Case of Lucy Bending (17 page)

Working quietly, swiftly, carefully, Wayne filled the pint jar from the opened bottle and tightened the jar lid. He took the vodka bottle into the kitchen and filled it to its original level from the cold water tap. He replaced the bottle in its former position in the liquor cabinet.

He took the pint jar of vodka outside and concealed it behind a dwarf palm. Then he came back and settled down in front of the television set. When his mother came downstairs, he was watching an educational film on Channel 2 from Miami. It was about the wild dogs of Africa.

He got up, turned off the TV. "Dull stuff," he commented. Then he stretched, elaborately casual. "Well, I better go upstairs and hit the books. We got a math quiz tomorrow."

"If you get hungry," his mother said, "there's some pie left. But leave a slice for your father."

Upstairs, safely locked in his own bedroom, he didn't glance at his homework. He lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, listened to a program of country-and-western songs. He kept the radio turned low so crazy Harry wouldn't complain the noise was keeping him awake.

Wayne thought about meeting Eddie Holloway in the Empts' gazebo at nine o'clock. This time he was determined there would be no replay of his dopey behavior. No kissing. Nothing like that.

They would ju^t smoke a joint, sip a little vodka, get a little high. They'd talk. Maybe about surfing, boats, women— whatever came up. Eddie was a cool guy to rap with.

Wayne was flattered that Eddie had picked him for a special close friendship. And it was special. Eddie always had a bunch of guys and young creamers hanging around him, but he had selected Wayne Bending for these private pot sessions in the gazebo. That was something.

Thinking about Eddie Holloway like that, Wayne suddenly realized he was getting an erection. He jumped from the soft bed hastily. He stalked about the room, hands shoved in his hip pockets. Shaken, he tried to breathe deeply, wondering what the hell was happening to him.

At about a quarter to nine, he took his English-Spanish dictionary and went down the front steps to the living room. His mother was seated in a pool of light from a floor lamp. The TV set was on, but she was peering through wire-rimmed glasses at the knitting in her lap, counting stitches.

She hadn't heard him, and he stood there a moment, staring at her. His mother wasn't a bad-looking woman, he acknowledged, but she could have done a lot more with herself. More makeup, for instance. A classier hairdo. Brighter clothes. She was kind of drab. Not like Eddie's mother, who really came on.

She looked up from her knitting, smiled. He came into the room.

"Listen," he said, speaking rapidly, "I just got a call from Eddie Holloway. He's got a Spanish test this week, and he left his dictionary in his locker at school, so I said I'd lend him mine."

"Is he coming over for it, dear?" she asked.

"Uh, no. I said I'd bring it over and sort of, you know, quiz him on words and phrases. I mean, he's got all his stuff spread out and all, so it would be easier if I went over there."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Oh, like an hour or two. Shouldn't be later than that."

"All right, dear," she said. "Maybe you should wear your nylon jacket."

"Nah," he said, "it's still warm."

He went out through the kitchen door. He retrieved the jar of vodka from behind the dwarf palm. He walked rapidly out to A1A, ready to dart into the bushes if the headlights of his father's car turned into the driveway.

He stayed on the verge of the highway until he came to the Empts' place. The big iron gates were yawning wide; the ground floor of the main house was brilliantly lighted. There were several cars parked in the driveway. Wayne figured they were having a dinner party. Old lady Empt liked to entertain.

He slipped through the trees to the gazebo. The cast-iron benches were dry, still warm from the afternoon sun. He bent to feel the packed sand floor. The top inch or so was warm, but when he prodded with a finger, he could feel cool dampness below. So he sat on one of the hard benches, holding his dictionary and jar of vodka. He waited for Eddie.

He sat there for almost ten minutes. That was Eddie: a cool guy; he was never on time. While he waited, Wayne watched the big house and saw figures moving back and forth across the lighted windows. He could hear, rising and fading, the sound of music. Once the sea breeze brought a burst of muted laughter.

He hoped no bombed guest would stagger out to investigate the gazebo. The thought of that happening angered him. This was his secret place. His and Eddie's.

Holloway showed up eventually, sauntering. He was wearing jeans and a cotton T-shirt hacked off raggedly so his midriff was bare. This was a style a lot of the guys had swiped from the practice clothes of pro football players. Eddie had a rolled-up blanket clamped under one arm.

"Hey, Bending," he said, "what are you doing here in the dark—fluffing your duff?"

"Quien sabe,
mother," Wayne said, and Eddie laughed.

"That kid sister of mine," he said, spreading the worn blanket on the sand. "That Gloria—she's something else again. Now she wants an evening gown. Can you beat that? A nine-year-old brat wanting an evening gown?"

"What did your folks say?"

"Ah, shit," Eddie said, "I walked out on the argument. Instant hysteria. Kicking and screaming. Who needs that bullshit? But she'll get it. Just to keep her yap shut. You bring any booze?"

"Pint of vodka," Wayne said, holding up the jar.

"Beautiful," Eddie said. "Just gorgeous. Slip me a fix."

They sat on the blanket, handed the opened jar back and forth. Eddie took a deep gulp and said, "Oh man." Wayne tried a small sip and coughed on it.

"Warm," he said. "I should have put in some ice. Maybe a piece of lime."

"Nah," Eddie said. "It goes down smooth the way it is. Now for dessert ..."

He had the cigarettes tucked inside the cuff of one of his socks, swaddled in toilet paper. He unwrapped them carefully.

"New brand," he announced. "They got a thin wire pressed into the paper. So when you get down to the roach, you can hold it on the end of the wire. Ain't science grand?"

They lighted up, lay back, stared through the latticed roof of the gazebo at a night sky that went on forever. Eddie combined drags with sips from the vodka jar, but Wayne was content with the marijuana.

"You know Tony Sanchez?" Eddie asked lazily. "A redheaded cat? He works at a gas station up in Boca on Saturdays."

"The football guy?"

"That's the one. Quarterback, but not first string. Anyway, he's got a fourteen-foot Hobie Cat he wants to sell. It's kinda beat up. Needs work, but the sheets are okay. Jesus, I'd love to buy that mother."

"What's he want?"

"He's asking a thousand, but I think I can get him down. Nine hundred, maybe. You got any money, dumbo?"

"About a hundred," Wayne said humbly. "In my savings account."

Eddie Holloway laughed harshly. "That's a hundred more than I got. I spend it as fast as it comes in. Ahh, shit. I wish I owned that boat. What a high that would be."

This time Wayne was convinced the pot was getting to him. No finkery now. He lost track of time. The world softened, hard edges blurring. The night seemed blander, almost fluffy, and there was a hum in the air. He reached across Eddie for the jar of vodka and took a swallow. This time he didn't cough.

He leaned across Eddie again and pressed the jar back into the sand so it wouldn't tip. He was stretched across Eddie, looking down at him.

Eddie had his eyes closed. His hand was up in the air, holding the joint: a tiny, glowing beacon. Eddie was really a sharp-looking stud with his long, sun-bleached blond hair, his movie star face. And the gleaming skin a coppery tan.

Wayne put a palm lightly on Eddie's bare midriff, covering flat stomach, perfectly round belly button.

"Hey man," Eddie said sleepily. "This is a new kick— right?"

Wayne set his own cigarette carefully aside, poking the wire down into the sand. He turned back to Eddie. He bent over him, pressed his lips to the skin of ribs and stomach. Warm satin. Soft. Sun-scented.

"Oh yeah," Eddie breathed. "Don't stop now."

Thoughts thundering, desire inchoate, Wayne fumbled at Eddie's belt and fly with frantic fingers. What . . . What . . .

"Ohh," Eddie murmured. "Oh yeah. Yeah."

He knew what to do. He knew exactly what to do. Without training or experience. And that thought would puzzle him for the rest of his life.

It was sweet, so sweet. It was comfort, relief of his anguish, balm for his hurts. He nuzzled, panting, Eddie saying, "Yeah, yeah," with his pelvis beginning to move just as Wayne felt his own gush of tears and something else.

And when it was over, he was certain Eddie would kick him away, beat him to pulp. "You filthy fag!" But Eddie lay relaxed, slowly puffing his toke. And with one hand he stroked Wayne's hair, and he said throatily, "Nice. Nice. The greatest."

Then they kissed. They kissed! Wayne was so thankful, so grateful. It wasn't the end. He laughed aloud with happiness.

"You nut!" Eddie said affectionately, and put a hand on Wayne's balls, squeezing gently. "You're really a dumbo— you know that?"

Wayne nodded, giggling. He relighted his roach, and they shared it because Eddie had finished his. Then they sipped what was left of the vodka, handing the jar back and forth.

Once Eddie took a sip of warm vodka, then pressed his lips to Wayne's and spit the warm stuff into the other boy's mouth. Wayne thought that was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. It was a pledge, the sealing of a compact.

Finally the vodka was gone, but neither of them moved. They lay side by side, staring dazedly up through the latticed roof. They heard the far-off sounds of talk, laughter, the growls of motors as the Empts' guests departed.

"Listen, you bastard," Wayne said. "You really want that Hobie Cat? The one Tony Sanchez wants to sell?"

"Sure, I want it, dumbo," Eddie said. "I told you I did, didn't I?"

"Well . . ." Wayne said, plotting, "you know Mrs. Empt's got eyes for you." "So?"

"So she's got all kinds of loot. They're loaded. My father says so."

Eddie was silent a moment. Then:

"You think she'll pay cold cash for my hot bod?"

"Why not?" Wayne said. "If you work it right. You know, play her along. Get her hooked."

"Like a grouper," Eddie said, laughing.

"Just like a grouper," Wayne said, laughing. "You can do it. Sink the hook and play her. Give her a taste and then tell her, Gee whiz, I'd really like to buy this swell boat."

"You think she'll go for it?"

"Come on, man," Wayne said, suddenly feeling dominant and superior. "Of course she'll go for it. I did, didn't I?"

They both broke up, trying to stifle their screams of laughter, wrestling, rolling on the blanket. Then they lay apart, panting.

"But how do I explain it to my parents?" Eddie asked. "Suddenly I turn up with this boss boat. How do I explain where I got the loot to buy it?"

"How much allowance do you get?"

"Twenty a week," Eddie said. "I've been working on the old man to give me a raise to twenty-five."

"Okay," Wayne said, "here's what you do . . . You get the cash from old lady Empt—right? You buy the boat. Then you tell your folks that Sanchez agreed to take ten a week. And you fix it up with Tony so he'll back you up. He'll do it if you give him the thousand he's asking. Also, it will help you get a raise in your allowance from your old man. Does that make sense or doesn't it?"

Eddie bent over him, stroked his cheek tenderly.

"You know, dumbo," he said, "you're not so dumb."

Something strange was happening to William Jasper Holloway.

And he knew it.

About a year ago, he had started talking to himself. It hadn't happened suddenly, overnight. It had come on gradually.

For instance, a year ago when he was seated in his private office at the bank and needed to go out onto the tellers' floor for some reason or other, he would simply rise, walk to the door, open it, and exit. Just like anyone else.

Then he found himself planning his moves. Commanding himself. "Now you will get up. You will walk to the door. You will turn the knob and open the door. You will walk out onto the floor." All in silence. All in his mind.

This period lasted a while, this stage of silent orders. And then, when he was alone, he discovered he was voicing the commands aloud in a low but firm voice: "Stand up. Walk to the door. Turn the knob. Now open the door. Now go out onto the floor."

And not only at work. Whenever he was alone he spoke to himself aloud: "Turn right at the next light. Take a new bar of soap from the cupboard. Write to Tallahassee re the tax return."