Pull (Push #2) (10 page)

“Ahhh. I get it. The insatiable
covetous
strikes again.”

She looks over at me as we walk and takes my hand into hers. “I guess we’re both well beyond Dr. Phil’s abilities,” she says with a shrug. “So is it a deal or what?”

“Done.”

Chapter 17

David—Age 10

I finished the fourth grade yesterday. It was an okay school year. Not a great one, and not a crappy one. Just an okay year. Mostly thanks to Alex Burson and his bullying ways. He’s such a jerk. I’m glad my best friend Jimmy Paxton wasn’t in my class this year because he never would have been able to handle being bullied. Most of the kids in my class couldn’t handle it. But I handled it. I “took it like a man,” just like my dad told me to.

It all started the second week of school. On Monday, Alex Burson stole my lunch right off my tray and threw it on the floor. Then on Tuesday, he
accidentally
spilled paint all over my new shoes in art class. Wednesday brought a new low when he forced me to eat a worm on the playground. He threatened to pull my pants down in front of the girls if I didn’t eat it. I swallowed it whole. It really didn’t taste that bad, but the wiggling almost made me puke. Thursday involved stealing my homework and making me kiss Steve Brewster in the boys’ bathroom, right in front of a bunch of other boys. On Friday, when Alex called me a wanker and punched my privates in gym class, a teacher finally saw. I got sent to the school guidance counselor, and Alex got sent to the principal.

That evening, the guidance counselor called my dad to tell him about what happened with Alex. About
everything
that had happened with Alex, not just the part about him calling me a wanker. Stupid me. I told the guidance counselor everything Alex had done all week long, thinking it would be private. Thinking she would only use it against Alex. But instead, she used it against me. She told my dad everything. All of it. Every single detail.

That night, I got a wake-up call at two a.m. My dad’s hands shook my body awake while his whiskey-soaked breath seared my nostrils. He pulled me out of bed and pushed me against the wall, my head smacking the drywall with a thud, my feet hovering just above the ground. The first thing he did was ask me why I would let some asshole kid push me around. I told him that Alex was way bigger than me. He said it didn’t matter. He told me to “take it like a man” and fight back.

“For Christ’s sake, please tell me you didn’t cry like a goddamned little baby,” he said, his eyes full of anger and contempt.

“I didn’t cry, Dad. I swear,” I said in a near whisper. “Not even one little bit.”

“I don’t want to hear about this kind of shit happening ever again,” he yelled into my face. “Don’t be a pussy. Or next time, I’ll be the one punching you. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly, my heart beating a million miles an hour, just about flipping out of my chest. I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to claw out his ugly, stupid eyes. But I didn’t. I was too busy holding back my tears. Too busy trying to “take it like a man.”

“You know what?” he said after a long pause, still holding me by the collar of my too-small pajamas. “Never mind. Don’t fight back. Be a pussy if you want. Maybe that’s what you are, anyway. A little pussy. Maybe you’re not man enough to take it like a man. What do you think? Huh? Think you’re man enough?”

I didn’t know how to answer. The smell of him told me that he was drunk as he’d ever been, and the look on his face told me he wasn’t messing around. I knew that if I gave the wrong answer, he’d hit me hard enough to kill me. I knew it.

“Yes, sir,” I said again, hoping it was enough.

“We’ll see about that.” He let go of my pajama collar, and my feet dropped down to the floor. His hands turned me around to face away from him. Then he tugged down my pajama bottoms and briefs. One of his hands met my bare behind in three swift strikes. Three swift,
hard
strikes that echoed through my body with their sting and their consequence.

“Take it like a man,” he had said. I swallowed back my voice and held my eyes shut tight, to keep my crybaby tears deep inside. But the anger and humiliation stung just as much as his hand. I wished he had hit me hard enough to kill me. Right then, I wished I were dead.

I couldn’t fall asleep that night, even lying on my stomach. So instead of sleeping, I thought about how much I hated my dad. And about what I would do the next time Alex Burson tried to be my bully.

Turned out my opportunity arrived first thing Monday morning. No sooner did I get off the bus, when Alex stole my backpack and sank it into a toilet in the second-floor boys’ bathroom. I did what I thought a man would do. I opened my zipper, took out my penis, and peed all over the front of Alex Burson’s pants. I got him real good. Then I ran back to the classroom as fast as I could. A few seconds later, he walked into the room with a wet crotch. Everyone laughed until the teacher hushed them back down. The weird thing is that he didn’t even tell the teacher about me peeing on him. When she asked him what happened, he told her that the toilet splashed up on him when he flushed. I took that as an opportunity to tell her the reason it splashed up on him was because he had my backpack shoved down into it. She called the janitor who, unsurprisingly, found my backpack in the toilet.

Alex got two days detention. I got a new backpack.

Obviously I didn’t tell the teacher or the guidance counselor about the peeing part either, or about the fact that my mother’s letter was in that backpack. But I did ask the counselor to please not call my dad, and as far as I know, she didn’t.

For the rest of the school year, Alex Burson tried his best to make everyone miserable. He taunted the girls and lifted up their skirts behind the teacher’s back. He punched the boys on the bus until they gave him their lunch money. He spent more time in the principal’s office than he did in Mrs. Levi’s classroom. But he never bothered me again. I watched him push everyone else around, but he never so much as looked at me. I didn’t like all the things that he was doing, but I didn’t want to be a tattletale either. Because tattletales are right up there with crybabies.

The really bad part is that, thanks to Alex Burson and a toilet in the second floor boys’ room, my mother’s letter is ruined. Almost completely unreadable. The only parts I can still make out are “my bright little bird,” “from your loving momma,” and a few other sentences. But I know what it said. As soon as I learned cursive, I figured it out. I will never be able to read her words again, though, and I hate him for it.

But school is over now. So I don’t have to worry a lick about Alex Burson for three whole months. Now I only have to worry about my dad.

Chapter 18

David—Present Day

On Monday, Carl’s to-do list keeps me busy all day. When I stop at Jackson’s for parts, Clive tells me to hang on to Emma. “She’s a pretty one,” he says. “Smart, too.” All I can do is promise him that I’ll try. He puts his hand on my shoulder when I leave and tells me that that’s all a man can do. His eyes shine as the words come out.

I complete a bunch of smaller jobs first, but I save Mr. Wiggin’s place for last and spend the longest two hours of my life cleaning kitty litter out of his disposal and lecturing him on why he can’t put it down there anymore. He stares at me the whole time, holding one of his cats in his arms and pretending to listen. It’s six o’clock when I finally go home to shower and wait for Emma at the bus stop. The 61C stops at the bottom of our hill at 6:47.

Emma tries to teach me how to make a steak in the broiler, but I can barely manage chopping the cucumbers for the salad. In spite of my ineptitude, the meal is delicious, and while we eat, I tell her stories about my trip to Clive’s and all the crazy shit I had to deal with today. She’s wearing a permanent smile as I talk, and she laughs her raspy little laugh at all the right times.

When the dishes are done, we sit down on the couch to watch some TV. She’s flipping through the channels when someone knocks on her door.

She looks at me with a shrug and yells, “Who is it?” in the general direction of the door.

“Hey. It’s Brad. Is David in there?”

What the hell is Brad doing here? Poker isn’t until tomorrow night.

“Yeah, man, I’m here.” I stand up and walk over to the door. “What’s up?”

I open the door, and Brad and Cameron are standing there. Both of them are covered in grass stains and wearing T-shirts and jeans. Aside from running the Tuesday night poker game with me, they mow grass for the company that manages all the landscaping for Carl’s buildings and a bunch of other places in the city. The smell of dirt and gasoline leaches off their bodies and into Emma’s apartment.

“We’ve got a problem,” Brad says. “You have time to talk?”

“Sure,” I say, standing in the doorway. I’m not inviting them in because I don’t want Emma’s place to smell like shit for the next three days. “What is it?”

“It’s kind of complicated.” Brad’s eyes widen a little when he says it. It’s his way of telling me he doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is in front of Emma. I get it.

“Okay. I’ll see you up at my place in a minute.” They nod and turn to walk up the stairs. I tell Emma I’ll be back in a few minutes and follow right behind them.

The instant I close my apartment door behind me, Brad’s up in my face.

“What the fuck did you do to Nikki yesterday?” he shouts. “Ray is pissed like I’ve never seen him. So help me…if you fucked this deal up for us, I will ring your goddamn neck!”

“
What?
” I bark back at him. “I didn’t do shit to Nikki. I gave her a fucking fifth of vodka yesterday and that’s it.”

“Well, Ray has a different story to tell. He said you threatened Nikki and told her you were gonna take her down or some bullshit like that.” Brad is fuming, and Cameron is standing behind him with his arms crossed over his chest. Ahh, I was wondering why he was here. Now I understand. Brad knows I can wipe the floor with him in a heartbeat. It’s happened before, over the poker bet he called with Emma’s shoe. So he brought Cameron here for back-up. But what Brad doesn’t know is that I could wipe the floor with the both of them. Piece of fucking cake.

“
That
is a balls-out lie,” I say, pointing my finger into Brad’s face. “Nikki was high off her fucking ass. She’s making shit up.” Jesus. I know what this is about. It looks like we aren’t even, after all. Because, apparently, Nikki’s still mad about what happened with Ricky.

“The only thing I did was tell her to lay off Emma,” I add. “She called her a
homely little redhead
right to her face. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, but you sure as shit weren’t supposed to piss Ray off. God, David, you’d better make this right, because if we lose this deal over some conversation you had with a junked-up whore, it’ll all be blown to hell. The gravy train will crash, and it’ll all be on you, man.
All
of it.”

“I get it, alright? I’ll talk to Ray. Nothing will be blown to hell. I know what this is about. The deal will go through, Brad, just calm the fuck down and trust me.”

Brad’s face relaxes a little, and he runs his hands through his hair. Cameron steps forward and opens his mouth.

“If you don’t fix this,” Cameron says, “you’re out.”

Now that’s some funny shit, right there.

I’m out? This guy’s got some balls. Stupid balls, but balls nevertheless. As if that decision is even remotely his to make.

I slowly reach for Cameron’s face and put a hand on each of his cheeks. He flinches when I make contact. His skin is warm, and his upper lip is noticeably quivering. I’m not sure if it’s anger or fear I smell on him, but either way, he’s about to get stuffed.

“I’m out, you say? Is that right?” I ask, with a heady pause between questions. My face is tight up against his, and my palms squeeze into his boyish face. This bratty little asswipe thinks he can threaten me. “Cameron, you keep saying stuff like that and you’ll find yourself on someone’s shit list,” I say in a voice straight out of
The Godfather
. “And that’s a place you don’t want to be. Nobody—not you or Brad or Ray or any of you motherfuckers—determines when I’m out. Nobody. This is
my
game, Cameron. Mine. And if any of you wet pieces of shit think I’m going to let Nikki—or Ray, for that matter—end it, you’re sorely mistaken.” I hold onto his face for a moment longer and tap my forehead against his.

My hands drop, and I look back and forth between them.

“This conversation is over,” I say, walking to the door. When my hand hits the knob, I turn to face them. “Now why don’t you two filthy asshats go find Nikki.”

              ------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is everything okay?” Emma asks when I slink back into her apartment.

“Yeah.” I sit back down on her sofa and run my hand up and down the top of her thigh. “They’re just freaked out about something that happened regarding the game.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.” Her buttery grin tells me she’s not going to settle for the short answer.

“Do you remember a couple of weeks ago, when I mentioned that we’re thinking about moving the game to new digs?” She nods her head. “Well, Carl’s got his knickers in a bunch over the fact that we don’t wanna run the game out of his Carson Street building anymore. Someone found a new place for us, and quite simply, the new place is way better. It’s more private, less risky. And it comes with more opportunities.”

“Opportunities for what?”

I pause for a long time, not knowing how to answer.

“Expansion.” It’s the only thing I can think to say that isn’t a lie.

“Oh.” She stands and walks into the kitchen. “So, you guys want to let more people toss their chips in?”

This is not going in a good direction. “Not really. No.”

“Then what kind of expansion are you talking about?” she says from the other side of the kitchen wall. I want to make up a bullshit answer or change the subject, but she’ll call me out on it. I know it.

“We are considering expanding our offerings.” I scrunch my eyes up in preparation for the discussion that’s about to happen. My shoulders are raised, and I’m wincing. Good thing she can’t see through walls. I hear the fridge door open, and then the pop of a Snapple seal. Twice.

Emma comes out of the kitchen holding a pair of glass tea bottles. I relax my shoulders and put my stone face back on.

“Sounds interesting.” She sits back down and swings her legs up onto the couch, handing me one of the bottles and taking a long drink from the other. Her lower lip curves beneath the bottle’s opening, and I watch her throat flex up and down with each swallow. I set my bottle on the coffee table, lift my hand, and put the tip of my index finger into the cleft at the base of her neck. I brush that small pocket of skin with one square centimeter of my own, and even with such a miniscule skin-to-skin connection, I feel my heart inching toward a dull roar. But Emma doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps on drinking until half the bottle is gone. When she pulls the glass from her mouth, I watch her tongue lurch out from between her lips just long enough to lap up a small drop of wet. I want to put my mouth on hers and taste her tea-sweetened tongue. I want to squelch her questions, to make her stop digging. Because I promised her I wouldn’t lie to her ever again.

“So, do you care to tell me what your expanded offerings will be?” Her voice is wearing an inflection straight out of an ’80s sex flick. I lift my index finger from the dip at the base of her neck and sweep my hand around to the back of her head, holding her face to mine. She smiles one of her simple, effortless smiles, and I know immediately that her digging isn’t purposeful. It’s playful. I’m relieved.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss these things with someone outside of the game circle,” I say, trying like mad to be nothing more than playful myself. I don’t want to sound patronizing. Or secretive. Or asshole-y. Because that will just make her ask more questions. “It’s for your own protection.”

“Is that so?” She leans sideways to put her half-empty bottle down on the coffee table next to mine. She’s moved on to being downright flirty. Now I know for sure that the digging has stopped.

“Yep. You’ll just have to wait until the next time you’re invited.” Now she is smiling a full-on shit-eating grin.

“And when will that be?”

“Depends.” I take my hand off the back of her head and drop it onto the top of her knee.

“On what?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss these things with someone outside of the game circle,” I say again, this time in a monotonous, robotic drone. She puts her hands up on my shoulders and pulls me down so we are eye to eye.

“Fuck. You. Robo-Man,” she says, trying like hell to keep herself from laughing. And then a smile is there again. The big kind. The kind that makes me believe the grown-up me is still alive and kicking, and that he is working his damnedest to keep things in line.

I can’t help but stare at Emma’s smile. It’s wide as sin. And I’m at peace.

At least until the guys come back with Nikki.