Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes (13 page)

“Man,” Ellerby says, pausing for the cross-traffic before taking a right on the red onto Compton Street at the edge of the Edison district, “I must be getting the kind of faith my dad talks about, bringing my holy-mobile down here again.” He pauses. “Lemme guess. We're not here bringing the word and the light to Dale Thornton.”

“That's why I hang out with you, Ellerby. You're like a genius or something.”

“So what is it we're bringing?”

“Questions.”

“Make them easy ones, okay? I'd hate to see that guy get pissed.”

“I'll do my best.”

Ellerby pulls the Cruiser up against the cracked and broken sidewalk at the edge of the vacant lot across the
street from Thornton's house, and I gaze across the icy street toward the driveway leading back to Dale's shop. The balance has obviously shifted between Dale and me since junior high, if only because I'm bigger now and not as afraid of my shadow as I once was. But I'm like Ellerby; Dale Thornton is still not a guy I want on my bad side. He has the same nothing-to-lose look, and I'll never be comfortable around that. But he's the only person to answer these questions.

“Wait here. I see his car. I should just be a minute.”

Ellerby leans back into his customized bucket seat as I step out. “What if he kills you?”

“If you're sure I'm dead, drive away.”

The door to Dale's shop stands ajar, and I hear the clanging of metal on metal as I approach. I knock twice before pushing my way in, still unseen by Dale, who appears to be hammering on a stuck bolt. He looks up, then back to what he's doing. When the bolt breaks loose, he straightens up and nods. “Fat Boy,” he says. “What's up?”

“Hey, Dale,” I say uneasily. “Need to ask you some questions.”

“You with the cops?”

I laugh. “They're not that kind of questions.”

He watches me.

“So,” I say, “what do you think?”

“Is that the first question?”

“No. I'm just trying not to be pushy.”

Dale wipes his hands with the ever-present grease rag and leans against the back of the station wagon. “This is about Scarface, right?”

“Yeah.”

He replaces the grease rag. “I promised a long time ago I wouldn't talk about her. I already said too much. I ain't got much, but my word's good.”

“She told me about the stove. You don't need to worry about having spilled the beans on that anymore.”

Dale stared suspiciously. He'd obviously had second thoughts about breaking his word. “You know,” he warned, “you do-gooders need to be careful. You think just 'cause you want to help somebody, somebody's gonna be helped.”

“I'm not asking you to let any more secrets out, Dale. Honest, Sarah Byrnes told me. I came to ask if she ever said anything about her mother. Like about where she thought she went, or anything like that.”

“Whaddaya want with her old lady?”

I say, “I'm not sure, but Sarah Byrnes says her dad is getting crazier and crazier, like when he burned her.
Said she thinks he's getting ready to do something bad. Her mother is the only one who could blow the whistle.”

“I thought Scarface wasn't talking. You said she was holed up at the crazy house, keepin' her mouth shut.”

“She's still holed up there, but she's talkin' some. At least to me.”

“She's crafty, that Scarface. Bet there never was nothin' wrong with her. Bet she coulda talked all along.”

You don't get ahead of Dale Thornton when it comes to survival. “I'll bet you're right. So what about it? Ever hear her say anything about her mom?”

“Just that she hightailed it after her daddy burned her. Scarface never heard nothin' from her again. Said for a while she was scared her old man maybe killed her.”

“Did she say where she might have gone if he didn't kill her?”

He sits back. “Only place like that woulda been Reno.”

“Reno, Nevada?”

“They got a Reno somewhere else?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then Reno, Nevada. Jesus, how come everybody said you was so smart, Fat Boy?”

“I had 'em fooled. They don't say that anymore.”

“I ain't surprised.”

“Why Reno? What did Sarah Byrnes ever say about Reno?”

“Said her momma always wanted to be a singer or a dancer or some shit like these chicks she seen in Reno once, up on the stage at some gamblin' place. Her mom told her that's what she woulda done if she wouldn't of married her old man. Scarface told me once her mom used to talk about it all the time, like it was some kind of possession or somethin'.”

“Obsession.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Did it sound like something she'd really do?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well, was it like me wanting to grow up to be a stand-up comic, or was it something she'd really do?”

Dale shakes his head. “How the hell would I know? I never met her mom. She only talked about her once or twice. I don't know why she'd wanna be around her old lady anyway. Hell, she up an' left, right? Scarface'd been better off like me, no mom at all. I'd rather have nobody than somebody who'd do me like that.”

Dale has a point. “Look,” he says, walking back toward the workbench, “I'm done with this here court
room drama. Come over here an' hold this piece so I can rethread it.”

 

Mautz flagged me down in the hall between fourth period and lunch today, and I swear it felt just like junior high, only this time I was innocent. “Mr. Calhoune, could I talk to you for a minute?”

What am I gonna say, no? I crammed my books into my locker and walked over to him. I've grown, but he's still a monster. “Yes sir.”

“Thought we might have lunch,” he said. “Down in my office.”

“What'd I do?”

He smiled. “Nothing. I want to talk something over with you.”

I glanced over at Jody standing next to her locker. “I was going to eat with…”

“Come on, lover boy. One lunch away from her won't hurt you.”

This was unwinnable. “Okay, I'll meet you there.” I walked over to Jody. “Gonna have to stand you up.”

“Lunching with the king?” She'd overheard.

“Yeah. Guess I better keep my food in my Baggies until right before I eat it. Less chance of contamination.”

“I'll be outside at the tables,” she said. “If you get finished early, come on out.”

“Eric,” Mautz said to me in his doorway. “Just like old times.”

“Yeah, well, except I'm not trying to strong-arm my way into the publishing business.”

“That's good.”

“It was a pretty good paper,” I said, smiling. “A little misdirected, maybe, but hey, the grammar was good, the writing concise.”

He wasn't amused. We got away with that paper a lot longer than he would have liked. I was surprised not to feel intimidated as badly as I used to. “Well, we're not here to talk about misguided journalism,” he said, directing me toward a chair across from his desk. His lunch was spread neatly before him like a still life, and I opened my paper bag, extracting a sandwich. “How's school going for you this year?”

Look in my files, I thought. I said, “Okay.”

“Good. Your grades going to get you into a good college?”

I said I could go pretty much anyplace I wanted.

“Good,” he said again. “Secondary education is important. Got to have a good education to get a good job.”

I started to tell him it was hard to argue with that, but he went right on. “Tell me about your Contemporary American Thought class.”

Be patient, and the rat will always come out of his hole. “Good class,” I said. “What do you want to know about it?”

“What do you discuss in there?”

“Current problems,” I said. “The students set up the curriculum at the beginning of the semester, and we divide it up so everyone's issue gets covered.”

“What kinds of issues?”

“All kinds.”

Mautz smiled. “Are you evading my questions, Eric?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I ask what you talk about in Mrs. Lemry's class, and you beat around the bush.”

“Why don't you ask Ms. Lemry?”

“Because I'm asking you.”

This was starting to feel
bad.
I mean, Mautz invites me to lunch (and makes me bring my own, but who's complaining) to ask me what's going on in a class when all he has to do is ask the teacher? Come on, folks. “Tell you what, Mr. Mautz. You tell me what you want to know and why you want to know it, and if I can help you out, I will.”

“You haven't changed much, have you, Eric?”

“Probably not much.” I looked down at myself. “Lost a little weight, but I still don't like to be pushed around, and I still don't like to be tricked.”

“How are you being tricked?”

“I
would
be tricked by answering questions about Ms. Lemry's class when you could just ask her. You're not telling me what this is about.”

Mautz rocked in his chair, staring at me, his index finger tapping his lips lightly. “Very well,” he said finally. “Frankly, I've been a bit distressed by what I've heard about that class, and about you and your friend Steve Ellerby.”

Wait long enough…“What have you heard?”

Mautz was quiet again, seemingly considering how much he wanted me to know. Finally he put up his hands. “That some important Christian values are being trashed, for one, but that's a subject for Mrs. Lemry and me. Also that you and your friend Ellerby seem to be mounting a vicious campaign to humiliate Mark Brittain.”

Ah, Brittain. It was my turn to sit staring.

“What do you say about that?”

I was quiet a second longer. “Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't spent a lot of time or brain power on
humiliating Mark Brittain. He does that pretty well himself. I don't mind telling you I don't like him, and if he weren't part of the swim team I wouldn't give him the time of day.”

“What about his girlfriend?”

“Jody?”

Mautz nodded. “Mark tells me you've been slandering him to her.”

“First, she's not his girlfriend, and second, I have better things to do than slander Mark Brittain. Like I said, why mess with what's already working?”

Mautz sat forward and memories of junior high flooded back to me. I fought hard to remember that things were different now; I had done nothing wrong. “I don't mind telling you, Mr. Calhoune, that I believe Mark Brittain is a special kind of kid. His moral values are flawless, and he doesn't bow to the temptations most kids bow to. You included. Now, I talked with his mother this morning, and she's very worried. She believes he's under a lot of stress and says he seems particularly depressed. I can't order you to leave him alone, or I would. Instead, I'm asking you to give him a little slack.”

I gazed around the office, at the impeccable organization: every book in place, the top of his desk clean and shiny enough to skate on. My eyes landed on a
large crucifix in the middle of his bookcase. The design at the center was identical to the one in the center of the decal in Brittain's rear window. “Do you go to the same church as Mark?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Something about this conversation just made me wonder, that's all.”

“Well, it's none of your concern. But I see no problem in telling you that I do.”

I sat back, breathing out.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked.

“Nothing. Really, I just wondered. Can I go now?”

“What about my request?”

“About Mark? I'll give Mark so much space he won't even know I'm on the same planet.”

“What about his girlfriend?”

“If he gets one, I promise I won't even talk to her.”

Blood flooded into Mautz's face, but he retained control. “I meant Jody Mueller.”

“I'll ask her to give him some space, too.”

Mautz pointed his finger at me, his carotid artery swelling like a fire hose. “You're skating on thin ice, young man.”

“What is it you want me to do about Jody Mueller, Mr. Mautz?”

“If you had an ounce of compassion, you'd stop seeing her. At least until things have stabilized.”

“You mean until Mark Brittain is stabilized? My organ donor card will expire before Mark Brittain is stabilized. The guy needs help.” I stood. “I'll leave Mark alone,” I said. “But I'm not going to stop seeing Jody Mueller.” I started for the door.

“You know,” Mautz said, “I've always seen you as a bit misguided, Eric. That's no secret. But I've never seen you as cruel. Not before today.”

I was
this
close to telling him about his favorite choirboy's response to Jody's pregnancy, but that would have been a bad move for Jody, so I said, “I don't get it, sir. How come Jody Mueller's feelings don't carry any weight here? You think she doesn't have a right to say who she goes out with?”

“I think her head is turned because you're a clever boy,” Mautz said evenly. “That's what I think. And I think the only reason you're taking her out is because she used to go with Mark Brittain. And I think that's cruel.”

He's an amazing man, that Mr. Mautz.

 

In the pool this afternoon I didn't taunt Brittain, didn't set up any games with Ellerby to mess with his head; I just kicked his ass. Every time I thought about him crying to Mautz, I just turned up the heat. If he keeps messing with me, I could turn out to be a pretty good swimmer by the time Regionals roll around.

I hung around a bit after the rest of the team hit the showers.

“What do you need, Mobe?” Lemry asked as I followed her into her office just off the pool deck.