Camouflage (2 page)

“Well, then. Have a good time, pal. And remember, if you need anything, or just want to talk, here's a number where I can be reached.” He held out an envelope.

“I can always phone Mom. Thanks for the ride.” Kyle turned to go into the terminal.

“Hold it!” Brian ran after him. He stuffed the envelope into a pocket of Kyle's backpack. “See you in September and have a great time.” He tried to rumple Kyle's curly hair, but Kyle ducked and hurried through the automatic doors without looking back.

It wasn't until later, after he'd gone through security and sat waiting for his flight to be called, that he noticed the envelope in his backpack pocket. “Shoot!” he exclaimed, angry again at the man who wanted to be his father. He yanked the envelope out and tried to rip it in two—but it didn't tear easily. And then he saw why. There was something inside besides Brian's business card, something thicker.

“Hey!” he exclaimed aloud when he saw what it was. Clipped to Brian's card were three new twenty-dollar bills.

In the last half hour on the plane Kyle had been scared. What if his dad really didn't want him, had agreed to his coming because he had no choice? What if they felt uncomfortable together?

And then, coming out of the tunnel into the terminal, he saw him. His father stood taller than most and peered anxiously over the heads of others, looking for him. When he recognized Kyle, his face broke into a wide grin.

“Dad!” Kyle ran the last few steps. He dropped his duffel and, even with the clumsy backpack on, threw his arms around his father. His father smelled good, just like pine trees or something outdoorsy and smoke. He looked great, too, wearing a wool plaid shirt, worn jeans, and combat boots.

“Well! Just look at you!” his father exclaimed, beaming so that wrinkles creased his weathered face. “Grown some more! Rate you're going, gonna be taller than the old man!” He held Kyle at arm's length and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. A muscle twitched in his cheek and Kyle laughed. That's what happened whenever
he
got excited. It was uncanny. They both had rust-colored curly hair, the strong Klinger nose, and ears that kind of stuck out.

Still grinning, his dad picked up the duffel and led the way to the parking lot. “Flight okay?”

“Fine.”

“And your mother?”

“Fine, too.”

“Good. How's about we haul on home?”

“I really had a time talking Mom into my coming,” Kyle said as they walked to the parking lot. “I really conned her, Dad, and here I am!”

“I'm glad. It's time we got to know each other better.”

Kyle felt a burst of joy at his father's words. His dad did love him. You could still love someone even if you didn't write or phone or visit much.

“Mom's going with this guy, Dad,” he said when they stopped to wait for the light to change. “A cop.”

“Yeah?”

“I asked him once if I could hold his gun. Just for a minute, you know? So I could see how heavy it was, know if it was hot or cold to the touch.”

“Angie didn't mind?”

“Mom just stood there looking scared, like if I just
held
a gun I'd become a gangbanger or something. Anyway, it didn't matter 'cause Brian wouldn't let me; said it was against regulations and guns weren't to play with, anyhow.”

His father chuckled. “Creep.”

“Yeah. That's what I think, too. But I'm kind of glad. Once you said
you'd
teach me about guns.”

“I did, huh?” His dad smiled down at him and chuckled. “I guess I'll have to keep my word.”

“All
right
!” Kyle cried, skipping to keep up with his father.

They arrived at a gray pickup truck, its bed full of boxes and tarpaulins. “Old Elsie,” Kyle's dad said. “Even washed her in your honor.” He threw the duffel in back. “Wanna drive? Know how to handle a stick shift?” He tossed a ring of keys at Kyle as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You mean you'd let me?” Kyle's voice cracked.

“Why not? Farm kids know how to drive by the time they're twelve.”

Kyle could probably handle an automatic, but a stick shift? What if he lurched out of the parking lot and stripped the gears? Was it legal? Whoa! That's what his mother would ask. “Not now, Dad,” he said. “I'd like to practice where there's no traffic.” He tossed the keys back and climbed into the truck, glowing with pride that he'd even been asked.

“Seat belt,” his father said, climbing in beside him. “Your mom gave me orders.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out, and slid it between his lips. “Dirty habit. Wish I could quit.”

“Mom hates the smell. She's dead against cigarettes; says she will not have them in her house.”

“That's Angie! Doesn't she let you do anything?”

“Not much.”

“Well, you're with me, now, and it's okay. If you want to try one—go ahead.” He nodded at the pack on the dashboard.

“That's okay. I already tried it a couple of times,” Kyle admitted.

His father laughed, lit his cigarette, inhaled once, then put it out in the ashtray. “It's gonna be great having you around, Kyle. Always hoped we could spend more time together. Got a lot to show you—to teach you.” He pulled out into traffic. “Next stop—home.”

They had driven for nearly an hour, with his father talking much of the time. “Mostly farms in this part of the state,” he said. “Sugar beets, corn, cabbage, potatoes here. Smell that? Onions. And that there's an apple orchard. Taylor owns it. Ever pick an apple off a tree?” He glanced at Kyle.

“No? Well, never mind. You will. Nothing like that first tart bite. Makes your tongue sing. Not like what you buy in the supermarkets.

“Now that's the Johnson farm we're passing. Earl Johnson's a good buddy. Got a sixteen-year-old boy you'll want to meet. Hiram. Trouble there, though.”

“Trouble?” Kyle asked, glancing back at the rundown two-story wooden house in the middle of the flat land.

“Yep.” His father reached for another cigarette and lit it before speaking. “Government trouble. They want to take his farm. Four generations that land's been Johnson land, and some little weasel bureaucrat thinks he can take it away.”

“Can he?”

“We'll see.”

There was something so steely in his father's voice that Kyle stared at him. But the next moment his father went on describing the countryside in the same pleasant tone as before. “Now here we are coming into town. Stay alert. Blink and you'll miss it.” He smiled.

Kyle glanced from side to side down the one-block-long main street. It seemed typical of the other small farm towns they'd driven through. A post office, market, barber shop, beauty salon, hardware and general stores. He glimpsed side streets, no more than two blocks deep from the main street, with small houses and green lawns. Few people were out. It was midday and the air felt heavy and hot.

“Three miles to go,” his father said. “You can come into town anytime you want. Even got a small library. Angie asked about that.” He gave Kyle a knowing look. “Got a ten-speed for you so you can get around. Sorry it's not a motorcycle, but maybe later . . .”

“A motorcycle!” Kyle sat straighter and his heart pumped wildly.

“Yeah.” He grinned at Kyle. “We'll see.”

“Gee, Dad! I always wanted one but . . .” He stopped, not wanting to add that his mother would never allow it.

Here he'd spent only one hour with his father and already he'd been offered a smoke, a chance to drive the truck, gun lessons, and maybe even a motorcycle. What a summer this was going to be!

“O
H, WOW
!” K
YLE SAID.
“Cool!” He dropped his pack and duffel on the wood floor of the large living room and studied the place. This was a
man's
house. None of the pink-and-green couches and chairs of his mom's home, with its pictures of flowers and Paris streets on the walls. No fancy rug that “tied all the colors of the room together.” Nothing like that at all.

This house looked lived-in and smelled of leather and tobacco and the fresh outdoors. Two dark brown couches flanked a big stone fireplace. A bear rug lay on the floor between them. Moose and deer heads stared beady-eyed from the walls. A trestle table and benches stood near a window that looked out on trees and the road. And books—shelves overflowing with books and magazines. Even a rolltop desk covered with papers.

“Oh, wow! Cool!” Kyle repeated.

His dad's eyes twinkled. “‘Wow'? Is that all you can say? ‘Cool'? Your vocabulary's pretty limited. No wonder Angie wants you to read more.”

“It's like . . . like . . . something out of an old Western . . .”

“Don't know about that—but it suits me fine. Now, why don't you get yourself settled, then come into the kitchen. We'll have a cold drink and I've got something to show you. Your room's back there.”

Kyle dragged his duffel and backpack to the small bedroom.
Spartan. Simple and austere, just like the way people lived in ancient Greece
, he thought with satisfaction. A single bed on a bare floor, a small lamp on the nightstand, an old battered dresser, and a closet. His room at home was crowded with stuff, the walls covered with posters. He dropped his things on the bed and went to look at the pictures here. They were all of his father: stooping to pet a dog (did Dad have a dog?); photos with other men (his friends? his gun club?); a picture of him holding a rifle, being given a trophy.

Kyle moved to the window when he heard a dog bark and a horse whinny. Not far from the house were a paddock and a red barn. The barn seemed to be in better shape than the house. In the distance, beyond a windbreak of trees, the land lay flat and empty to the horizon. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd forgotten how good air could smell. The warm, heavy scent coming on the breeze smelled like sweet corn.

“Like it?” his father asked when Kyle came into the kitchen. He was holding a can of beer and offered Kyle a cola.

“
Like
it? My face hurts from grinning so much!”

His father's weathered skin wrinkled into a pleased smile. “Come outside,” he said. He picked up a plain-wrapped package and led Kyle out through the kitchen door to a rickety redwood table and benches under a tree. He sat opposite Kyle and pushed the package toward him. “Gift.”

“Aw, Dad. You shouldn't have,” Kyle said, feeling a rush of excitement as he reached for the package. He hurriedly slid the cord off the corners and tore at the paper.

His father lit a cigarette and looked over the smoke at Kyle. “Hope you like it. I have one just like it.”

“A . . . a . . . camouflage suit?” Kyle cried, both puzzled and surprised. “A camouflage suit! Oh, wow!”

“Hold it up and let's see if it'll fit.”

Kyle jumped off the bench and held the suit against him. He wanted to run inside and put it on, right then. And to think—his dad had one just like it! What a cool present. Back home, if he wore this, he'd be the envy of all his friends!

“Wow, Dad! It's terrific! Thanks!” He ran around the table and hugged his dad from behind.

His father reached back and pressed Kyle's arms. He seemed embarrassed, but pleased, too. “Now, now,” he muttered, “it's nothing, really. Next thing I'll do is teach you how to handle firearms. Then, son, you'll really be a man.”

Kyle stood at the door with Prince, his father's big German shepherd, at his side as his dad drove away in a cloud of dust. It was after ten at night, only seven o'clock California time so he wasn't tired. His father worked the night shift as a guard in an auto factory. He'd be home in the morning.

“You've got Prince here for company,” his father had said, when he'd introduced them. “He looks fierce, and he is. He'd sooner chew on a stranger than a dog bone. But not to worry. He can smell you're mine.”

Almost as soon as the dust settled over the road, the phone rang. Kyle closed the door and ran to answer it.

“Kyle?” It was his mother, anxious and eager.

“Hi, Mom!”

“You get there all right?”

What did she think? She was talking to him, wasn't she? “Sure, Mom.”

“How are things?”

“Super. Dad met me and brought me home and we had a nice dinner and he just left for his job.”

“He left you
alone
? The very first night?”

“Ah, Mom! What's he supposed to do, lose his job so he can baby-sit me? I'm fourteen, remember?”

“Pardon me.”

“Besides, he arranged to have the day shift starting Monday for as long as I'm here.”

“Good.”

Kyle let the silence grow, but then he felt sorry for his mother and tried to make amends. “How's Brian? He move in yet?”

He heard his mother's intake of breath. “He's fine and no. How's your father?”

“Okay.” She wanted him to say more, maybe something negative, certainly nothing really positive, so he tried to keep the enthusiasm from his voice. “Listen, Ma. Brian gave me sixty bucks, left it in my backpack. I'm sure he meant well, but I'm returning it.”

“Don't, honey, please! He did mean well and he'd be terribly hurt.”

“I didn't ask for it and I don't need it. Especially from him.”

“Kyle . . .”

“If
you
like him, fine, but don't ask me to. I've tried.”

“Kyle . . .”

He noticed the calendar on the kitchen bulletin board; a big red circle had been drawn around today with his name inside. A red-letter day for his dad.

“You'll write often, won't you?”

“Ah, Mom!”

“Okay.” His mother sounded defeated. “Then phone, but keep in touch.”