Camouflage (7 page)

“Phew!” Marta slid to a stop, straddled her bike, wiped her forehead with a white bandanna, and grinned. “You sure live far out!”

In daylight she looked older than she had last night. Sixteen, maybe, and prettier than he remembered. She had green eyes and long brown hair that clung to her damp face. She wore white cutoffs and a halter top that showed a lot of smooth tanned skin. “How'd you know where I live?” he asked, realizing immediately what a dumb question it was.

“
Everyone
knows where Ed Klinger lives,” she said. “Your dad is pretty famous around here.”

“Yeah?”

“I figured—since you couldn't take your eyes off me last night—I'd come see if you're anything like your pa.” She smiled coyly. “Aren't you going to invite me in? Give a girl a cold drink or something?” She dropped her bike and came toward him.

Flustered, he stepped back, then led the way inside. Wasn't it the other way around, that she'd eyed
him
all night? Man, she was brazen. He guessed why she'd come and the thought sent shudders through his body. What should he do? Would she make the moves?

“Wow!” she exclaimed, looking around the big main room. “I knew your dad was a great shot, but wow, just look at this place!” She gazed in awe at the animal trophies and guns, fanning herself with her bandanna.

“Yeah,” Kyle said, seeing the room again as he had the first day. “Dad's gonna take me out hunting soon.” He turned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “What'll you have? Water, cola, or beer?”

“Beer.” She came up behind him and rested her cheek against his back, arms encircling his waist. “Mmmm. Nice.”

Kyle swung around, a beer can in one hand and a cola in the other. He cleared his throat. “Let's go outside.”

“Let's not. It's cooler inside.” She dropped onto the leather couch, patting the seat beside her.

Kyle felt a heat switch go on in his body. He handed the beer to Marta and opened the cola for himself. Then he sat down. “So, what's this about my dad being famous?” His voice cracked.

Marta swung her bare legs over his, cocked her head in a saucy invitation, and said, “You look so like your dad. Are you like him?”

Kyle nearly choked on his cola. “What do you mean?” He stared at her legs, wondering if he dare touch them.

“Come on. Don't tease me. The guys around here are all
farmers.
Hiram, Mac, the others . . . They've never been farther from home than Grand Rapids! All they ever talk about is guns and the weather. All they ever want to do is screw. You're not like that.”

“No?” He gazed into her green eyes. Was she teasing him?

“Of course not. I can read people. I knew you weren't like the other guys soon as I saw you. You're like your dad. Strong. Charis . . . charis . . . matic. Know what that means?”

“Uh-huh.” She'd mispronounced the word, but what did that matter? He put one hand on her knee.

“That's your dad!” she went on, not seeming to notice his hand. “Everyone respects him and people'll do whatever he says. He's a real charis . . . matic leader!”

“Yeah?” He moved his hand slowly up and then down her leg, watching her face. She didn't seem to notice.

“And you? Are
you
like that?” She smiled and wiggled onto his lap, turning to face him. With one finger she traced his lips.

“Marta . . .” He cleared his throat, not sure what he intended to say. “Marta . . .”

“Sssh!” She twisted around to sit astride him, cupped his head with her hands, and bent close to kiss him.

How long they made out he had no idea, but suddenly he heard someone bellow, “Kyle!”

Marta jumped off his lap and straightened her halter.

Kyle leaped off the couch, as guilty as if he'd been caught stealing. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't heard his father's truck.

“Well?” His father stood at the door, loaded with bags of groceries, glaring.

“We were just . . . We just . . .”

Marta giggled. “Hello, Mr. Klinger!” She stuck out a hand. “I'm Marta Knauss. A friend of your son's. I've wanted to meet you for a long time!”

“B
YE
!” M
ARTA WAVED
from her bike, grinning. She didn't seem one bit embarrassed. “See you around!”

Kyle waved back but he could hardly wait for her to be gone. His heart pounded with shame and anger. As soon as Marta was out of sight he stalked back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. What right did his dad have to yell at him like he was a little kid? And in front of Marta! He'd only done what any other fourteen-year-old would do, given the chance.

“Kyle? Come in here and help me unload these groceries,” his father called from the kitchen.

Kyle froze, halfway to his room. “I've got something to do,” he called back, continuing on.

“It'll wait! Get in here
now.
On the double!”

Kyle trudged back to the kitchen. His father was bent into the refrigerator, arranging space for the new food. “Hand me the tomatoes and that bag of peaches,” he said, back turned.

Kyle passed the tomatoes and peaches to his dad's outstretched hand, avoiding his eyes, then turned to the bags of groceries on the counter. He began unloading cheeses and cold cuts, breakfast cereals and bread. “You shouldn't have done that, Dad!” he said. “You embarrassed me in front of Marta.”

“Hand me the six-pack,” his father replied.

“
She
came
here.
I didn't invite her.”

“That kind of girl doesn't need an invitation.”

“So what?”

His father closed the refrigerator, a can of beer in hand. “You get going with a girl like that and you can't stop. And she won't stop you, either. Did you have a rubber?”

Kyle felt his face burn. He turned away. “I wouldn't have gone that far.”

“No? Listen, son. I realize you're feeling your oats now that you're out from under your mother's thumb. I realize you might go a little crazy now that you've got more leash. But you're at the age where your hormones are raging and you could make some very bad mistakes. So—as long as you're under my roof, I expect you to follow my rules.
I don't want you making out in this house
! Got it?”

Kyle nodded, eyes on the floor.

“Good.” His father patted his head as he walked by, into the living room. “Now, let's talk about something else—like what we have to do this afternoon.”

Kyle put the last of the groceries into the cabinets and went to join his father.

“What's
in
these?” he asked, puffing. For the last half hour he'd been helping his dad move heavy boxes, stored under a tarpaulin in the barn, to his father's pickup, also in the barn.

“Rifles.”

“And these other crates? The ones with the numbers?”

“Guns. Ammunition. Other equipment.”

“Wow. Looks like there's enough stuff here to outfit an army,” Kyle joked nervously, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirt.

“Not quite.”

“Where are you taking it?”

“Swap meet.”

“Swap meet?” Kyle pictured the swap meet in Pasadena, which he sometimes went to with his mother. He once bought a neat pair of patched jeans there for only three dollars. People set up tables to sell all kinds of junk, from used dishes to old postcards. But guns? No.

“We've got a surplus of these, Kyle, so tomorrow we'll set up a booth and get rid of it. With the proceeds I can buy some heavier equipment. Stuff we may need.”

“Who's we?” Kyle couldn't imagine himself needing anything heavier than a rifle.

“We. The gun club.”

“Oh.”

“Tomorrow you'll meet some of the club members. I think you'll like them.” His father threw a big tarpaulin over the boxes and began tying it down. “Pull that tighter,” he directed from the opposite side of the truck. “That should do it. Good work.” He came around to the back of the truck, put an arm around Kyle's shoulders, and walked him out of the barn. “It's good having you here, son. Never did get to know my own dad. He died in Vietnam. Dumb war. We should have gone in there to win. Hit them with everything!”

“You mean, even nukes, Dad?”

“Sure. You want to win, you go all out. The government's great at telling us not to own guns, but in Vietnam they used everything except the Bomb. If they'd used it, men like my dad would have come home!” His voice shook. But after he drew the heavy barn door shut and padlocked it, he turned a smiling face on Kyle. “Okay. I'm all yours. What would you like to do with the rest of the afternoon?”

Kyle knew instantly. “Show me what I missed on Thursday. You know—how to take guns apart and put them together, how to clean them, the different calibers—that kind of stuff.”

“Okay, but the first thing you gotta know is this: Guns kill. Don't ever forget that. You can use a gun for plinking or target practice, of course, but otherwise, never aim at anything unless you plan to shoot it.”

In the evening his father told Kyle to wash up and put on a clean flannel shirt. They wouldn't be using the truck locked in the barn; Marie was picking them up. They'd head out to the Hoot Owl, a Saturday night hangout on the highway north of town.

Less than a week in Michigan and his whole life was different, Kyle thought as he showered and dressed. Saturday nights at home he'd watch TV or a video. Maybe go to the mall with friends.
Bor-ing.
Tonight he'd be going out with Dad and his dad's girlfriend to a bar! He rubbed the prickly tuft on top of his head and laughed.

The Hoot Owl was miles from town, a brightly lit building in the middle of cornfields. Above the entrance a big owl winked red lights over a crooked sign announcing saloon. Trucks, RVs, and old cars filled the parking lot, which smelled strongly of diesel fumes. Loud country-western music flowed from the building.

“Come on, cowboys!” Marie called, pulling them along toward the entrance. She wore white jeans and a white fringed jacket, high-heeled white boots and a white Stetson. “Ever line dance, Kyle? Can you do the Achy Breaky?”

“Nope.”

“Time you learned!”

“I'm thinking, sweetheart,” Kyle's father said, “how we gonna pass him off as drinking age?”

“Just let me worry about that, honeybunch. You scurry on ahead and get the tickets.” She linked an arm through Kyle's.

“Howdy, Marie,” the burly man with the red beard said when they reached the entrance. He glanced at Kyle. “Sorry, young fella, but I gotta see your ID. It's the law.”

Marie snuggled against Kyle's arm. “This here handsome dude's my date, Warren.”

Warren laughed. “Thought you liked 'em more experienced, Marie. Looks young enough to be your son.”

“Now, Warren! You teasing me about my age?”

If there'd been a hole to jump in, Kyle would have used it.

“You know, Marie, I gotta answer to the law.”

“Sure you do. 'Cept Sheriff's at a party tonight. I know for a fact.” She cocked her head in the teasing way she used at the diner. “So, darlin'? Why don't you just stand aside and let us by, an' next time you come in . . . one of those big jelly doughnuts? The ones you like so much? That and breakfast's on me.”

Burly Warren shook his head and laughed heartily, holding his hands over his ample stomach. “Anybody asks, I went off to the gents'.” He winked at Marie and waved them by.

Inside, Kyle followed his dad and Marie past red plastic booths and tables crowded with noisy, drinking couples. He felt the floor vibrating under his feet and squinted through the smoke-filled hazy light.

“Over there!” His father pointed to some tables away from the band, where mostly men were sitting. Kyle trailed after him wondering what he'd do all night. This didn't look like a place where he'd see guys his age, and after last night he had no stomach for alcohol.

He dragged chairs from other tables to where his dad's friends sat. They were drinking beer or tequila and trying to talk above the noise. Kyle couldn't make out all the names as his father introduced his friends, but he did recognize Hiram's dad, Earl Johnson, and wondered what Hiram was doing this evening.

Almost immediately one of the men took Marie off to dance in the small space in front of the bandstand.

“Two beers and a Coke,” his father shouted to the waitress who came to the table. “And a bowl of nuts.” He leaned over the table to join in the conversation. Ignored, Kyle listened and watched.

“Everything set for tomorrow, Ed?” the man opposite Kyle asked. He was thin, with a mustache and glasses. He looked like a grade-school teacher. Kyle had been told his name was Pete and he owned the gun shop in town. Several others at the table stopped talking and turned to hear the answer.

“Packed and ready. Locked in the barn.”

“I'll take some from my stock, too. Should bring a pretty penny. You know that fella I told you about?”

“Buddy No-Last-Name?”

“Right. He'll be there.” A meaningful glance passed between Pete and Kyle's dad.

“You give him our list?”

“Sure did, General.”

General? List?
What were they talking about?

“Good.” Kyle's dad sat back, lit a cigarette, and smiled.

“The ATF guys will be there, for sure.”

“No sweat. We'll take care.”

“Right.” Pete glanced at Kyle, then shifted his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice. “He says he can get us . . .”

Kyle pretended to be interested in the line dancers near the bandstand but strained to hear. “AR-15s,” he thought Pete said, but it could have been some other combination of letters and numbers that meant nothing to him. More whispers passed back and forth before his father took a long drag on his cigarette and said, “Excellent! They start trouble, we'll be ready!”