Camouflage (5 page)

“Oh. Ed's boy. Right.” Up close Mr. Johnson looked sweaty and overworked. He stuck out his hand, a hard, calloused hand that gripped Kyle's firmly.

“I met him in town,” Hiram said. “He never had a gun, so I thought . . .”

“Glad to meet you, son. Your daddy's a good man. Stands by his friends like you don't find nowadays.” He turned to Hiram. “Farm like this don't run on wishful thinkin'. Govamint thinks I grow gold in these fields. Hiram, you got work to do! Go on, now, 'fore I forget my good nature. And you, young Klinger, skedaddle. Tell your pa I'll be callin' him. He'll know what for.”

Mr. Johnson turned on his heel and strode swiftly away.

“Sorry,” Hiram said, hurrying by Kyle, none of the old bravado in his tone. “Next time I'll show you how to shoot rabbits.”

“W
HERE YA BEEN
?” Kyle's father asked when he got home. “I told you to be back by four and it's nearly six.” He stood at the picnic table behind the house, wearing a neat camouflage suit. An array of gun parts lay on a cloth on the table beside him. Prince was sleeping in the shade nearby.

Kyle rolled his bike to rest against the house. Sweaty and out of breath, he ran to the table. His dad had gone to some trouble to set up this display and now he seemed to be packing it away. If Hiram hadn't gotten him going in the barn, Kyle would have been home on time. Now he felt guilty.

“I'm sorry, Dad. I met that guy you said might be a friend. Hiram Johnson? He invited me back to his farm and let me shoot a Remington .22! We were at it most of the afternoon and I got pretty good at it!” His father seemed totally unimpressed. “Please, Dad, don't put everything away! There's still time; it's still light out . . .”

“There's a lot more to guns than pulling the trigger,” his father said, closing a box and putting gun parts into another. “Go wash up. You've got the dust of the whole state on you.”

“But couldn't we just . . . ?”

“Another time. Go wash up and be quick. A friend's coming to dinner.” He lifted the boxes and went off to the barn.

It wasn't fair, Kyle thought angrily as he showered. He'd only been a little late, and for good reason. He put on the camouflage suit because his father was wearing his, and then he felt further resentment. His dad had invited someone to dinner and he'd expected to have this evening with just the two of them. They'd hardly had a chance to talk. There was so much he wanted to ask, questions he couldn't ask around someone else. Like why Dad had left them. He knew his mother's version on that, but what about his dad's?

He went to the window when he heard Prince's excited barks and the sound of tires on gravel. A dusty white Toyota drew up to the house. The driver cut the engine, opened the door, and stepped out.
Marie!
Dressed in jeans and a pink shirt. What was
she
doing here?

Prince leaped about as if he could hardly keep himself from slobbering her with kisses. Marie called out something Kyle couldn't hear, and his father ran toward her, arms open to embrace her. Kyle wanted to look away. He'd always dreamed his father would come back to them, that Brian would fade away as soon as he saw how much his mom and dad still loved each other. But this didn't fit the dream at all.

“Kyle?” his father called, looking toward the house. “Come on out and meet someone!”

Kyle made a face and went out the door.

“Didn't he tell you, Ed?” Marie asked, looking up at his father, whose arm was around her waist. “We met this afternoon. Came into the diner.” Kyle thought she looked tired, like she might have just come from work. She smiled at Kyle. “My—this boy of yours is one handsome dude! And doesn't he look somethin' in that outfit. My, my!” She pressed a hand over her heart and closed her eyes. “Gonna break every heart in this big county 'fore he's twenty-one!”

“Does look pretty snazzy,” his father agreed, grinning.

Kyle jammed his hands into his pockets and glared at the ground. He hated people making a fuss over him, especially when they talked about him like he wasn't even there.

“Well, darlin', don't just stand here. Grab our dinner 'fore it gets cold.” Marie nodded to a cloth-covered basket on the front seat of her car. His father slid the basket toward him. “Smells
gooood!
Barbecued ribs? Baked beans?”

“And blueberry pie.”

Kyle's mouth watered.

Going to the house, Marie fell in step beside Kyle and linked an arm through his. “Your daddy's not much for cookin', you know. His idea of good food is hot dogs and beans outta the can. Fact is . . .” She raised her voice. “Fact is—the only thing he can really taste is those damn cigarettes!”

“Marie!” his father cried, laughing. “Don't scare the boy! You know that's not true!”

“If you say so, darlin'.” Marie winked at Kyle. “Let's you and me go inside and get us some cold beer.”

Marie was fun, Kyle found himself thinking. This “darlin'” stuff seemed an act, almost as if she wanted people to think she was an airhead. She had a kid in college, whom she'd raised alone; she worked sixty-hour weeks and took correspondence courses from the university.

She asked Kyle about school and friends, and leaned forward to listen as if what he said really mattered. Yet—she told raunchy jokes, something his mom would never do. Her English wasn't always right. And he couldn't help but notice how often she touched his father.

“Wolf Sanders was in yesterday,” Marie said. They were sitting outdoors, finishing off the meal she'd brought. She cut into a juicy blueberry pie, slid a slice on a plate, and handed it to Kyle.

“What's Wolf up to now?” his dad asked, gazing at the pie like he could eat it all. “Cut that double, will you, sweetheart?”

Marie licked blueberries off her fingers and cut another slice of pie. “Comes right up to me and says, loud as you please so anyone can hear, ‘Got two sawed-off shotguns for sale. Know someone wants 'em?'” She passed the plate to Kyle's dad. “Now, you know and I know and
he
knows sellin' them guns is illegal, right?”

Kyle watched his father. The muscle in his cheek had begun to twitch. “What's that fool up to now? Trying to bring the feds down on us? I better call him before he gets us all in trouble.”

“What are you gonna do, Ed, buy them?”

“Darn tootin'. Better me than some undercover from ATF!”

“What's ATF, Dad?” Kyle asked. He'd heard those letters before but couldn't remember what they stood for.

His father turned to Kyle as if he'd forgotten he was there. “Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Bunch of nosy SOBs who don't like folks owning guns.” He switched back to Marie. “Mathers come in lately?”

“He's in Washington till Friday, I hear. There's talk he's going in on Earl's place with federal marshals.”

“Shoot. That kind of talk's been going on for years.”

“What if it's true?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He stared straight ahead, eyes narrowed.

Kyle was about to ask if the Mathers his dad asked about was Verity's father, and if Earl was Mr. Johnson. But before he could, a look passed between his father and Marie like a signal to say no more. Or at least that's what Kyle thought, because suddenly Marie smiled at him and winked. “There's still plenty enough daylight for a little touch football. How about it, good-lookin'? How's about you and me pairing up against the big guy?” She stood up and started stacking dishes. “Come on, come on, fellas! On your feet! Cleanup time, let's go!”

It was still early when Kyle went off to bed, leaving his dad and Marie outside drinking beer and talking. He lay in bed wearing only his shorts, arms and legs spread wide to catch the slightest breeze. Crickets chirped noisily and an owl hooted, but mostly he listened to the quiet voices. They spoke about crops and weather and people he didn't know, about going to a swap meet on Sunday, about Kyle's helping move something. There'd be long pauses when all he could hear were the night sounds, and he wondered if they were making out.

The phone rang just as he was falling sleep. Kyle heard the screen door slam.

“Yeah, Sam,” his father said. “They were here, too, last night. Scared my kid half to death.”

Suddenly wide awake, Kyle sat up.
Who
were here last night? His father
knew
? Why had he lied?

“Simmer down, Sam!” his father went on. “Sam? Shut up and listen! Damn fools are just trying to scare you! You should know by now. They got nothing else to do except harass good honest citizens. We've done nothing wrong. We got every right to our guns! Read the Constitution!” There was a brief silence and then his dad said, “Sam? Keep this up and you'll have a heart attack. All right! We'll deal with it next meeting. Feel better? Now, say good-bye. I've got to go to work.” His father slammed down the phone and went back outside.

“One of these days,” he said to Marie, “one of these days!”

“Stop it, Ed, don't even
think
that way!”

“One of these days,” his father said, ignoring Marie, “those ATF twits are gonna go
too
far—and then—bam! We're gonna
have
to teach them a lesson!”

T
HE PHONE RANG
the next morning after Kyle's dad had gone to sleep. Kyle ran to answer, wondering if it was his mother again, checking.

“Hey, Kyle,” the voice said.

“Hiram?”

“Yeah. Gotta make this quick. The old slave driver says I gotta fix the roof. It'll take most of the day, but I can get away tonight. Wanna meet some of the guys?”

“Sure, great! What time and where?”

“Around eight? Pick you up.”

Kyle fooled around with Prince part of the morning, cleaned Blackie's stall, and hauled out hay for him. There didn't seem to be much else to do, so he took out his bike and pedaled toward town, stopping briefly at the bridge to see if Verity might be there; she wasn't.

Town seemed lively—more cars and pickups, more people. Maybe because it was cooler and a Friday. He left his bike in a rack, feeling odd about not chaining it, and went along on foot. He glanced into the window of Marie's Diner. Most of the tables and counter stools were full. Mothers with small children walked by with shopping bags from the general store's sale. Through the darkened windows of the Idle Hour he saw the bartender wiping a glass and two men sitting at the bar.

For a long moment Kyle stared into the one-chair barbershop trying to make up his mind. He'd had longish hair forever, but here people looked at him like he was an outsider. How could he go with Hiram and meet his friends if he looked so “L.A.”?

Why not?

He opened the barbershop door, setting a bell tinkling, and waited for someone to appear.

An almost bald man in his fifties came out from the back, a mug of coffee in one hand and a doughnut in the other. “Hello, young fella. Haven't seen you around. New here?”

“Name's Kyle Klinger,” Kyle said. “You probably know my father.”

The barber set his coffee and doughnut on a table full of old magazines and held out a hand. “Carl Baker—the barber.” He smiled. “Old joke. Sure, I know your dad. Good man. Know him well. What can I do for you?”

Kyle let out his breath, not realizing until that moment how unsure he'd been about mentioning his last name. “I'd like a buzz cut,” he said, settling into the barber chair. “You know, real short? Like in the army?”

“You sure? Nice head of hair like that?”

“I'm sure.”

Mr. Baker shook out a white cloth, tucked it around Kyle's neck, and set to work. Fifteen minutes later he brushed cut hair from Kyle's face and yanked off the cloth. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

Kyle stared at himself in the mirror, surprised and more than a little unhappy at the difference. He ran a hand over the prickly stubble. His skull felt nude and bumpy. The floor was littered with rust-colored hair. Still, he looked two years older and more like Hiram.

He left the shop and decided to explore the residential area behind the main street. Verity and her family probably lived in town. Maybe he'd see her. He went back for his bike and pedaled slowly down tree-shaded streets, past frame homes with porches in front; he wondered what it would be like living in them. In L.A. he and his mom lived in a condominium. He took an elevator to the third floor and walked long hallways to get to their apartment. Their “porch” was a small balcony with a couple of cactus plants in pots. The only view was of the condo building across the street.

He pedaled through the quiet streets until he saw an American flag in front of a small white house, the public library. This might be a good time to find some of the books on his summer reading list, Kyle thought. He parked his bike in the rack and went inside.

The house seemed deserted, and smelled musty and old. The front rooms—living, dining, and what might have once been a study—were jammed with books on shelves and in boxes. He wandered on past a stairway to the back. There he found a sunroom, where two old men sat in easy chairs reading.

“May I help you?” a voice behind him asked.

He swung around. The voice came from a dark space near the stairs. Someone was sitting at a small desk, repairing books. He walked closer. “Verity?”

“Sssh! Kyle?” She closed the book she'd been gluing, got up, and came closer. “You look different! Oh—your hair!”

“You look different!” Her hair hung loose over her shoulders and she wore a skirt and blouse. He wiped damp hands on his jeans and lowered his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you
think?
I
work
here; I'm a volunteer. I live right next door.”