Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (18 page)

“Sheeni, I don’t see how you can be grounded 800 miles from home,” I pointed out.

“My father is an idiot.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Rick, you ask me that every two minutes. I feel OK.”

“Sorry. Uh, what’s that book you’ve been reading?”

“À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs. It’s by Proust.”

“Marcel Proust?”

“Uh-huh. Have you read him?”

No way was I going to fall into the trap of revealing Nick Twisp’s all-too-familiar (and pedestrian) literary tastes.

“Not me, Sheeni. I don’t read, I live.”

“I wasn’t aware those activities were mutually exclusive. What sort of living do you do?”

“I live a life of action!”

“I see. You mean like vacuuming, cocktail-stirring, dog-walking—that sort of thing?”

“These domestic duties are just temporary. I’m experiencing life for my art.”

Sheeni glanced skeptically at me.

“And what sort of art is that?”

“I intend to be an actor,” I lied, “like my father.”

My Love gazed intently into Rick S. Hunter’s dingy brown eyes.

“Who was your father?” she asked urgently.

“Well, I’m not exactly positive. You see I was adopted—from an orphanage in France. My adoptive parents, the Hunters, died recently in a tragic car wreck before I could find out any details of my birth. I’m on my own now. But I do have this sense of a profound connection to … well, you probably know who I mean.”

“That’s incredible, Rick. Have you tried contacting him?”

“Why no,” I replied, tugging sensually on my lower lip. “I’m sure I’m just an indiscretion he’d rather forget.” My lip remained stuck far out from my face; I hastily shoved it back in place. “Mom and Dad were very strict. They never let me see any of his movies or learn a word of French.”

“Rick, that’s amazing. You really should go to France.”

“I don’t know, Sheeni. I’d rather make it on my own.”

A stone struck me in the back of my head. A ragtag band of local youths on a nearby rock began gesturing obscenely to Sheeni
and tossing pebbles at me. Although they risked a thrashing by the virile son of you-know-who, we grabbed our Chihuahuas and beat a hasty retreat.

Later I considered kissing My Love in the warm moonlight, but I decided to wait until I was sure her microbe had been subdued.

THURSDAY, April 1 (April Fools’ Day) — I spent an uncomfortable night in the back seat of the Plock II. Dogo got lucky and returned with a fortyish brunette with heavy thighs and a nervous giggle. I found out later from Connie that she was the chaperon for a sorority visiting from Tempe. I dragged my pillow and blanket back to the Plock II and tried not to think about what was happening in the luggage basement. No screaming at least. Oh well, it probably qualifies as safe sex—as long as he washes well beforehand. She was gone before I woke up. In the campground restroom Dogo looked well-rested and pleased with himself.

Every morning to keep in shape Dogo does 50 one-arm pushups. He’s promised to show me some exercises to beef up my physique. I realize I have to alter Rick S. Hunter’s body in some basic way before I dare risk seducing My Love. Since I can’t get any skinnier, my only recourse is to bulk up. The winkie is more problematic. No way I can subject that sensitive part to what my face just went through, even if such operations are a specialty of Dr. Rudolpho and might entail Angel changing my bandages and result in Breathtaking Size. I suppose I’ll have to borrow a page from my old pal Lefty and insist that we keep the lights out.

9:15 a.m. Despite her hangover Connie was bubbling with excitement at breakfast. After I finished the washing up, she
dragged me outside for a private conference on the beer can–littered beach.

“Rick, I spoke to our housekeeper Benecia this morning. She says Daddy spent last night in the pool cabana!”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Connie. It could be an April Fools’ Day prank.”

“I’ve been bribing Benecia for years, Rick. She’s completely trustworthy. Besides, she knows better than to cross me. She’s in America illegally.”

“Are you going to tell Paul?”

“Of course not. I can’t risk Lacey becoming what Paulo cannot have. He’ll find out when the time is right. How’s it going with you and Sheeni?”

“Not bad. She thinks I’m the son of Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing. Rick, you’ve got to be a little more aloof. No offense, but whenever you’re around Sheeni your body language screams availability. You’ve got to play it cool and let her come to you.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

“She will. You’re the only available male we’ve got—except for Dogo.”

“That reminds me, Connie. What do you think of Dogo … as a man?”

“Do you mean would I like to do the ugly on his you know what?”

“Uh, well, yeah.”

“Rick, it’s pretty obvious what guys are all about. Your job is to put it there on the money. But a woman’s sexuality is much more diffused. It’s much more complex.”

“My God, you’ve done it with him.”

“Not me, Rick. Dogo’s like a second daddy to me. But a couple of my girlfriends had a three-way with him once. They really dug his tattoos. Apparently one part of his anatomy has been decorated
to look like a U-boat periscope—complete with simulated rivets.” She glanced at her watch. “Oops, time for you to phone your sister in Oakland. According to Benecia, she’s been calling Lacey every hour on the hour trying to find you.”

9:45 a.m. Good thing I delayed making my amorous moves. Sheeni’s microbe flared up, knocking My Love flat on her lovely back again in her parents’ cabin. Mrs. Saunders wanted to send for a doctor, but My Love insisted she just needed to rest. Mrs. K has administered more antibiotics. Meanwhile, I borrowed Connie’s cellular phone and dialed my familiar old number in Oakland. I wasn’t sure what my sister was doing there, but I prayed my mother was away at work. Joanie answered on the second ring. Only by alluding to her long-ago teen fling with future radiator brazer Phil Polseta was I able to convince my skeptical sister that the strange man on the phone was indeed her fugitive brother.

“Nick, I want you to know I never made it with Phil Polseta.”

“Then how come you had all those birth control pills hidden in your top dresser drawer?”

“Nick, you’re such a sneak. You’ve got to come home at once. Mom’s in jail. She shot Lance.”

“Our mother shot Lance Wescott, her cop husband!” I exclaimed. “Did she kill him?”

“No, but he’s in the hospital. He lost a lot of blood. She shot him in the groin.”

“Our mother shot Lance in the groin!”

My surprise was misplaced. Knowing my mother, where else would she shoot someone?

“She was upset, Nick. Apparently, Lance was abusive and had other women too. And you know he’s never accepted little Noel.”

Noel Lance Wescott is my embarrassing infant half-brother whom I’ve never seen.

Joanie continued, “Lance was threatening to walk out. Mother put all your money from Miss Ulansky in his name. He was threatening to leave Mom without a cent! Somehow his gun got out of its holster and he wound up shot. Mom’s in jail, Nick. I’m taking care of Noel. We need $25,000 for her bail, but Lance won’t pay it.”

“Joanie, is this some kind of sick April Fools’ Day joke?”

“It’s no joke, Nick. You’ve got to send us the money.”

“I don’t have it, Joanie. Sheeni has all my money.”

“Then get it from her, Nick. I’m desperate.”

“I can’t talk to her, Joanie. It’s kind of complicated. You’ll have to call her yourself. I’ll give you a number where you can reach her. But don’t ask her for $25,000. She’d never agree to that much. Ask her for, uh, $6,000.”

“But I need 25 grand, Nick.”

“Trust me, Joanie. You’ll get it. Ask Sheeni to make out the check to cash. And any extra you receive you have to promise you’ll hold for me.”

“OK, Nick. Are you coming home?”

“I can’t, Joanie.”

“Mom needs you, Nick. And don’t you want to see little Noel?”

“He’s just a baby, Joanie. He won’t know me from Adam. Tell Mom I’ll, I’ll write her a letter.”

“OK, Nick. But say hi to Noel before you hang up.”

I said hello to my gurgling half-brother and advised him to watch his back at all times. Now I see where François gets his homicidal urges. Well, any fool who gives my mother access to a loaded gun deserves to get his pendulous nuts shot off. Boy, what a genetic heritage. It’s no wonder honor-student Nick Twisp went bad. At least I can take satisfaction in having warned her (in lipstick on her dresser mirror) that her marriage was doomed. The good news, besides Lance getting shot, is that this incident is likely to
cause a further diminishing of Sheeni’s waning regard for Nick Twisp. All of which should make My Love even more susceptible to the reserved Gallic magnetism of Rick S. Hunter.

10:35 a.m. Five minutes after I hung up, Connie’s cellular phone rang. She answered it, then took the phone in to Sheeni. A few minutes later I was thrilled to observe her retrieve Sheeni’s purse from under a settee in the salon and carry it back to My Love’s cabin. After what seemed like an eternity, Connie emerged carrying a stamped white envelope, which the cabin boy promptly intercepted.

“I promised Sheeni I’d take this straight into town to the post office,” whispered Connie.

“And so you will,” I whispered, “right after I amend it.”

I pried open the still-damp envelope flap and removed the check, signed “Emma Bovary” in a looping 19th-century hand. The distinctive sea-green ink I knew to be a characteristic of the numerous engraved Krusinowski Metal Products Co. ballpoint pens scattered about as advertising keepsakes. Employing another such pen, I quickly added a fourth zero to the dollar amount. On the line with the written amount there was just enough space between the “six” and “thousand” to loop a “ty” onto the “six.” (Too bad I couldn’t squeeze in “hundred” instead.)

“Sorry about your mother, Rick,” whispered Connie, watching my operation with interest.

“She should be OK,” I replied. “If they put Lance on the stand, no jury in the world would convict her—even if he is a cop.”

I then replaced the check, resealed the envelope, and handed it back to my accomplice in crime. Sneaky, I admit, but let us not forget whose money I was embezzling.

Five minutes later. Another bad shock. It just occurred to me that the moisture on the envelope flap I licked was Sheeni’s own microbe-laden saliva!

1:22 p.m. No ill-effects as of yet. We are once again hurtling
south into deepest, darkest Mexico on a broad four-lane highway. Small sun-baked villages every now and then. A few moments ago Mrs. K ordered Dogo to bring our massive rig to an emergency halt so we could all troop out to view a tall roadside cactus in bloom. Miraculously, it had gathered enough sustenance from its arid surroundings to produce a credible simulation of a made-in-China red plastic flower. To help the cause, Vronski and Anna peed on its trunk.

2:50 p.m. I just took the invalid her afternoon tea. My Love was sitting up in the berth and listening to her Walkman. Projecting as much indifference as Rick S. Hunter could muster, I dumped her teacup on the table, sneered, and turned to leave. My Love stopped the tape and removed her headphones.

“Rick, don’t you love the Borodin string quartets?”

I paused with my hand on the door handle. Given Nick Twisp’s uniquely retro musical tastes, I knew I would have to trod carefully around this topic.

“I prefer the Young Dickheads,” I lied.

My Love moved aside on the berth in a gesture clearly inviting me to take a seat next to her. I did so warily while maintaining as aloof a posture as possible.

“Really, Rick? What songs by them do you like?”

Land-mine dead ahead.

“Oh, I like them all. What was that phone call you got this morning?”

“Alarming news, Rick. My friend Nick’s mother has shot her husband. His sister called me in a state. He’s the boy who’s running from the police.”

“Sounds like a pretty crazy family.”

“I’m afraid they could all benefit from psychological intervention—especially Nick.”

I didn’t point out that lately her family had been running up nearly as impressive an arrest record as mine.

“Yeah,” I grunted. “Sounds like you’re well rid of that guy.”

“I think so sometimes.”

“Only sometimes, Sheeni?”

“It’s complicated, Rick. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I get my quota.”

Sheeni was close and getting closer. I recognized that subtle tensing of her disarming lips. If she imagined I was going to subject Rick S. Hunter’s immune system to any more of her microbes, she was out of her …

We kissed, but only for ten minutes or so. I then ripped my lips from hers, twisted them into a sneer, and lurched for the door.

9:12 p.m. All the way south through the sprawling state capital of Hermosillo and beyond I struggled to compose a letter to my mother. I wonder how many cases of paralyzing writer’s block are attributable to parents? What does one say to a close maternal relative who is facing prosecution for shooting a despised stepfather? Sorry your aim was off? Too bad you didn’t get a chance for a second shot? Better luck next time? All I could think to write was I hoped she was feeling OK about the attempted homicide and wasn’t looking to go into marriage counseling later with her intended victim. I put in a few good words for her previous boyfriend, tall Wally Rumpkin, and said I hoped this episode had given her a new appreciation for the kinds of extreme steps people like her and her elder son were sometimes forced to take in desperate circumstances. I closed by saying I hoped little Noel would be able to visit her often in prison, even if her other son couldn’t make it. All in all, a fairly inspiring missive that someday may prove a controversial highlight of the Collected Letters of Rick S. Hunter. I addressed the envelope to Mom’s house, and to throw off the cops I wrote as return address the Chihuahua Lovers of Mexico, Sonora State Branch.