If Jack's in Love (12 page)

“How wonderful,” Tillie said.

We stood in the center of the room, stretching our necks. Even Myra had been subdued by the grandeur of the Taylor palace. She was shivering in the air-conditioning, a towel wrapped around her.

“Poor dear, you need to tinkle. Just down the hallway, first left.”

Myra broke into a trot; she needed to go bad.

I stood next to Tillie.

“This is a nice house you have.”

She sighed. “It will do. Oh Jackie, if only you could have seen how we lived in Dallas!” The pain made her grievous, and I shook my head in sympathy.

Then she said, “I should return to the other guests. You wait here and escort your friend to the pool when she's ready.”

I waited in the living room. Now that I was alone it had become quiet, gloomy, cavernous. It even made me slightly afraid.

Myra took an awfully long time, until finally I heard sounds coming from the distant hallway. I crossed the room to meet her.

“Where's Tillie?”

“Outside,” I said.

We stood in the refrigerated house, gazing about.

“What a nice place. Basil must make a lot of money.”

“He's a lawyer,” I said. “All this seems creepy to me, I don't know if I'd like living here.”

Myra came close. The goose bumps on her flesh brushed against me and I draped an arm around her. “Thanks,” she said, “it's so cold in here.”

I spun her around and kissed her madly. I put my tongue in. I was like a man in the desert sucking water out of a cactus. Before I was even close to finished, she pushed me away.

“We should go back. We shouldn't be doing that in here.”

She let me hold her hand as far as the dining room, and when we passed into the gleaming steel kitchen she released it with a placating pat.

Outside was a loud commotion.

At the door we were met by Tillie, coming in. “There you are, dear. A young man is looking for you. I believe it's your brother.”

Myra gaped at me. We stepped outside. At the entrance to the pool stood Gaylord.

He ran his eyes up and down me contemptuously.

“Get your things,” he said to Myra. “You're coming home.”

WITHOUT A WORD Myra bowed to her brother's command. She went into the pool and gathered her clothes and murmured a thank-you as she passed Tillie. I was outside the pool, observing her through the slats. I was eager to defend her, but as soon as I began to speak Gaylord cut me off.

“Do I know you?”

I'd have liked a word with Myra. I didn't want her to get away before I could show her that I was concerned, that I heeded her, that I would protect her. How had Gaylord learned she was with me anyway?

Myra cast a worried glance at her brother and darted past me with declined eyes. Stan, behind her, appeared at the pool gateway. He watched as Gaylord and Myra walked down the sloping yard to Clark Lane.

It all happened with silent efficiency. Social equilibrium was being quietly restored, thanks to Gaylord's moral authority. The trouble was Stan. His eyes were burning Gaylord Joyner's back to a cinder, and Gaylord could feel it. I guess it was too much for the Joyner pride. Just as he reached the side of the house, right before he might have passed out of sight, he spun and returned my brother's scowl.

“Got a problem?”

In a flash Stan was in front of him, standing chest to chest with him.

Gaylord stepped around him.

Myra was already at the street, shivering and mortified by the drama she had caused. My brother descended the slope at Gaylord's side, glaring at his profile with insolent joy.

Gaylord was afraid of my brother's retribution. Why wouldn't he be? He had been brave enough when it belonged to the unforeseeable future. Perhaps he was hoping he could put it off until the end of August, when he would be ensconced in a tobacco-gothic dormitory at Duke never trespassed by Witchers. Besides, he had a sister to protect from life's darkness (even though it was her susceptibility to guile that had brought about this unhappy situation in the first place). Stan, of course, had nary a qualm about Myra's gentility. Nor was he in the least shy about revealing the baseness of Witcher blood in front of Basil, Tillie and Anya. The moment offered too many opportunities to provoke the apocalypse about which he long had dreamed.

When they reached the street he grabbed Gaylord's shoulder and yanked him around.

Gaylord violently flung my brother's hand away. “Don't touch me, Witcher.”

My brother grinned and I felt my stomach go soft. Oh boy, did I recognize that grin.

“Now who's got the problem?” he said.

“Look, we'll settle this later.”

“I want to settle it now,” gritting his teeth in Joyner's face.

“Not in front of my sister. We'll settle it later, I said.”

“That's how you're gonna pussy out? You're gonna use your sister?”

“Gaylord, let's go,” Myra called, quivering.

“You know damn well she shouldn't have been at that pool.”

“I don't have anything to do with that. This ain't about her anyway.”

“You stay away from her. I don't want her around you. Or your brother.” Gaylord was wagging a moralistic finger in the air.

“Quit pointing at me, you fucker.”

Stan slapped the finger away. A fist might reasonably have sailed in behind the slap, but for our being distracted by Tillie. She was wandering towards us, upset that her party had been disrupted. She had witnessed the slap, and now she was hollering something none of us could understand.

We exchanged glances.

“Ma'am?” Stan said.

There came the rumble of a powerful motor.

We turned and looked.

Reedy's Plymouth was coming around the corner!

My brother swore. The other people here had no idea how the cop had been hounding us, so to them his appearance was a miracle, a deus ex machina. Gaylord's relief was plain. He stared at Stan victoriously, gloating over the justness of the heavens.

Myra seized the opportunity to dart a glance in my direction. I made an urgent expression, gesturing with my hands, and she cut me off with a quick jerk of the eyes.
Not now, you fool.

Reedy climbed out of the cruiser, cowboy face a-smiling. The Taylor cousins had gathered to watch the seedy drama their Texas relatives already had wrought. Meanwhile Anya was coming down the slope, staring hard at Reedy. She didn't like cops.

“What's the problem here?” Reedy said.

“Who said there's a problem?” my brother snapped.

Reedy was imperturbable. He nodded amiably, staring all around.

I couldn't figure out what this lawman was up to. He was always cruising through the neighborhood, preaching peace and asking the kids if they could “dig” what he was saying. His favorite expression was “Do you think you can hack it?”

“Everything is fine,” Gaylord said. “We had a disagreement and it's over. I'm heading home now.”

“He came to pick up his snotty little sister,” Stan sneered.

“Is that anyway to talk?” Reedy said. “You're Charles Witcher's son, aren't you?”

Stan's face became grim, taut. No doubt he expected a schoolyard taunt to follow. Now even cops were joining in on the fun?

“Your father's a decent man. How would he like it if he heard you speaking that way?”

“He hates Joyners more than I do, so don't worry about it.”

Gaylord placed a shielding arm across Myra's shoulders. He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “You can't reason with this guy,” he said.

“Joyner”—my brother pointed—“you're lucky he's here. If it weren't for Deputy Dawg I'd fuck you up good right now.”

Up by the house, the Taylor cousins, like a wheezy chorus, performed a dramatic intake of breath. I guess they weren't as used to it as I was. Even Anya was gazing at Stan a little cockeyed.

“This isn't the only time he's threatened me,” Gaylord said. “That whole family is crazy. His father physically attacked Mr. Kellner not long ago.”

Reedy nodded gravely. “Well, things aren't always that blackand-white. There are gray areas,” he said.

We creased our brows, expecting further wisdom. But Reedy was finished, he had said his piece.

Stan turned to the cop. “See the way they always put down the Witchers? That asshole Kellner accused my father of trying to kill his dog.”

“Let's watch the language,” Reedy said.

“In front of my sister,” Gaylord said, “a twelve-year-old. The guy has no class at all.”

That did it. Stan blew. He took a step forward and raised his fist, but Reedy snatched his biceps. It made a sound like a slap.

“Easy.”

“Easy nothing. Next time I lay eyes on that son of a bitch I'll kill him. You hear me, Joyner?”

Anya took Stan's arm. “Come on, let's go back to the pool.” She tried to steer him towards the yard.

But Stan wasn't through. He twirled and pointed. “Keep that in mind, Joyner. If I catch you on the streets you're dead. I mean anytime of day or night. You see me coming you better run.”

Tillie frowned, her bejeweled whiteness exceedingly out of place in El Dorado Hills. She was standing beside the cop's idling cruiser, putting it all together: Reedy, the cop car, the morning when her Fleetwood drifted past the house that had TRASH painted on it. Stan's behavior was allowing her insight into the young man her daughter was involved with.

“I'm leaving now,” Gaylord proclaimed.

He began to walk Myra away and I fixed my eyes on her (at some point during the commotion she had wiggled into her clothes) and waited for her to cast a look behind. But she kept walking. When she and Gaylord got to the corner they hung a left.

“Oh, dear,” Tillie said.

Anya and Stan returned to the pool. The Taylor cousins had disappeared. Down the sloping lawn staggered Basil, glass in hand. He had missed everything.

Officer Reedy said, “Better tell your brother he shouldn't make statements like that. That's the sort of thing that's liable to come back on him.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Why must people be so ugly with each other?” Tillie asked, pensively.

Officer Reedy reached a finger to the brim of his cap and nudged it back. “I want y'all to stay calm. There's no need for all this fighting. Be rational, you people.”

He returned to the cruiser, still muttering, and put it in gear.

Tillie held out her hand, offering it to me. That's how she was going to lead me back to the pool. Me, a Witcher! I was all flustered and moved by the gesture.

Meanwhile Basil was drunkenly leering and rattling his glass. Apparently he found it comical that a cop had been to his house.

He grinned in my direction.

“Jackie DeShannon!” he bellowed.

THE LOGIC THAT GOVERNS the urge to throw a party, if urges can be considered logical, was pretty much nullified by the incident. The Taylor cousins bade frigid farewells; Basil staggered into the house and never reappeared; my brother dipped sullenly into the pool to receive comfort from Anya for his rage and frustration; and Tillie brought me, either through absent-mindedness or a bizarre compulsion to destroy my innocence, a mixed drink. I sipped furtively at the thing while the wet golden retriever grinned conspiratorially. I was quite excited to be drinking it.

Tillie was all out of sorts. She asked if my brother very often got into fights.

“Nah, he just doesn't take any crap from anyone,” I said. I suppose the drink had relaxed my tongue.

“But why would anyone give him crap?”

“Well,” I said. How to explain it? Maybe Dallas was a decent town where people didn't observe the blood distinctions that set classes apart. And if these sweet, boisterous Texans weren't wise to such things, I certainly didn't want to be the one to teach them. Why should I train Tillie in Witcher hatred?

She asked how far away we lived, and that's when it hit me she hadn't put it together yet. She still didn't realize that Stan and I were the kids who lived in the house with TRASH painted all over it. (That was still discernible from the road, and would be as long as we kept using cheap paint.)

“We live over that way,” I said, gesturing towards Europe.

Tillie said, “I see,” and threw a disturbed glance at the pool, where her daughter was earnestly counseling Stan. He was listening with a tight face and nodding curtly.

Meanwhile I was sipping rapidly from my well-loaded drink.

“That policeman, that Reedy fellow, he seems a nice man,” Tillie said hopefully.

“Yes ma'am,” I agreed.

And then, without any warning, she burst into a torrent of tears.

I stared, thunderstruck, and then I glanced nervously at Stan and Anya. They were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice.

“What's the matter?” I said helplessly.

Tillie buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry, Jackie, I shouldn't be crying in front of you. I'm homesick, that's all.”

“You miss Dallas?”

She nodded and dabbed at her eyes, while I consolingly patted her arm.

I took another hit of my drink.

“I don't think we're going to fit in here,” she said. “This place is so provincial.”

“Provincial,” I repeated. I knew the word, but Tillie's use of it was enlightening. A new social concept was birthing in my brain, and I had a momentary feeling of superiority to El Dorado Hills. Outside, beyond the city limits, were other places, other towns: New York, San Francisco, Dallas.