Saints of Augustine (12 page)

“Yeah,” Sam said, staring across the living room at the mirror set into the curio box that hung over the television. In the mirror, he looked puny, like one more curio. He dragged a hand through his blond hair, and it fell back down over his forehead, limp.

“How's your mom doing, anyway?”

“You talked to her the day before yesterday, didn't you? Hannah said you two had a big fight.”

His father cleared his throat. “That Hannah. She's following in your footsteps, I guess, going to be a reporter. She sure gathers her facts like a journalist.
Yes, your mother and I had words. But I'm asking you. Is she doing okay?”

“She has a boyfriend,” Sam said. He hadn't planned on mentioning Teddy. But an anger was stirring around inside him now, mixing with the sadness; he didn't feel like treading lightly. “His name's Teddy. He's a real jerk.”

“Ah. I didn't know that.”

“He's sleeping here.”

“I see. Well, I don't have to know everything about your mother's life, Sam. I was just wondering if it seemed like she was doing okay.”

“I guess,” Sam said, staring at himself in the mirror.

“I respect her privacy, just like I'd respect anyone else's. So this man, this boyfriend, is he…
living
at the house now?”

“Practically. He has an apartment, I think, but he's over here all the time.”

“Hannah didn't mention that.”

“I would have thought she did. She's crazy about the guy.”

“Huh. Tell me something, just out of curiosity. What does Hannah call him?”

“Teddy. That's his name.”

“I see. Well, you can keep me posted on any updates in that area. Why don't you like him?”

“Because he's a—” Sam caught the word
homophobe
just before it left his mouth. Suddenly he didn't want to talk about Teddy any longer. “He's just a jerk. So you're really going to stay till the end of October, Dad?”

“
Just
till the end of October. Then I'm back, I promise. To be honest, I wasn't that happy when I first heard about the extra time. I miss you kids and I'm ready to come home. But there's this research.”

“You don't have to make anything up. I know why you're there, Dad.”

Another pause. “What do you mean?”

“Because you want to be with David. That's why you're in London.”

“I'm researching a book, Sam.”

“I know. But you also want to be there with David. I
know
, that's what I'm saying. I'm fine with it.”

His dad paused. “Okay. We can talk about this some more when I get home, all right?”

“I'm fine with it, because…”

Sam hesitated. The line went back to its buzzing sound. He understood what his father meant by feeling closed in and then suddenly wanting to change things, get some fresh air. Sam felt like a door had just been opened in front of him—
he'd
been the one who'd opened it—and he was staring through it into a totally fresh, new space. But he wasn't ready to step into it. He might never be ready.

“Because why, Sam?”

“I just miss you, that's all.”

“I miss you, too. Listen, we're all doing fine. Don't you worry. It's going to be Halloween before you know it, and you'll be sick of the sight of me within a week.”

“Okay.”

“We should hang up now, though, because this is costing a fortune. I love you. And you tell your sister I love her, too…. Sam? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Sam heard himself say from a great distance, as if he had an ocean between himself and his own voice.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“We'll talk soon. Good-bye.”

“'Bye.”

The line went dead, and the door in front of Sam slowly swung closed.

 

Saturday was only two days away. He had plans to spend an afternoon with Justin McConnell, and here he was walking around in a terrible mood, bothered by practically every aspect of his life.
Cheer up, would you?
he told himself.
Who wants to go on a date with someone who does nothing but mope around?
It was at least a full minute before he realized he'd thought the word
date
and hadn't immediately gotten uncomfortable or anxious. Once he realized this, he became uncomfortable and anxious.

Over the next twenty-four hours, Sam's mind seized on the fact that he was one big walking, talking contradiction. He'd lied to Melissa, one of the best friends he'd ever had, about being gay. He'd lied to his mother. He'd
almost
admitted being gay to his father but had thought better of it. And not only that, he'd decided that all of that was the right course of action. Lying was the way to go.
Keep a lid on it
,
he thought,
at least until you graduate and maybe get accepted to a college somewhere far away from here, far away from Florida, where you can settle in, screen all your new friends to figure out who you can trust, and then maybe—maybe—start thinking about letting a few people know. Slowly. One at a time.
That is, assuming the whole issue didn't just dry up and blow away, so that he could wake up one day straight. Which would be a relief. Maybe.

The contradiction part came in when he thought of how excited he was about spending the afternoon with Justin McConnell.

He was determined to enjoy himself with Justin. He needed to de-stress, and the second-best way he knew how to do that was to run. He ran—twice in one day. Then, tired of his Discman being kaput, he decided finally to spend a little of the money he'd been putting away this summer. He rode his bike to the electronics store near his neighborhood.

He was looking at a display of Discmans and, next to it, a glass case filled with expensive iPods, when he heard a familiar voice.

“There's nothing wrong with it. I still have the receipt.”

Sam looked over at the register. A tall guy in jeans and a Ron Jon's T-shirt was standing with his back to Sam, talking to the cashier. It was Charlie Perrin.

“Look,” the cashier said, almost laughing, “you bought this three months ago—”

“Two and a half,” Charlie said. “Just over.”

“Fine. But the store policy is
three weeks
for returns. We can't just take back a stereo anytime someone feels like returning one.”

“There's nothing wrong with it. It works fine. I have the speakers in the car.”

“Sorry, our policy is firm.”

“Can I—can I talk to the manager about this?”

“I
am
the manager.”

Sam didn't want Charlie to see him. He moved cautiously toward the back of the store. It was a small place, tucked into the middle of a strip mall, and there was nowhere to place himself out of sight of the register.

“What if I still have the box?” Charlie asked, raising his voice a notch. “I have it at home. I just don't have the Styrofoam packing.”

“Son, how plain can I make this? We don't refund purchases made over three weeks ago. I'm sorry if
you're not happy with your stereo, but you shouldn't have taken three months to figure that out.”

Charlie's sneakers shifted on the gray carpet. He put his hands low on his hips and turned away in frustration. When he did, his eyes landed on Sam across the length of the store.

He froze.

Sam quickly looked away, staring at the wall of Discmans. He heard Charlie huff, and in his peripheral vision he saw Charlie turn back to the cashier.

“There's nothing you can do?”

“Try the pawn shop out on U. S. 1. They'll probably give you something for it.”

Just leave
, Sam told himself,
while they're still talking.
He hesitated another moment, then made a bee-line for the door opposite the register. He could see before he reached it that Charlie had lifted the stereo off the counter and was turning away.

They almost collided.

“Um,” Charlie said, taking a step backward. “Hey.”

Sam pushed the door open halfway and held on to it, focused dumbly on the stereo in front of
Charlie's stomach. After a moment, he glanced up at his face. The skin around Charlie's right eye was ashy. The cheek beneath it was swollen and red. The sight of the black eye was startling. It made Sam feel guilty, somehow, as if he'd punched Charlie himself. He pulled his gaze back and saw that Charlie was watching him stare at the eye. One of Charlie's feet had moved forward and caught the door, holding it open so that Sam could let go of it.

What happened?
Sam wanted to ask.
Did you get in a fight? Did someone deck you?
Charlie's lips were parted, but he wasn't saying anything. It took Sam another moment to remember that Charlie had spoken to him, that he was waiting for Sam to reply. “H-hey,” Sam said weakly.

Charlie turned his good eye down to the stereo. He looked back up. “So…how've you been?”

“Great,” Sam said. There was so much more to say, but nothing would come. He stared at Charlie for a few more awkward seconds, then cleared his throat and managed, “I'd better go.”

“Yeah, me too. This thing's kind of heavy—”

But Sam didn't wait for Charlie to finish his
sentence. He turned away and walked quickly over to where his bicycle was chained to the rack in front of the strip mall.

He knew Charlie was walking over to his car. He knew Charlie was balancing the stereo on one knee as he fumbled for his keys. Sam wanted to help him. But more than that, he wanted to get out of there fast.

He pulled the chain off his bike, climbed on, and pedaled away without looking back.

Charlie sat behind the
wheel of the Volkswagen, staring up at the second floor of the dumpy-looking apartment complex where Derrick lived. He'd been hoping Derrick wouldn't be home, but there was the silver Eclipse parked in front of the building, and the lights were on in the front window of number 14. It had been three days since Derrick had come to Charlie's house—with Wade-the-barnacle stuck to his side; three days since he'd given Charlie his vague warning: Pay up or “it could get messy.” Whatever that meant. Another black eye, maybe (this one
caused by something other than a basketball). A broken arm. What did they always do in the movies—break a guy's knees? Give him cement sneakers and toss him into a river? In Charlie's case, it would be Matanzas Bay. Fish would eat his skin and muscles, and only his skeleton would be left at the bottom, sticking out of a block of cement, waving with the current.

But no. Derrick wasn't
that
hard-core. Besides, if he bumped Charlie off, how would he ever get his money?

This is you, Perrin. This is your life. Shaking in your shoes in front of some crappy apartment complex, worried about being offed because of your dope debt. You're a real winner.

He got out of the car and walked up the flight of concrete steps, nervously tapping the envelope against his thigh.

The Santa Claus look-alike behind the cage at the pawn shop had refused to give him more than fifty dollars for the stereo. Charlie had taken the money and had fumed all the way home about what a bad deal it was; an hour later he'd gotten over feeling
cheated and had gone into hyper-drive worrying about what he owed, and had driven back to the pawn shop with his Game Boy. That had garnered him another measly thirty dollars. Then there was the forty dollars he had left over from his most recent paycheck from the Danforths. That gave him a hundred twenty dollars to put into the envelope. That plus what he'd handed Derrick the other day in the driveway came to a grand total of a hundred eighty dollars—far short of being even half of what he owed. But it was better than giving Derrick nothing at all.

He walked across the landing toward the apartment, hoping the door wouldn't open. He heard the bass thump of a stereo.
D,
he'd written on the slip of paper folded around the money,
here's all I have right now. I'll get the rest to you as soon as I can.—C.
He bent down and worked a corner of the envelope under the door. It wouldn't fit. With his other hand, he peeled up the rubber weather strip that ran along the bottom of the door and slowly worked the envelope beneath it, hoping Derrick and whoever else might be inside wouldn't notice this slow intrusion. If the door opened now, he would have to be ready to say
something
. He pictured Derrick—or worse, Wade—opening the door, catching him hunched over like this, and snatching the envelope out of his hand. Counting it. Sneering.
What are you trying to pull here, Perrin? You afraid to knock because your payment's so light?

He could see only the last half inch of the envelope now, and peeling back the rubber strip a little more, he tapped the envelope until it disappeared.

No reason to stick around a moment longer. He stood up and walked quickly across the landing, then back down the stairs to the parking lot. He fully expected to hear his name called as he climbed into his car. But no one called his name. The door to number fourteen never opened. He started the car, backed out of his spot next to the Eclipse, and drove away.

 

Work it out
, he thought, shutting off the engine in front of Kate's house.
Turn on the old Perrin charm
, as if there were such a thing. He angled the rearview mirror so that he could get a good look at his face. His eye looked terrible; it wasn't as dark now, but the cheek beneath it was starting to turn yellow. And his hair
looked as if he hadn't combed it since he'd gotten out of bed. Nothing to be done about the eye, but he dragged his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down, and then tried out a few expressions in the mirror. The I-screwed-up. The I'm-happy-to-see-you. The I-screwed-up-and-I'm-REALLY-happy-to-see-you. The Why-the-hell-haven't-you-come-to-the-phone-when-I-called? Scratch that last one. Better to just look sorry and glad to see her, ready to work things out.

He crossed the lawn to the front porch and knocked on the door.

Mr. Bryant answered.

“Well, Charlie, what a surprise!” He offered his wide hand, and Charlie shook it earnestly.

“Hi, Mr. Bryant. Is Kate home?”

“Sure she is,” Mr. Bryant said. He winced when he noticed Charlie's eye. “Ouch, that's a real mouse you've got there. Been in a fight lately?”

“Only with myself.”

“Ha ha. Come in.”

Charlie stepped into the foyer and stood next to a cabinet full of owl figurines.

“Kate!” Mr. Bryant called toward the living room. “Charlie's here.”

He knows we're having trouble
, Charlie thought.
He's on my side.
The person who rounded the corner wasn't Kate but Mrs. Bryant. She held a section of the newspaper in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other.

“Charlie,” she said evenly, “does Kate know you're here?”

“Of course she does,” Mr. Bryant said. “I just hollered for her. How's the squad, Charlie? You fellows putting together a winning team this year?”

“I hope so,” Charlie said, smiling. “We haven't started practice yet.”

“You were the best floor general in the conference last year. How many assists did you average per game?”

“About nine.”

Mrs. Bryant cleared her throat. “I meant, did Kate know that Charlie was coming over?” she said, staring suspiciously at Charlie's bruised eye. “She hasn't wanted to talk to him on the phone, so I'd be surprised if—”

“It's all right, Mom,” Kate said, suddenly appearing around her mother's shoulder. “I'll see him.”

Mr. Bryant looked confused. “You two haven't been on the outs, have you?”

“Dad,” Kate said, “it's all right.”

“Well,” he said jovially, “you take it easy on our boy Charlie, here. Looks like somebody's already been beating up on him.” He winked at Charlie and smiled.

Charlie felt a cautious smile crimping his own mouth and offered it to Kate.

“Why don't we go outside?” Kate said. She walked between them and out the front door.

“Well, good night, Mr. and Mrs. Bryant,” Charlie said.

“Say hi to your dad for me,” Mr. Bryant said. “Tell him to come by the Rotary. We haven't seen him in a while.”

“I'll do that.”

Mrs. Bryant's voice sailed past Charlie's face like a hot wind. “Kate, if you need us, we're right in here.”

Charlie ducked out of the house and heard the door shut behind him.

Kate had walked into the middle of the front yard and was standing with her arms folded, looking up at the clear night sky.

As Charlie came up next to her, he said, “What was that all about? Your mom looked like she wanted to call the police.”

“Nothing.”

“Have you been talking to her about me?”

Kate looked at him, nodding her head slightly. “Yes,” she said. “I have. She's been a really great help, too. She's been a great listener.”

“What do you mean? Last I heard, she was driving you crazy. You two were doing nothing but fighting. What exactly did you tell her?”

“Charlie, did you really come here to talk about my mom?”

Charlie swallowed. “No.”

“What, then?”

His feet shifted around on the grass. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “How've you been?”

“Great,” she said, sounding anything but great. “What happened to your eye?”

“Stupid accident. It doesn't hurt.”

She looked both irritated and worried. After a long pause, she said, “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

“You wouldn't talk to me on the phone. I wanted to know how you were.” He watched her glance at the house, as if contemplating going back inside. “Listen, Kate, things have been really crazy, lately. Really difficult for me.”

“Were you high the other night, when we were supposed to go out to dinner?” she asked in a calm voice.

Charlie lifted his shoulders. He let them drop.
Be honest
, he told himself.
Put it all—or most of it—on the table
. “Yeah, I was. Just a little, though. There was a lot going on that night. Stuff you don't know about.”

She unfolded her arms, stepped back from him, and sat down on the grass. Charlie sat down next to her. He waited for her to ask what kind of stuff, but she didn't. He'd just have to come out with it. “My dad's been kind of…messed up lately.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah. Ever since my mom died, he hasn't been himself. He hardly ever leaves the house. And he's
been…he's been drinking at night. Sometimes more than at night. Actually, he's been hitting it pretty hard.”

She brought her knees up in front of her and held on to them, her head turned away. When she looked at him again, her eyes were damp. “And this is why you've been getting high? Because of your dad?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, not just that. But yeah.”

“You know, Charlie, you can't blame your dad for what's going on with you.”

“I'm not. I'm just trying to explain why
I've
been such a mess lately.”

“Because your dad drove you to it?”

“Sort of.”

“So he makes you smoke? He tells you it's okay?”

“No! He doesn't know about it.” This was getting out of hand. “That's not what I meant.”

“Does he make you lie to me, too?”

“
No.
Kate, you've got to listen to me. The other night when we were supposed to go out, when I…stood you up…I got home from work and my dad had had way more to drink than usual. He cut his thumb and it started bleeding everywhere.”

“Why didn't you call and at least tell me that?”

“I was going to. But—I couldn't. I didn't want to tell you he was drinking. I was embarrassed.”

“So you got high instead. While I sat in my room waiting the whole night.”

“I took a couple of hits, that's all! Then I just crashed for a few minutes and accidentally fell asleep. It's been really hard for me lately, Kate.”

“Well, maybe you need some help.”

“That's what I'm asking for. A little understanding. I'm really sorry I stood you up—”

“I mean help as in counseling.”

“What?”

“Substance-abuse counseling, Charlie.”

“That's pretty radical, isn't it? We're not talking about major drugs, here. Just a little pot.”

“I think sitting down with someone professional and talking about it might be a good idea. For your dad, too, from what you're telling me.”

“Whoa! I'm just trying to apologize. I'm not looking for a lecture.”

“I know,” Kate said. Her eyes were still damp. “I don't want to lecture you. But you can't just lay all
this on your father, like he's caused all your problems. That's not fair to either one of you. And it's not fair to me. You have to take some responsibility for your actions. You have to
own
some of this.”

It sure was starting to sound like a lecture. He ground his teeth and felt his head bobbing slightly. “I'll work this out,” he said.

“I want you to. I want everything to be okay with you, and with your dad. But I don't think I want to do this anymore, Charlie.”

He felt as if a basketball had smacked into his other eye. “Huh?”

She sniffed loudly and wiped a hand against her nose. “It isn't any fun to date someone who's stoned half the time he calls you, and who may or may not show up when you have a date.”

“One time!” Charlie said, feeling the panic return to his chest. “That only happened one time!” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.

“Three times this summer, actually. Maybe I'm uptight, but I'm counting. Have you ever made plans with someone, and then just sat there for
hours
, wondering what happened to them—if they forgot
about you, if they got in a car wreck, if they're okay? Or wondering if maybe you're a fool for sitting there, all dressed, waiting for someone to show up? It's not just that it's boring to sit around and wait like that. It's humiliating, Charlie.” She bent her head forward, staring at her bare feet for a moment. Then, brushing her hair back from her face, she said, “I think you really need friends right now. You're going through a hard time, and I want to be your friend and help you get through it. But I don't want to keep dating, Charlie. Not right now, anyway. It's too—”

“Too what?” he asked, feeling his own eyes tear up. “Too much trouble?”

To his horror, he saw her nod her head gently. “Yes,” she said.

“It's because I'm not smart enough, isn't it? It's because I can't talk about books with you.”

“
No
, Charlie. Don't change the focus here. You're a smart guy. You just need to work on some important things, and I really think some…narrowing down…would be good for you.”

“So, what, you want to break up with me? Is that what you're saying?”

“I want to be your friend.”

“I've got plenty of friends!” Actually, given the path the last year had taken, he didn't have any. “You think school's going to start and you're just going to trip over some guy who isn't any trouble at all, some guy who's perfect?”

“No. I have no idea. But let's just take a rest for a while, okay?”

He wiped angrily at a tear that had spilled over and was running down his cheek. He couldn't believe this was happening.