Rot (2 page)

For the next two days Kyle wandered around the farm, looking for something to occupy his mind. His thoughts returned often to Marianne Avery and what his chances were of seeing her again and maybe getting intimate. When he was not fantasizing about Marianne he wondered what his buddies were doing back in California. Having a better time than he was, that was a stone fact.

He found that, as Uncle Bob said, there was really very little for him to do around here. Mrs. Simms ran the house with a cold efficiency, and needed no help from anybody. Amos Deerfoot handled everything else. The Indian was, if anything, even less talkative than the housekeeper. Kyle’s attempts at conversation with him died in uncomfortable silence.

Uncle Bob remained cheerful and upbeat despite his partial paralysis. Still, Kyle dreaded the time he had to spend with him in the sickroom. No offense to his uncle, but decay of the human body depressed Kyle something fierce. Among his suntanned surfing buddies anything less than robust good health was considered a critical defect.

One bright spot for Kyle was the dog. A handsome mixed collie named Fritz, he took quickly to Kyle and enjoyed bounding along with him across the pasture and through the grove of silver birches to the creek that bordered the farm. Once there the dog would plunge in and swim joyously to the far bank and back again. At Kyle’s whistle he would clamber out, shake himself vigorously, and look up grinning.

In the evenings he enjoyed watching the dog work. Amos Deerfoot would say, “Go get the cows, Fritz,” and the dog would race eagerly off across the pasture to herd the dozen or so cows efficiently back to the barn, nipping at the heels of the laggards, and not allowing them to stray.

Entertaining though the dog was, Fritz was not enough to fill Kyle’s days. At noon on the third day he borrowed the Caravelle and drove into the town of Bischoff. Anything to break the monotony of the farm. Main Street, he noted as he drove into the town, had not livened up any since his arrival.

One advantage the town did have over Los Angeles was that you could find a parking place. There were no meters, no time limits, no red-painted curb, just a lot of space along both sides of Main Street between the dusty cars of the locals. He braked to a stop across from the New Emporium, and realized that’s where he had been going all along.

The New Emporium was about the size of one of the smaller Sav-On Drug Stores in Los Angeles. The layout of the place looked like no department store Kyle had ever been in. There were counters with actual live clerks behind them. Kyle stood staring around like a first-time visitor to Disneyland.

A floorwalker with a real carnation in his buttonhole approached with a friendly smile. “Can I help you find something?”

“I was looking for Marianne Avery.”

“She works back in Books and Stationery, but …” he took out an old fashioned watch on a chain. “… she’s on her lunch break right now. Can somebody else help you?”

“No thanks. I’ll come back.”

He walked out feeling a little dizzy. You simply did not expect human contact when you went into a store these days. You grabbed your purchase and stood in a checkout line. It took some getting used to.

It was twenty minutes past noon. Marianne was probably not due back at work until one o’clock. He surveyed the street for some place to kill the time. Dave & Emma’s Tavern looked as good as any.

He chose Dave’s not because it looked more inviting than the Happy Otto Inn or the Idle Hour, but it was closest. He entered through an open doorway and sat down at the bar across from a neon triangle with the Blatz Beer logo inside. The afternoon trade consisted of a couple of geezers, a rawboned farmhand in bib overalls, a hefty woman in her mid-fifties, and two young girls who had a lot to learn about makeup. Behind the bar was a woman with a dime-size mole on her cheek and forearms like Popeye. Emma, he guessed.

“What’ll it be?” the woman said.

“What’s on tap?”

“Miller’s and Miller’s Lite.”

“Miller’s.”

While the big woman expertly filled a beer glass from the tap, Kyle glanced around at the other patrons. They looked at him and away again showing no sign of any interest or opinion one way or the other. It was a look he was coming to think of as the Wisconsin Stare.

A few minutes later when his glass was half empty, there was the sound of a commotion out in the street. Shouts, curses, and the unmistakable wet smack of a fist hitting flesh. The old men, the farmhand, and the girls left their stools and went to the doorway to see what was going on. The big-armed bartender stayed put and the fat woman continued to drink.

Kyle edged his way between the others and stepped outside. A familiar yellow Custom Kawasaki was angled in at the curb. A boy’s bicycle lay half on the sidewalk and half in the street. The heavy-shouldered punk in the muscle shirt Kyle had seen the day he arrived was standing spraddle-legged on the sidewalk and beating the crap out of a dark, frail looking kid. The smaller boy held his hands up in a futile attempt to ward off the blows. As Kyle watched the kid took a blow to the forehead and fell to the ground. The biker picked him up by the front of his shirt and hit him in the face. The boy’s lower lip split open and blood ran down his chin.

A ragged semi-circle of watchers had now gathered around the one-sided fight. Nobody said anything. Nobody moved to interfere. The bartender came to the tavern doorway and stood behind Kyle.

“What’s going on?” he asked her.

“A fight. What does it look like?”

“Kind of one-sided.”

“So?”

“Shouldn’t somebody do something?”

“Why? It’s only a Gypsy.”

The frail boy was on the ground again. The biker aimed a booted kick at his head. The boy managed to take it on his arm, but cried out in pain as the boot cracked against his elbow.

Without consciously making the decision, Kyle stepped out through the door and moved up behind the biker. He dropped a hand on the bare meaty shoulder and eased the guy back a step, spoiling the aim of his next kick.

“Don’t you think that’s about enough?” He had the sensation of standing off and watching somebody who looked like him make an ass of himself. Kyle had never fancied himself a heroic type, and would have been the last one to claim an affection for the underdog. Nevertheless, there he stood, and there he was stuck.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The biker’s piggy little eyes glared into his. The pouty mouth twisted down at the corner.

“Why don’t you leave the kid alone?”

The racing blood hammered in Kyle’s ears. Except for the intramural boxing, which was more clowning around than real combat, he had not been in a serious confrontation since the sixth grade.

“Get out of my face, dickhead.”

He drew a deep breath. Evidently there was no avoiding it now. Kyle took his hand off the punk’s shoulder and braced, but not quickly enough. The biker swung a roundhouse right sucker punch and caught him on the cheekbone. The blow sent him stumbling sideways into the brick wall of Dave’s. He had forgotten Rule One: Land the first blow. The watching crowd made way for him, but remained eerily silent.

The biker, grinning and confident now, came at him to finish the job.

Kyle shook his head to clear it. The pimply biker was strong but clumsy. Everything outside the capsule of space that enclosed the two of them disappeared.

He concentrated on the biker’s eyes. He saw them widen and knew where the next punch was coming from. He ducked easily under the swinging right fist and pumped both hands hard to the belly. The biker had powerful arm and shoulder muscles, but he had neglected the gut. Kyle’s fists dug into the soft flesh, bringing a surprised grunt of pain.

The biker stepped back, not looking so sure of himself now. Kyle gave him no time to reassess the situation. He hit him in the nose with a straight left, followed with a right that caught him on the temple and staggered him. As the biker raised his hands to protect his face Kyle set himself. He put the power of his thigh, hip, shoulder, and arm into a left hook to the liver. It was a punch a young Mexican professional had demonstrated for him, and when properly delivered it could paralyze a man.

This one was properly delivered. The biker sagged to the sidewalk, gasping for breath, his right leg twitching.

There was no more fight in him. Kyle lowered his hands. He looked around in time to see the frail Gypsy kid pumping off up Main Street on his bicycle. So much for thanks.

The biker got painfully to his feet and walked, bent over, to the Kawasaki. He clambered aboard, kicked it to life and gave Kyle one last glare.

“Fuck you, motherfucker.” With that he revved the engine and took off.

Kyle looked down and saw his hands were shaking. He hooked them in the waistband of his jeans to keep them still.

The farmhand in bib overalls sauntered over to him. “Nice punch, fella.” He gave Kyle a nod and strolled back into Dave’s.

As the rest of the watchers melted away, a few of them looked in Kyle’s direction. He could not swear to it, but the Wisconsin Stare seemed to have softened a little.

Someone touched his arm from the rear and he flinched.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

Marianne Avery stood there wearing an apple green blouse and straight navy skirt. She smelled like spring flowers and looked good enough to eat. Marianne reached up and lightly touched his cheekbone. Her fingers were cool and gentle as butterfly wings.

“Does that hurt?”

He felt like Rambo striding away from a couple hundred dead bad guys. “Nah. A scratch.”

Marianne smiled. “You said that just like Sylvester Stallone. Do you do that on purpose?”

Kyle relaxed with a laugh. “It just slipped out.”

“You’re kind of a showoff, aren’t you.”

“Hey — ”

“Oh, I don’t mean the fight. I mean the way you talk to people. To me.”

“You think so? That I’m a showoff?”

“Maybe it’s just California. I think you’re a little uncomfortable being real around people.”

“Well, thanks, Doctor. How much do I owe you?”

“Now quit it. I just wanted to tell you I thought you did a really brave thing.”

“You’re about the only one.”

“Oh, it was appreciated. People here just aren’t quick to accept strangers.”

“They don’t take much to Gypsies either, I guess.”

“Small towns have prejudices just like big cities. But I think it was more important who you hit than who you rescued.”

“Pizza-face?”

“That was Fabian Gerstner.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“It does to people around here. He’s one of three brothers who live over in the next town.”

“There are three of them?”

Marianne nodded, frowning. “Fabian is baby. Jesse, he’s the middle one, is skinny and mean as a snake. Lloyd is the oldest and strongest. He’s already been in prison. The nastiest of the three …”

“Sounds like a terrific family.”

“Their father ran off when Fabian was born and their mother died about the time he started high school.”

“You’re going to tell me they’re disadvantaged youngsters?”

“No. They’re just plain bad. Nobody likes the Gerstners, but nobody messes with them either. If I were you I’d watch my back.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome.” She gave him that melting smile, and started to turn away.

“Wait a minute.”

She turned back.

“Can I say something real and personal?”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re going with my cousin and all, and I’m not trying to cut him out, but really, about you and me doing something together? I’m going crazy with boredom.”

“You’re asking me for a date?”

“Well … yeah.”

“Because you’re bored?”

“That’s not the most important reason.”

She pretended to think it over. “I guess it would be okay.”

“Terrific. Just one thing … what do you do on a date around here?”

“There’s always something. For instance, this week there’s a carnival in Elkhorn City. That’s fifteen miles north of here.”

“A carnival? You mean merry-go-round and baseball throw and that junk?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Hollywood, there’s a dance too on Saturday. I hear they’ve got a darn good band coming from Milwaukee.”

“Sounds great. Let’s do it.”

“You can pick me up on Saturday night at seven o’clock.”

“Great. Where do I find you?”

“At my house. My father will want to meet you before we go anywhere.”

“Is he going to ask me what are my intentions?”

“Don’t be smart. Go almost to the end of Main Street, just before the Thriftway, and turn left. My house is next to last one on the right side of the street.” She looked back over her shoulder at the New Emporium. “I’ve got to get back to work. See you Saturday.”

Kyle watched her walk away from him, strawberry hair bouncing against the back of her neck. He grinned, wincing at the small ache in his cheekbone, but he felt just fine.

Kyle spent Saturday afternoon washing and waxing the Caravelle. When he could see his face grinning back at him from the caramel-colored hood, he started in on the interior. He cleaned out the junk, stacking it neatly in case there was something Uncle Bob wanted to save. He went over the vinyl upholstery with a damp chamois and finished up spraying the whole thing with an aerosol cinnamon scent he hoped would be seductive.

When he was finished, the Plymouth was still not something that would turn heads on a cruise down the Boulevard, but he could put Marianne Avery in next to him without being too embarrassed.

As he stood back admiring his work, a mutter of thunder sounded off toward the western horizon. Kyle glared up at the sky where clouds had been shading the day since late morning.
Yeah, right, go ahead and dump on me
, he thought,
everybody else does
.

He made a run into town to pick up a pint of vodka at the Thriftway. It never hurt to have an emergency bottle in the car. Although he was not in the habit of using them, he considered buying a pack of condoms. Then he conjured a picture of the Rexall pharmacist getting on the phone to Marianne’s father.

“You know that young fella from California? Came in today, bought a box of rubbers. Just came right up and asked for ’em bold as brass. Who you s’pose he plans to use ’em on?”

“I don’t know, but if I catch him sniffing around my daughter I’m breaking out the deer rifle.”

No, condoms were probably not a good idea. If he did get lucky, and if Marianne did insist on protection, he could always buy some in the other town where he would not have to worry about gossip.

He told Mrs. Simms he would not need supper tonight, but she insisted he eat something before going out.

“You’re seeing Marianne Avery?” she asked, looking at him sternly.

“Yeah. We’re, uh, going to that carnival over in …”

“Elkhorn City,” Mrs. Simms supplied.

“Whatever. I haven’t been to a carnival for years.” Why did he feel so damn guilty? He was just taking the girl to a dance. It was not as if he was hitting on somebody’s wife.

“That carnival comes to Elkhorn City every year. Your cousin Carney and Marianne used to go over there when he was home.”

“Yeah, well, I’d better get going.”

“Have a good time,” said Mrs. Simms in a tone that meant,
Behave yourself, or else
.

Kyle escaped from the bright farm kitchen and walked out by the tool shed where the Plymouth was parked. He admired the soft gleam of the Plymouth’s wax job. While thunder continued to mutter in the distance, and the clouds blotted out the stars, no rain had yet fallen to spoil his afternoon’s shine job. He got in, shoved the paper bag with the vodka into the glove compartment, and drove out to the highway.

Following Marianne’s directions, he found the Avery house with no trouble. There were only five houses on the entire quarter-mile length of the street. Hers was a solid two-story brick structure sheltered by the huge old Maple trees. The shrubbery was neatly trimmed, and a pair of tall alder bushes stood sentry duty at each side of the door. Marianne’s Mustang was parked in the driveway. The open garage doors revealed the rear end of a Buick Electra.

Kyle parked in front of the house, got out, checked his fly, and marched up to the entrance.

He caught his breath when Marianne opened the door in answer to his ring. She had on a fitted skirt of dark green Ultrasuede that stopped halfway up her thighs. She wore a white top with a wide collar and a neckline that revealed the beginning of the sweet valley between her breasts. Her strawberry hair was done back with casual strands spiraling down to her earlobes. Without getting as radical as the girls who went to L.A. rock clubs, she achieved a subdued sexuality.

“You look great,” he said.

“Thank you.” She lowered her voice. “Mom and Daddy are inside waiting to meet you. Think you can handle it?”

“Hey, I’ve swum with sharks. Lead me to ‘em.”

Mrs. Avery was a tall, graceful woman with Marianne’s fine features. She sat gracefully with her hands folded in her lap. Marianne’s father was short, balding and solidly built. His eyes appraised Kyle from behind bifocals.

“Mom, Daddy, this is Kyle Brubaker.”

Mr. Avery shook his hand. His wife gave him a cool smile from her chair.

“We both knew your mother,” Mr. Avery said. “She hasn’t been back here for a few years.”

“I guess not. She’s pretty busy back home with her real estate and all.”

“How does your father feel about her working?” Mrs. Avery asked.

“Oh, Dad’s in favor of anything that makes Mom happy.”

“A good attitude,” Mr. Avery approved. “How’s your Uncle Bob doing?”

“Not too badly, considering. He hopes to be up and around by September.”

“That’s good. I suppose Carney will be coming home about then.”

The heavy reference to his cousin, Marianne’s intended, was not lost on Kyle. He put on his best Wally Cleaver smile and said, “Sooner, if he can arrange it.”

“We all like Carney a lot.”

I got the message, Mr. Avery!
“Carney’s a likable guy, as I remember.” Kyle risked a glance at his watch.

Mrs. Avery caught it. “I think the young people want to be on their way, Frank.”

“No hurry, I just …”

Marianne jumped in. “They always start the dances early.”

“Well, you youngsters have a good time,” said Mr. Avery. “Don’t run out of gas, Kyle.” The last was said with a clumsy attempt at fatherly humor.

“Glad I met you both,” Kyle lied, and gratefully followed Marianne out the door.

“That went pretty well,” she said, sliding into the Caravelle.

“Better than a root canal.” He walked around the car and climbed in behind the wheel. “They’re counting on you to marry Carney, aren’t they.”

“I guess so.”

“Are you going to?”

“Probably.”

Kyle started the car and backed out of the driveway. “Do you love him?”

“Sure. Would I marry him otherwise?”

“A lot of people get married without being in love.”

“Well I’m not one of them.” Marianne shifted in her seat to indicate that the subject was closed. “Go back to Main Street and turn left. Elkhorn City is the next town east of here.”

Kyle followed the directions, and soon was rolling along the blacktopped Highway past Uncle Bob’s farm. Pasture land on both sides of the road was interspersed with thick groves of hardwood trees that crowded in close. Thunder rumbled somewhere up ahead of them.

Kyle was silent, intent on his driving.

Marianne sighed. “Okay, I guess you’re wondering if I love Carney and plan to marry him, why am I going out with you?”

“It crossed my mind. Maybe because I’m such a hunk?”

“Because I’m human, more likely. Just once in a while I like to do something that doesn’t fit the girl next door image. I won’t say I don’t enjoy the attention, but there’s a lot of baggage that goes with being homecoming queen and all that. I’m supposed to be kind of a role model from the 1950s or something. The guys around here treat me like I’m made of glass. I’m not, you know.”

“So going out with me is like a kind of rebellion or something.”

“Well, you are the dangerous stranger from California. Who knows what might happen to me while you have me in your power?”

“Who knows.” Kyle reached over and placed his hand on the nyloned flesh of her thigh below the skirt. She picked it up firmly by the wrist and returned it to him.

“Which doesn’t mean I’m anybody’s easy lay.”

“Right.” Kyle got reinvolved with his driving.

Elkhorn City proved to be maybe twice as big a town as Bischoff, which still did not make it much by California standards. The lights of the carnival were visible from the edge of town. Sighting in on the Ferris wheel, Kyle found his way with no directions from Marianne. The parking lot was a vast field of packed down dirt and stubbly grass with a lot more space than there were cars.

“The county fair in August draws more people,” Marianne explained.

“Oh, sure.”

Kyle parked the Caravelle near a gnarled oak tree where he could find it again. They crossed the lot and walked under the brightly lit arch onto the carnival grounds. There was recorded calliope music, the mechanical clash of the rides, screams, and laughter. Kids, young couples, and older people too wandered along the sawdust path, all seemingly enjoying themselves. Kyle had thought carnivals were a thing of the past, replaced by high-tech theme parks, but apparently in the Midwest they lived on. This one seemed to be doing well despite the general air of tackiness. The rides creaked, the food smelled of old grease, and the stuffed animal prizes looked recycled. Still, something about the music, the smell of sawdust and cotton candy, the squeals of the kids on the Octopus kindled his enthusiasm.

“You want to go on a ride or anything?” he asked.

Marianne smiled mischievously. “I thought you weren’t into carnivals.”

“As long as we’re here …”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to get my skirt dirty,” she said. “Let’s go to the dance.”

To Kyle’s surprise, he had a pang of disappointment. He looked around the grounds. “Where are they holding it?”

“In the armory over on the other side of the parking lot.” She looked up at the opaque sky. “We better get over there before it starts to rain.”

They headed back the way they had come. Kyle took in the colorful game stands, the tents with their garish posters promising wonders inside, the rides with their shrieking passengers getting a few minutes of simulated danger. Suddenly he stopped. A frail, dark-haired boy was staring at him in front of one of the tents.

“What is it?” Marianne asked.

“Isn’t that the Gypsy kid from the other day? The one who was getting pounded on?”

As he spoke, a tall, mahogany-skinned man came out of the tent. He was over six feet, lean as a flagpole, with sunken eyes that burned with hidden secrets. The boy looked up at the man and said something to him.

Holding Marianne’s hand, Kyle started toward the tent. The man looked at him, and for the instant their eyes met Kyle felt something like an electrical shock. Then the man grasped the boy by the hand and pulled him back through the flap into the tent. A canvas sign stretched on a frame read:
The Mysterious Dorando
.

Kyle stopped. “They’re not real friendly.”

“Gypsies,” Marianne said. “They don’t much mix with the people who live around here.”

Kyle shrugged and they continued back out through the entrance arch. They made their way across the unlighted parking lot. Thunder boomed directly overhead.

“It’s going to rain, isn’t it,” Kyle said.

“Probably. You’re not afraid of a little water, are you?”

“I’m from California, remember. Out there it rains twice a year. In February. Everybody stays indoors and prays to the sun god.”

“Be brave,” she said, and squeezed his hand.

On the far side of the parking lot they approached a sprawling masonry building. Light spilled out through the windows and open doorway. Amplified music and laughing voices could be heard some distance away.

Inside the gray stone walls were hung with streamers, and enough colored lights had been installed to soften the interior of the armory to something resembling a ballroom. The floor was crowded with enthusiastic young dancers, while young men in pairs roamed among the stag girls who pretended to ignore them. The musicians played on a raised stage at one side of the floor. On the other a temporary bar had been erected and was doing heavy business.

It turned out the band wasn’t half bad. True, they were playing stuff that had been on the charts a year ago or more, and their style was copied after half-a-dozen better bands, but they had a live drummer who could keep the beat, and the girl singer who doubled on keyboard could have played for anybody.

“Shall we try it?” Kyle said.

“That’s what we came for.” Marianne took his hand and they made their way out onto the floor.

Marianne was an excellent dancer, responsive to Kyle’s moves, and inventive on her own. It pleased him that she drew envious stares from many of the young men. A few of the dancers came up to speak to her between songs, glancing at Kyle curiously. She introduced him as Carney’s cousin from California, and that seemed to satisfy them.

At intermission Marianne pulled out the neck of her blouse, fanning her breasts. Kyle looked toward the bar at the far side of the dance floor.

“Feel like a beer or something?”

“I’d really like a Seven-Seven.”

He looked at her quickly. “Are you old enough?”

“I am in this state. Worried?”

“Not me. I’m old enough in any state.”

He had her figured for Cherry Coke, and started feeling better about his chances of scoring tonight. He had planned on having a beer, but that would look wimpy now.

“Seven-Seven and a scotch and water,” he told the bartender. The man brought their drinks without even a glance at Marianne. The drinking age must not be too big a deal in Wisconsin, Kyle thought.

They danced some more and had another drink, then the band broke for another intermission.

“Want to take a walk?” Kyle said. “Get some air?” He was feeling the drinks, and thought she must be too.

Marianne peered at him through lowered lashes. “Sure, why not?”

The night had grown colder. The dark sky seemed to press down on them. Lightning crackled overhead, followed immediately by the boom of thunder.

“Here comes the rain,” Marianne said.

No sooner had she spoken that the first fat drops splattered the tromped-down dirt of the parking lot. Kyle took her hand and they dashed for the car as the rain began to fall in earnest.

Kyle fumbled the passenger side door open and Marianne scooted into the Plymouth. She had the other door open for him by the time he’d run around the front of the car. He slammed the door as the rain hammered the roof and ran in sheets down the windshield.

“How long does this usually last?” he said.

“Hard to guess. Maybe five minutes, maybe all night.”

Now or never
, he thought, and reached across her to pull the pint of vodka from the glove box.