Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (22 page)

Other than the hellos at the beginning of the meeting, it was the first time I could remember hearing Russell speak.

“Thank you, Russell,” I said. “It’ll be good to hear an idea that isn’t completely insane.”

“You said no judging,” Snout said. “It’s hard going first.”

Russell didn’t bother to stand. “It seems to me that if you want to get inside a fenced-in area, you can’t do it directly. You need some form of subterfuge,” Russell said. “You need to hit a ball over the fence and ask the neighbor to go into his backyard to retrieve it. Perceived innocence should allow us to walk in.”

Buck Buck said, “Having a pickup baseball game out in the middle of the desert is going to be a little suspicious.”

“That was a metaphor. Have you heard of Plaster Blaster?”

“Um. I’m all about doing whatever it takes,” Snout said, “but I don’t see how making a plaster cast of my dong is going to help.”

After the laughter waned, Russell explained. “I don’t know if it still happens, but in late fall, early winter, a bunch of people—scientists, engineers, hobbyists—go out to that part of the desert and fire model rockets. It’s in a dry wash close enough to Plaster City to give it its name. And they’re not launching your grandfather’s rockets. Big ones.”

Buck Buck got excited. “Why didn’t I think of that? I been out there once to watch. YouTube it, man. Dork nerds—no offense, Russell—get way into it. Someone made a full-size X-wing one time. It was badass. Blew up in three seconds, but that makes it awesomer, because they did all that work knowing that’s what was going to happen. It’s not like it was going to reach the moon. They just wanted to see that rad bastard fly.”

“I hope whoever was in the cockpit ejected in time,” Snout said.

“There wasn’t anyone in the cockpit, dumbass,” Buck Buck said.

“Then who was flying it?”

“If that isn’t until fall, how does that help us now?” I said, interrupting them. I knew Buck Buck and Snout well enough to know that if I didn’t nip that debate in the bud, they would eventually come to blows. In the Buckley family, whoever won the fistfight won the wordfight.

“Plaster Blaster might be in fall,” Russell said, “but this gang wouldn’t know that. People test rockets out there all the time. Good visibility, low wind, even terrain. They’ve probably seen some. I was out there a month ago with some students from my class.”

“So the idea is, we go out, shoot off some rockets, and see if we can’t get one to land inside the biker’s fence in Plaster City,” I said.

Buck Buck took over my train of thought. “The rocket lands in biker country, we knock on the door, a couple nerdly nerds looking for their man-toy rocket ship. No reason to think we’re up to no good. They don’t want no trouble. Either they let us get it or they tell us to fuck off.”

“Stupid, but plausible,” I said. “Our kind of plan.”

“I have the perfect disguise,” Buck Buck said.

“Let me guess. A pocket protector and tape-repaired glasses?” I said.

“And a bowtie,” he said.

I turned to Russell. “Can you really aim those things that well? How close would we have to be?”

“Let me e-mail some people in the rocket community. It’s doable. It’s all math.”

Tucking in Juan, I could hear Griselda and Angie talking in the other room. It made me nervous when those two got together. Egotist that I am, I always assumed they were talking about me. There would have been some relief if I’d heard laughter. At least as the butt of the joke, I was entertaining. But all I heard were whispered voices and silence. That made me itchy.

Juan looked tuckered out from his debut music gig over at Morales. He looked up at me through tired eyes, as I pulled the sheet to his chin.

“What happened to my mom?” Juan asked.

“Angie? She’s in the other room.”

“Not her.”

That had been a dodge, a reflexive stalling tactic, and I felt a flush of shame for having come out with it. I knew he wasn’t talking about Angie.

So this was it. I had hoped that Juan would have been a little older when we finally had this talk. And even though I knew the topic would arise, I still had no clue the best way to handle it. I decided to go with honesty.

“Your mother died.”

Juan didn’t react, kept the same serious expression. He might have been young, but when you live on a farm, you gain a better understanding of mortality at a young age. Death is such a fundamental part of raising animals and farm living that it’s seen as the natural thing that it is. And Juan was about the same age as I was when I found out my mother was dead and not just absent. But as she had died in childbirth, I didn’t have any memories to contend with.

“She loved you very much,” I said, not actually knowing if that was true. One truth, one lie. At least it was balanced.

“She’s in heaven?”

“That’s right.” I counted that as half a lie. Just because I didn’t believe in heaven didn’t make it not true.

“I think of her. I see her. But now when I try, I can’t see her good no more.”

“What she looks like? Her face?” I asked.

“She had dark hair.”

“That’s right. Long dark hair. She was very pretty.”

Juan closed his eyes really tight, making his face into a little fist. “I can’t see her.”

“Maybe when you go to sleep, she’ll be in your dreams.”

Juan nodded, keeping his eyes closed but allowing the muscles in his face to relax.

I leaned down and kissed Juan’s forehead. “Good night, son.”

“Good night, Pop.”

I didn’t get up right away. Sitting with my son, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t ever want to leave. While I still wasn’t sure if I’d totally gotten the hang of this whole fatherhood thing, I knew, sitting there in the dark, that I cared about Juan more than anybody or anything I’d ever cared about. Including myself. I loved my father. I loved Angie. But with Juan, there was more to it. I didn’t just love him, I needed to protect him, to teach him, to be there for him no matter what. At that moment, I felt closer to knowing what it meant to be a father. Far away still, but closer.

Angie and Griselda clammed up when I grabbed a beer and joined them in the dining room. I’m pretty sure it was an act and they did it to fuck with me.

“Are you talking about my tiny penis again?” I said.

“Guilty,” Angie said. “It’s just so small.”

“Angie did refer to it as ‘adequate’ and ‘functional,’ if that’s any consolation,” Griselda said.

“I’ll take what I can get,” I said.

We drank in silence for a minute, my presence changing the dynamic of the room. Eventually, Griselda stood up.

“I’m going to take off. I’m picking up Bobby before my shift starts.”

“Bobby’s getting released tomorrow? He didn’t call me.”

“He called me.”

I smiled and nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad. Be sure to debrief him.”

“Okay,” she said, walking to the door.

I cleared my throat. “I said, be sure to debrief him.”

She gave me a smirk, but said nothing.

“Seriously?” I said. “You’re going to ignore that setup? No punch line? That’s like not returning a high five. You can’t leave me hanging.”

She exhaled dramatically. “Okay.”

“Be sure to debrief him,” I repeated.

“I will give him all the pertinent information,” Griselda deadpanned. “And then I will remove his underwear. Or briefs. Thusly, debriefing him in two very different ways.”

“You ruined it, Gris. You ruined it.”

Angie and I went straight to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I should’ve gotten up, but chose instead to stare at the shapes the exterior bug light made on the wall. I couldn’t remember the difference between a rhombus and a trapezoid, but the light made one of those.

I knew better than to let my brain spin all my worries and personal criticisms in my head, but somehow I couldn’t escape the sucking whirlpool of my thoughts. I should have found a crossword or grabbed a book. Usually a chapter or two did the trick, shaking the Etch-a-Sketch, but that would have required getting out of bed and I was too tired to move. Too tired to sleep. And too tired to defend myself from myself.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” Angie said.

“Yeah.”

“You thinking about Julie and Bobby and this whole fucking mess?”

“What else would I be thinking about?”

Angie rolled over and propped herself onto an elbow. “You want me to tell you everything’s going to be okay?”

“Yeah, lie to me,” I said. “You were pretty quiet at the meeting. And when I say ‘pretty quiet,’ I mean you didn’t say a word. I’m doing the right thing, right?”

“I’ve been keeping my mouth shut. Mostly because I’m outside of all this. I hope Bobby gets his girl out of this mess, but I don’t feel like I can contribute.”

“What do you think of the plan? The rockets. Pretty crazy, huh?”

“I can’t believe the smart guy is the one that came up with the stupid idea. But as idiotic as it is,” Angie said, “it was the least dangerous idea on the table. I’ll take stupid over dangerous any day.”

“Although I’ll admit that I’m a little tired of stupid.”

Angie sat up, adjusting some pillows behind her so that she could lean against the headboard. “Here’s the thing. We started raising Juan together at the same time we started dating. Practically the same day. You had no choice. I understand. But I did, and I chose to be here. The weird thing is that it always feels like you’re the one with one foot out the door. Afraid to completely commit to this life.”

“I love Juan. And you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you are. You do. I know this, with Julie, it’s different. But you always run when Bobby calls. This is real, Jimmy. What we’re doing here, in this house. It’s real life stuff. Juan needs you.”

“I know, Angie. I didn’t realize me leaving would bring those memories back. We talked about Yolanda a little. I think it went okay. Who the hell knows?”

“We’ll figure it out, but we can only do that with you here. Here and engaged, not running around all over the place with Bobby, acting like an asshole.”

“I’m not always acting like an asshole.”

“I can’t tell you to not be Bobby’s friend. I know how deep that runs. And how important that friendship is in your life. But you have to be a father first. I ain’t saying that for me.”

“I know you’re right, but I’ve got to finish this thing.”

“I get that,” Angie said. “But after you finish it, it has to really be finished. No more fucking about.”