “Okay, I'm pretty good at estimating sizes, so if you'll allow me.”

He gave Mick, who wasn't large, a large. When Lisa Doyle checked her label, she said, “I think small's going to be too . . . small.”

Maurice grinned. “Boys wear 'em loose, girls wear 'em small. That's informal policy on Maurice's crew.” He was closing up the boxes, putting them away. Mick couldn't help but notice that Maurice was the exception to his own rule. His own T-shirt wasn't tight exactly, but it was close fitting, so you couldn't miss the definition of his pecs.

The recruits dispersed without talking. The two older boys headed off to their cars. Lisa Doyle headed off to the maintenance shed, probably to find Janice Bledsoe. Mick followed a distance behind, and when she glanced back he swerved toward the driving range, where a row of older men and women were whacking balls here and there. When Mick again looked back, Lisa Doyle was nowhere to be seen.

He started walking out. Lizette Uribe was in front of him, moving so slowly he couldn't avoid catching up. When he did, he said, “Hi.”

She glanced at him, but didn't speak.

“Maurice is kind of a donkey, isn't he?”

Silence. This time she didn't even glance at him.

“Okay, I'll see you next Saturday,” Mick said, and picked up his pace. But he honestly wondered who would be back next Saturday.