Going Where It's Dark (7 page)

“Phhhhhh…phhhhhh…,” he began, blinking, then, “t…t…t…” He felt perspiration on his face and stopped to breathe, then began all over again. “Phhhhh…phhhh…t…”

“Photography?” Nat guessed.

No!
Buck hated it when someone supplied the word for him—Buck, the simpleton who probably couldn't even tie his own shoes. Still, it ended the torture.

The heat of his face seemed to burn his lips, and Buck looked down at his tray, nodding without speaking.

“Well, that should be fun too,” the girl said, in a tone someone's mother might use.

Buck didn't want a pat on the head. He didn't want pity. He waited while Nat and the girl talked a couple minutes longer, then he murmured a faint “See ya,” got up, and returned his tray to the kitchen window.

What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he just stayed at the table? He and Nat had been hitting it off pretty good this last semester, and now he really had acted like a weirdo.

He knew by the way kids were looking at him that his face was beet red. And as though life couldn't wait to pile it on, the moment he got out in the hall, he saw Katie and a guy he hadn't met coming toward him.

There was no way to avoid them. Nowhere to turn. Katie grabbed the boy's arm—a tall guy with eyebrows as blond as his hair—so blond it appeared he had no eyebrows at all.

“Buck!” she called. And then, turning to the guy beside her, said, “Colby, this is my brother.”

Buck could tell by her face that she'd noticed the flush in his. Her eyes questioned him, but before she could say anymore, Colby said, “Hi. How ya doin'?” and smiled.

Buck didn't trust himself to say anything. And so he didn't. Just gave a feeble smile and kept walking, Katie staring helplessly after him.

T
he problem with being mad at himself, Buck discovered, was that—short of riding his bike off a cliff—there was only so much he could do for punishment. The rain had stopped, so he used his anger to ride over to Jacob's house after school to get his five dollars.

He rehearsed his lines ahead of time. “You forgot to pay me on Friday,” and then, when he got the money, “I won't be working here anymore. Sorry.” He'd leave off the “sorry,” maybe.

As soon as the door opened, however, and he stepped inside, Jacob surprised him by handing him the five-dollar bill.

“For last week,” he said, and nodding toward the kitchen, he added gruffly, “Want some lemonade? At least, that's what they call the yellow stuff at that bargain place.”

What Buck wanted to do was to say no and leave, but in fact he was desperately thirsty. In his anger he had simply dropped his backpack at home, climbed on his bike, and taken off, without bothering to get a drink or a snack. How could he tell Uncle Mel that Jacob had paid him and offered him lemonade, and he'd still turned around and walked out? He'd already been rude once today.

“Okay,” he murmured, and followed Jacob into the kitchen. But then, having said yes to the lemonade, he realized he could hardly say no to whatever jobs Jacob had lined up for him that afternoon, and he felt mad at himself all over again. He had been planning to finish the glass standing up, but when Jacob lowered himself to a chair and nodded toward the one across from him, Buck felt he had no choice. It was getting worse by the minute.

Jacob's voice was still deep and gravelly, but seemed to have lost some of its sharpness, and his bushy brows no longer met in the middle like a V. He picked up the plastic jug on the checkered oilcloth and filled two glasses. Pushing one toward Buck, he took a swallow of his own drink, his mouth puckering at the sourness. Then he asked, “How long have you been stuttering?”

One thing you could say about Jacob Wall, he didn't beat around the bush. What business was it of his? What was
with
this guy, anyway? It was all Buck could do not to say, or try to say, “What's it to you?”

What he said was “Why d…do you want t…t…to know?” He was surprised at his own boldness.

“I used to work in a military hospital with speech patients,” Jacob said. “I figured your uncle found that out somehow and thought this whole thing up—you working here, and that annoyed me last week.”

Buck lowered his glass. “You're a d…doctor?”

“Was. Not practicing anymore. A speech doctor, not an MD.”

“We hardly know anyth…th…thing ab…b…b…”
Not here! Not now!
Buck thought, and started over. “Hardly know anything ab…b…bout you. J…just thought you n…n…needed some help.”

For a long time, it seemed, Jacob sat without speaking, and Buck sensed that he too had to work not to be rude. Finally the man said, “Well, I was thinking the same about you. I worked with men who stuttered.”

Try as he would, Buck could not picture this stern-looking man in this small cramped house as a professional in a white coat. Or maybe he hadn't worn a coat. Buck still couldn't imagine it.

“Wh…wh…what d…did you d…do for them?” he asked, unconvinced.

“It's what they did for themselves. But it's hard work, and I didn't accept just anyone into the program.”

“Yeah, well…” Buck drained his glass and pushed it away. “I'm g…going to start th…th…the…” He took a deep breath and tried again, blinking his eyes and tightening his jaw. “I'm going to st…st…start th…therapy at school. Th…thanks.” He was stuttering on practically every word!

“How often do they see you in therapy at school, Buck? Every day?” Jacob just wouldn't quit.

Buck almost laughed. If you saw the therapist every
week,
that was exceptional. “C…couple times a m…m…month,” he said.

“And you think that's going to help?”

“I d…don't know,” said Buck. “B…but it's all s…s…s…set up.”

“Okay, then,” Jacob said. “Just thought I'd offer.”

Buck stood up. “G…got any jobs for m…me today?”

When Buck got home from school on Wednesday, Mel was there, showered and rummaging stocking footed through the refrigerator.

“Heeeey!” he said when Buck and Katie walked in. “What do you guys eat when I'm gone? Nothing much here but peas and carrots. You a bunch of bunnies or something?”

Katie laughed. “There's nothing in there you like, you mean. We didn't know you'd be home.” She gave her uncle a quick hug. “Amy and Sara are coming over and we're making popcorn, if you want any.”

“Take more'n popcorn to fill me up,” Mel said, and sat down on a kitchen chair to put on his shoes while Katie took her stuff to her room. Soon music by her favorite band drifted down from upstairs.

Buck had just grabbed a couple of crackers when Mel gave him a mischievous look—first the squint in his brown eyes, then the smile that traveled sideways.

“Got an idea, Buck,” he said. “Let's go pay your mom a visit at Holly's.”

Whatever it was, Buck was ready—ready to forget this rotten, no-good day, and he was out the door even before Mel picked up his keys. He wished his uncle could drive the big semi he used for business home after each run, but he had to park it instead at the terminal in Roanoke, then drive his own car the rest of the way. It was fun the few times he'd let Buck sit up there in the passenger seat of the huge vehicle, though. Like riding around in a two-story building. Now he settled back in Mel's Ford and buckled his seat belt.

“Anything h…happen on this l…last trip?” Buck asked.

“Nothing much to speak of. Some crazy fool with a U-Haul trying to play musical chairs with me just this side of Chicago and almost got himself killed. I go to pass a Honda, see, travelin' along at sixty-five, and this guy's right behind me like he's riding my tailwind. I figure as soon as I pass the Honda and pull over, he'll pass me and go barreling on up the road.”

“And what happened?”

“As soon as I see I'm clear, I start to pull over, but that's not soon enough for the U-Haul. Instead of waiting for my rig to move over, he tries to pass me on the right. I see him disappear from my side-view window, and I'm thinking, ‘What the heck…?' And then I hear the Honda blasting its horn and a squeal of brakes, and I realize the idiot with the U-Haul's between me and the Honda, 'bout to be squeezed like a tin can.”

Uncle Mel reared back in his seat and wiped one hand on his thigh. “Makes me sweat just to think about it. I managed to pull back, just time enough that I didn't squash him like a june bug. Him and his U-Haul too. And you know what? When he
does
go around and I let him pass, does he thank me for saving his life? He gives me the finger!”

Mel shrugged it off then and let out his breath. Finally he glanced over at Buck. “So how are things back here? You stop by Jacob's while I was away?”

“Yeah. Put a p…patch on one of his s…screens. M…mopped the kitchen floor and stuff.” Buck had already decided not to tell his uncle about his conversation with Jacob that day. Instead, he asked, “What k…kind of w…w…work did he d…do before? You know?”

Mel shook his head. “Haven't the slightest idea. I noticed one of his letters was addressed to a Dr. Jacob Wall, but there's all kinds of doctors out there. Could've been a dentist, for all I know. But you'll never get it out of him. Lucky he'll even give you the time of day.”

Buck stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled off the highway onto a side road that brought them into the back lot of Holly's Homestyle Restaurant.

Buck tried to stop smiling as he went around and came through the front entrance, his Nationals cap backward on his head, as he usually wore it. Charlie, the short-order cook, raised a spatula in greeting and went on turning onion slices on the grill.

“How you doin', Buck?” he called.

Doris Anderson, who was cleaning tabletops in the booths, looked up as Buck sat down at the counter.

“Well, hi!” she called, stopping to wipe one arm across her forehead. “You come out here on your bike?” The white apron she wore over her green and gray uniform had a few spots on it from serving the breakfast and lunchtime crowd, and Buck knew she hadn't had a break yet because she always changed her apron at the break.

“G…got a ride,” he said, and braced his hands against the counter, scanning the menu on the wall. It wasn't unusual for Buck to show up at the restaurant on a late afternoon when the place wasn't busy. Not unusual for him to get a ride with someone going this way, and then ride home with Mom if she had the car, or with Dad if he came to pick her up.

Sometimes, if there was food left over from the blue plate special, they gave it to him free. He was always hungry. “Anything you want t…to get r…rid of?” he asked.

“You,” said Charlie, and they laughed.

“Well, now, aren't you something! Coming in here bold as brass, asking for handouts,” said his mom with a grin. She picked up a tray on the counter. “Let me get these dishes in the machine and I'll see what we've got left in the fridge. Pork and sauerkraut, maybe. I'll sit down with you in a few minutes.” She balanced one end of the tray on the palm of her hand, the other end on her shoulder, and moved through the double doors to the kitchen.

As soon as she was gone, Mel came through the front entrance, one finger to his lips. Charlie grinned and dumped another handful of onions on the grill where they spit and hissed, their savory scent filling the air. The small man looked something like an onion himself in his white shirt and pants, and an apron even more stained than Mom's. He was sallow-complexioned, and what little hair he had stood up in one gray tuft on the top of his head.

It was several minutes before Buck's mom came back, wearing a clean apron and holding a dish of bread pudding.

“This is all we've got,” she said, setting it down before Buck, and then, to Charlie, “My human garbage disposal.” She nodded affectionately toward her son. As she straightened the salt and pepper shakers on the counter, she scanned the room, then fixed her eyes on a man who sat slumped at a booth in the corner. His head was buried in one arm on the table, the collar of his stained Windbreaker turned up around his ears.

“When'd he come in?” she asked Charlie.

Buck, perched on a stool, was glad he had a mouthful of bread pudding because it helped keep him from smiling.

“Couple minutes ago,” Charlie replied, unsmiling.

“Is he drunk?”

“I don't know. Don't think so. But this is the last of the liver and onions, and if he don't want it, it's my supper,” Charlie said.

At that moment a thin, straight-backed woman came through the kitchen door and looked over to where Uncle Mel sat sprawled at the table in the corner booth.
Holly,
the green embroidered letters on her uniform read. Her dyed black hair was scooped on top her head, held there with a comb, making her look even taller.

She turned to Buck's mom. “Who's he?”

“We don't know, but he's either drunk or asleep,” said Mom. She pulled her order pad from the pocket of her butcher-style apron and walked over.

“You ready to order, sir?” she asked the man in the rumpled Windbreaker, whose breathing was now loud enough for Buck to hear.

There was no answer.

Buck watched his mom try again.

“Good afternoon,” she said loudly. She leaned a little farther over the table and took the menu out from behind the napkin holder. “Hello?” she added, nudging Mel's head with the menu. And when there was no response still, she said, “Sir?
Sir?
”

Holly stuck her head in the kitchen and called, “Pearl? Come out here a minute, would you?”