Our Daily Bread (8 page)

Bobby mashed his beans into green mush. “I'm just saying.”

“It's all right, son. Every boy needs a car. I get it. When the time comes.” He patted his wife's arm. “Great dinner, baby. Really first-rate.”

Tom looked at the festive dinner and tried to get in the spirit of the thing. The candles in Chianti bottles. The kitchen transformed through the miracle of soft lighting to a place where even Bobby sat up a bit straighter and was willing to let an argument go.

“What is this?” Ivy said, holding up her fork with a beige sliver on it.

“It's an almond, silly. You like almonds,” said Patty.

“No, I don't think I do,” she said and put her fork down, scraping the almond slice onto the rim of her plate.

“I like them,” said Bobby. “I'll eat hers.”

Tom tried not to think about money. No treats, no dinners out, and certainly no college for the kids. Bobby hardly seemed interested in college, but maybe. No chance now, though, even if his grades improved. Not on Tom's salary. Unless he doubled up with a second job. Part-time maybe. At least in the warm months. Landscaping. He could handle that. Put something away. He chewed a mouthful of sticky, sweet-sour chicken and smiled at his wife.

Ivy became very quiet, even for Ivy, and in a way that was different from Bobby's sulking silence. Ivy guarded herself, held herself close. She watched her mother as though at any moment Patty might do something else unexpected. The girl pushed beans around on her plate, built a nest for them in a pile of rice, and smiled whenever Patty looked in her direction.

All through dinner Patty chattered away about what she'd do with all her time now. Read Chekhov and Shakespeare. Grow tomatoes and sweet peas and maybe even potatoes. Take up quilting, or no, maybe she'd become a weaver. “I'll bet you could make me a loom,” she said.

“I don't know anything about looms,” Tom said.

“You can learn. We can all learn new things. Maybe I'll move this stuff out of the dining room. We could put it in the shed. Then I could make it a studio or something.”

“That dining room suite's from my parents, Patty. It's good walnut. I don't want it out in the shed.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Well, somewhere else then. You could turn the shed into a workshop for me. You could, couldn't you?”

After the cheesecake was finished, Bobby stood up, and said he was going out. Tom said he was not. Bobby said he was meeting his friends. Tom said he was doing his homework. Bobby said he didn't have any. Tom said he doubted that.

“You want me to call up your teachers tomorrow and ask?”

Bobby held his ground, glared at Tom. His expression matched that of the blond rapper stencilled to the front of his T-shirt, some absurdly rich kid named after a candy, from what Tom remembered.

“Up to you,” said Tom.

“This family's whacked,” said Bobby and he stomped up to his room and slammed the door.

“I've done my homework,” said Ivy.

“Never doubted it for a moment, sweetpea.”

“Are you going to help me with these dishes?” said Patty.

And so he and Ivy did the dishes while Patty watched television. Ivy stood on a little stool and carefully dried each plate, each piece of cutlery, each glass, polishing each one and holding the glasses up to the light to make sure there were no spots. When they finished, they joined Patty in the living room and watched a program in which two sets of neighbours redecorated each other's houses. Tom picked at the duct tape covering the tear in the arm of his lounge chair. Ivy laid on the floor, hugging a pillow, her expression intent, as though she really cared about valences and ottomans and shades of blue paint. Patty sat cross-legged on the plaid couch, sipping wine. At last it was time for Ivy to go to bed. She kissed them both and said goodnight.

After a few minutes, Tom went up stairs to check on her. As he passed Bobby's door he heard his son singing a horribly off-key version of something he supposed the boy must be listening to through headphones. He caught a whiff of incense with a possible under-note of cigarette, wondered if he should look in, but then decided against it. Let the kid think he was getting away with something small.

Ivy was already in bed, reading a book called
A Wrinkle in Time.

“You all right, sweetie?”

“Sure. The new light helps a lot. You don't have to check on me all the time, you know.”

“I like to check on you. Good book?”

“Very,” she said.

“Don't read too late, okay?” He kissed her head and then went back downstairs to the living room.

“She still scared of the dark?” said Patty. “She's an awfully timid kid, isn't she? You'd think she'd be over it at her age.”

“She's fine.”

He considered sitting next to her on the couch. She was a little bundle of knees and elbows and he didn't know how he'd get purchase on her if he did. “Patty,” he said as he perched on the edge of his lounger. “Are you happy?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I want you to be happy. Is quitting this job going to make you happy? Happier?”

Patty got up, walked over to him and plopped herself down on his lap. “You're the sweetest old thing, you know that?”

“Patty,” he faltered and started again. “I feel like we're drifting.”

She took another sip from her glass and played with the button on his shirt. “The thing is, I'm just stuck, you know? It was like the whole world was going by my cash register, doing things, on their way somewhere and there I was, punching cash register buttons. Wasting time.”

“I don't think having a family is wasting time.”

She put her glass on the table, put her hands up on either side of his face and kissed him on the forehead. “You never feel cooped up, do you?”

“You feel cooped up?”

“Well, no, not really, not like that. But you know . . . we could go somewhere.”

“Sure, we'll take a vacation in the summer. Maybe go camping. The kids might like that.”

She stood up, walked away from him and stood at the window looking out at her reflection looking back at her. “That's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I don't know,” she said.

And try as he might, for the couple of hours before he had to sleep, he couldn't think of anything else to say. He tried to concentrate on the kinetic television dialogue of people who were supposed to be running the White House but who never seemed to stop walking around long enough to actually get anything done, but he could hardly hear the actors' voices, so loud were his thoughts as they flung themselves against the bones of his skull.

Do not be blind to what is among you. Those who flaunt their wickedness, their sloth, their drunkenness. They say they are as good as Christians, but it is nearer the truth to say that they are almost as bad as devils! Their common purpose to war against God compels them to act in concert. Did not the devils go in concert into the man possessed with a legion of devils as we learn in the gospel history? While they withstand God, they are only like devils in hell. Carry this message, I charge you, to the impenitent—tell them you know their evil and will not be fooled by the voice of Satan. Tell them they are cast away from you as our Saviour cast aside the legion of devils—swine unto swine. We know them for what they are. Blasphemers. Evil men.

—Reverend Joshua Cotton,
Church of Christ Returning, 1906

On thursday evening just after seven o'clock
, Albert, with Bobby in the passenger seat, eased his truck into Stan Mertus's driveway. Stan had left word at the Maverick he wanted to see Albert, which Albert understood to mean Stan wanted a delivery. The backpack on Bobby's lap contained two ounces of prime weed.

Stan and his brother Petey lived in a somewhat dilapidated stucco bungalow. Their father had bought the house cheap back in the sixties after the old war veteran who'd built it hanged himself from the bathroom door and nobody else wanted to buy it. Mrs. Mertus had died shortly after that and Mr. Mertus, a drunk and a bully, had disappeared a few years ago, gone to Nobody-Knew-Where-and-Even-Fewer-Cared. The bungalow's front yard was a scrap heap of tires, rusty tools, an old Chevy up on blocks, a couple of bikes under tarps, a can of motor oil, an old metal garden chair draped with chains, an over-turned garbage can, and, incongruously, a life-sized plastic deer. Painted pink. Both ears missing.

“You coming?” Albert said to Bobby.

“Sure. Yeah.”

“Take the backpack.”

Stan's wide face appeared in the window, which sported a bed sheet curtain. Given his own living situation, Albert was immune to deficiencies of architecture and aesthetics, and he strode across the uneven, debris-clogged walkway on legs well accustomed to navigating treacherous surfaces. Bobby tiptoed around an abandoned carburetor, several beer bottles, a crankshaft and a leaking can of motor oil.

Stan opened the door and absent-mindedly clawed through his shaggy black beard. “Hey,” he said.

“Jesus, man, you're fatter every time I see you,” said Albert.

Stan grabbed his belly with both hands. “Good living,” he said. “Come on in. What's that with you?”

“That is Bobby Evans. Say hello, Bobby.”

“Hey,” said Bobby.

“Uh-huh,” said Stan.

Stan went into the house; Albert and Bobby followed. Stan Mertus liked to call himself a biker. He often, as now, wore a bandana around his head, thick-soled motorcycle boots and, regardless of the weather, a leather jacket acquired from a pawn shop in New York City, which he thought gave him allure. Stan tinkered with motorcycles, occasionally for pay. He wasn't a half-bad mechanic, truth be told, and he had a fine reputation for bikes. The problem was that Stan Mertus was wet-sack-of-cement lazy, and was far happier stoned out of his gourd, figuring out the subliminal messages in television commercials than he was in honest enterprise. But then, thought Albert, who wasn't, if they could get away with it? Selling a little dope was a hell of a lot easier, and more profitable, than digging a grave or repairing potholes out on the highway.

In the living room, Keith Keyes, a friend of Stan's who Albert had heard was sleeping on the couch these days, sat in a vinyl-covered rocker with metal runners. The fungal-green linoleum beneath the chair was gouged and scarred. Keith had the long brown curls, soft lips and smooth skin teenage girls went crazy for. He watched a NASCAR race on a television set on a two-tiered table on which were also displayed three framed photographs: one of a baby in a white baptismal dress, one of a young couple dressed in the style of the 1980s—he with teased-up hair and skin-tight leopard print pants, she with enormous shoulder pads and the same hair—and one of two small boys wearing matching overalls. The only adornment on the walls was a large photo of a Kenworth truck superimposed on a mirror. Through an archway, Stan's little brother, Petey, stood in front of the open refrigerator with a disappointed look on his face.

“Hey,” said Keith, “grab a seat.”

Albert sat on an old plaid couch pushed against the wall and Bobby sat next to him while Stan disappeared into the bedroom, saying, “I'll get my cash.”

Albert didn't much like the way he said it, as though the business they had should be conducted quickly and Albert should, by this reasoning, be gone quickly. He put his feet up on the water-ring-stained coffee table. Electrical tape held one of the legs together.

“How you doing?” he said to Keith. “What you up to these days?”

“Nothing much.”

“Keith got his heart broken,” said Petey, chewing on a piece of white bread smeared with bright yellow mustard. He was a miniature version of Stan, one hundred pounds lighter and minus the facial hair.

“Fuck you,” said Keith.

“Hey, no shame in it,” said Stan, who had come back into the room with his wallet. “Happens to all of us sometime.”

“Never happened to you.” Keith peeled the label off a bottle of beer.

“I am incapable of love,” said Stan. He pulled at his beard in an attempt, Albert thought, to keep the smile from his lips.

Keith snorted. “You're lucky.”

Albert considered Keith Keyes a wuss. All broken up over a bitch. Guy should be embarrassed. He remembered a time he'd seen Keith and Stan Mertus down at the Italian Garden Pizzeria. Keith had obviously had a cold—nose red and dripping, sneezing. He coughed, little prissy
uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huhs,
holding his hand up to his chest. “I think I might need antibodies,” he said and Stan, his hands black with grease and motor oil, his overalls strained and straining across his beer belly, looked disgusted. “Antibiotics. And for Chrissake, man, buck up. You haven't got fucking
pneumonia,
” he said. Keith had looked so hurt, and so pathetic, and so full of self-pity.

“Yeah, I heard you and Jayne—it was Jayne right?—I heard you broke up,” Albert said. “That's a tough one. Hey, you got another beer?”

“You want a beer?” said Petey.

“Yeah. I would like a beer. How about you, Bobby, you want a beer?”

“Okay,” said Bobby.

“You got my message?” said Stan. He dragged a metal-legged chair from the kitchen and sat, heavily, straddling it.

“That's why I'm here. What did you think? I dropped in because I heard Stan Mertus was receiving this afternoon?”

Bobby giggled behind his hand.

“What? What's that mean?” Stan glared at Bobby. “What are you fucking laughing at?”

“Nothing.”

“I'll get you guys a beer,” said Petey.

“Thanks,” he said. “Mighty white of you.”

“You got the dope, or what?” said Stan.

“What's the hurry? Why don't we have a taste first, see if the quality's up to your standards?”

“All right,” said Keith, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Petey returned with the beers and Albert rolled a joint. They passed it around and all conversation quieted while they inhaled, held their breath, exhaled. Albert watched Stan's shoulders relax.

“So, what happened, anyway?” Albert said to Keith.

“About?”

“Your old lady.”

“Don't get him started,” said Stan.

“I'm interested. Might be good to talk about it.”

“All he fucking does is talk about it.” Stan took a mighty hit into his lungs and stifled a cough. “Good shit,” he said, with the croak of contained air.

“C'mon, Stan,” said Petey.

“Yeah, c'mon, Stan.” Albert leaned back on the couch and dared, with his slitted eyes, for Stan to piss him off. It was amazing what you could do to people when they needed you. Amazing what sort of disrespect they'd tolerate when you had the best grass in town. Stan took another hit before passing the joint along, but said nothing. “So tell me, Keith, this Jayne, she a bitch, or what?”

Keith drooped like a basset hound. “I was good to her, man. I was really good to her. You know, we were together for five years and I never once screwed around on her. Never once.”

“What about Wendy Boyer?” said Stan.

“That wasn't nothing. Just a blow job at a party. Nothing.” Keith rolled up the beer label he'd peeled off the bottle into little pellets and flicked them across the room with his thumb and forefinger.

Albert watched Keith settle in to a puddle of self-pity. He began to mumble about how Jayne would come back one day, when she saw what she'd passed up. Albert stopped listening. Stan grabbed the remote and raised the volume on the television just as Keith was saying he'd never hit Jayne, nothing like that. Although he no longer paid attention to the words, Albert watched Keith's face. Shit, he thought, the pussy might actually cry. What kind of girl could do that to a guy? She had to be one hell of a fuck. Little bird-like Jayne Miller. He knew her from around town. She was a waitress at Gus's Corner. Little sparrow of a thing. He remembered she'd poured him an extra cup of coffee one cold morning. Smiled at him, as if he was just a regular townie, and not a fucking Erskine. She was all right, he thought. Better off without this fucktard.

The weed slipped around in his own head now, and he'd barely inhaled, just enough to be sociable. Never get foggy where business was concerned, that was his rule. He figured the others must be pretty gone. Bobby had a half-mast stupid-ass grin on his face.

The door opened and all heads turned. Stan turned the set off. “Fuck,” Albert said, and slipped the baggie of grass between the couch cushions. They hadn't heard anyone pull up over the drone of race cars on the screen. Stupid. His own fucking fault, not paying attention. Daydreaming about some waitress for Christ sake.

The figure at the door was tall and well built. His head was bald as a bullet and a knife-shaped tattoo adorned his neck. Albert recognized Bill Corkum.

“Yeah, it's all right,” said Stan. “It's just Bill.”

It wasn't all right for Albert. The Corkums lived in the no-man's land between town and mountain, considered mountain people by the townies, but not by the Erskines. The Corkums had aspirations. Bill Corkum worked at Kroeler's Paint as a mixer or something.

“Hey.” Bill did not smile, did not come any further in the room. “This a bad time?” His eyes took in the room. He nodded at Albert. When he noticed Keith his eyes flickered with something Albert couldn't quite gauge. “Keith,” he said. “How you doing?”

Keith did not reply, wouldn't even look at the guy.

Stan rose from his chair, “Bill? What do you want? You ain't got a fucking phone? You can't call first?”

“Hey, I'm trying to give you some business. You want it or not? I got a carburetor problem. I can take it up to Ed's though, you prefer. No skin off my ass.” His voice was calm, smooth.

“I'm kinda busy right now, Bill.”

“Too busy for a 1988 Harley FXR. Edlebrock heads, end dual carb, Andrews cam, Crane ignition. Might need a new carb. Only runs with the enrichening lever pulled out. Maybe just needs the jets unplugged.”

Stan's eyes lit up. “You got a 1988 Harley? How much you pay? Where you buy it from? You better pray it wasn't Darryl up in Cranshaw. He'd rip off his mother.”

“Wasn't Darryl, and I'm not telling you what I paid. You'll tell me it was too much no matter what it was, you jealous bastard.”

“Probably was. Let me take a look. Might be a problem in the float.”

“Stan,” said Albert, standing. “We should finish our business before you move on to other things.”

“What? Yeah, all right.” Stan pulled out his wallet again and rifled through the bills, counting and recounting before handing some to Albert.

Albert put the money in his pocket without counting and handed Stan the baggie. “I trust you,” he said.

“You selling meth, too?” Bill folded his arms across his chest, putting his fists under his biceps to make them look bigger. “Family affair?”

“You hitting?” said Albert. Bill didn't have the telltale twitch-and-fidget of a tweaker, but you never knew. “I always knew you Corkums were dumb.”

“Is that so? Hey, no lab on our slab, if you know what I mean.”

“Shit,” said Keith, although he didn't sound completely displeased by the sudden tension in the room.

Bobby stood up, pale, but game, like a little terrier. Would have been laughable in other circumstances.

“Sit,” said Albert. “Now.” He pointed at the couch. The boy did as he was told. Stan, Keith and Petey went quiet, like they were watching two pit bulls square off. No matter how good it would feel to lay Bill Corkum out, to finish the job someone else had started on that incisor, Albert would not entertain these assholes. He inhaled deeply and let it out. “Don't know where you get your information from, Bill,” he said. “And I don't give a shit. But let's be clear. I am strictly a weed man. Now, if you're interested in that, well, maybe we can do business.”

Bill moved his mouth like he was chewing on something. Without turning his head, Albert glanced to his right, at Stan and Petey, and to his left, at Bobby and Keith. Then he locked on to Bill's eyes and held them, his eyebrow cocked.
Not in front of the townies, Bill.

Bill opened his mouth as though to say something, but apparently thought better of it. He laughed. “Listen, I'm too goddamn lazy to work on that patch the way you do. You always have some excellent shit. Am I right, boys?” He spread his arms wide to include the whole room.

“Sure,” said Petey. “Great stuff.”