Swing State (12 page)

21.

Z
ACHARIAH WALKED TOWARD THE BATHROOM, JAR
of cold cream in his hand. His dad yelled down the hall.

“Let's go!”

“I want to take my paint off,” he yelled back. He regretted doing so immediately. Stupid. Talking back to his dad.

“Get your ass out here!”

Zachariah ran down the hall. He knew his dad's moods started with the same tone of voice he'd heard while entering the bathroom. They didn't always end with the sock. Usually. But not always.

I don't want Dad to beat me up
.

Then:
I just used my powers
. They came out, seemingly, of their own accord—he didn't mean to use them. They were like a reflex. A sneeze.

There must've been times he forgot to use them because he was scared. Or because he used them incorrectly:
Oh, no, she's gonna beat me up!
He needed to train himself to use them at the right times, to keep himself safe. Maybe he could practice by kicking a soccer ball against the wall, toward his nuts—the Use Powers Challenge.

“We're going downtown before everyone else does,” Paul said from the sink, voice steady. Zachariah knew he was putting meat under the running faucet to thaw while they were gone. “Got that?”

“Yessir,” Zachariah said. He tried not to grin.

“You can take your paint off later.”

“Okay,” Zachariah said, “I will.”

“Put on a shirt, if you want.”

Zachariah put on a shirt and jacket.

Above all else, Paul Tietz loved Armbrister blowouts. When the scrubs hit the field, his fandom reached dizzying heights: he knew the names of the second- and third-stringers and over-cheered their routine plays and hits. His enthusiasm was inevitably contagious: given a name, the rest of the crowd had something to latch onto.

The third to last game of the season, a rare Saturday afternoon occasion, was such a blowout: Haughton's small pool of students assured their team also-ran status every year, more so than Enoch, whose team Armbrister had beaten soundly on the road the week before. Fahey connected for touchdowns with four different receivers in the first quarter alone, rendering the second half moot.

Replacements took the field as the marching band resumed its post at the foot of the bleachers. Zachariah shivered, looking for Dixon Dove. He hadn't seen her at the Enoch game the week before—did she go to away games? He thought she'd be leading cheers now that Armbrister was back at home, but she was, mercifully, nowhere to be found. Neither was her brother. Zachariah looked for him all game, anticipating Dixon Dove to appear after Ross made plays, but he wasn't on the field.

Paul Tietz's celebratory mood extended to grilling. Zachariah welcomed the opportunity not to cook for an evening, much as he loved it. “I'll drop you off at L'il Bee while I go across the street,” his dad said.

Go across the street
was Paul's euphemism for
buy a case of beer
. Zachariah was grateful his father hadn't brought his flask to the game that day—if he had, Zachariah's earlier protest about the body paint might've yielded a fresh beating. But Paul had come home from his mill shift the night before and drank the beer remaining in the fridge. He was snoring in front of the TV set by eight, which Zachariah knew meant he'd be hungover and wouldn't start drinking until midafternoon Saturday, postgame.

They got in the car and drove to the L'il Bee. Traffic was negligible.

Paul pulled into the L'il Bee parking lot.

“Do you know what kind of barbecue sauce?”

“Slow Bull,” Zachariah said.

“Good.” Paul fished around in his pocket. “Here's ten bucks. That should do it. Buy yourself something. I want some change back, though.”

“Okay,” Zachariah said. He couldn't remember the last time his dad had told him to buy something for himself. Before his weight gain, probably. The football team needed more blowout wins.

“I'll be right back,” Paul said as Zachariah closed the car door. His dad pulled out of the parking lot.

A buzzer announced Zachariah's arrival as he pushed open the L'il Bee's door. He recognized the guy behind the counter, who looked up briefly from whatever he was writing in and smiled.

The only two things Zachariah ever shopped for at L'il Bee were barbecue sauce and hamburger rolls. He was happy to find the sauce shelf well-stocked—a different brand, or, worse, none at all, might push his dad away from remembering blowouts past and into a bad mood.

Find Slow Bull Challenge complete, he stood surveying the candy racks before selecting a bag of spicy gumdrops.

The guy behind the counter had been working on a book of word searches, Zachariah saw as he waited to pay.

“No rolls today?”

“No sir,” Zachariah said, placing the sauce and the candy on the counter. “Just this stuff.”

“A blowout, I hear.”

Sometimes the guy asked Zachariah how school was going or talked about the weather—they never talked about football. How did he know Zachariah had been to the game?

He chuckled as he pushed register buttons. “Team colors,” he said.

Duh. Of course.

“You looked confused,” the guy said. “Six and a quarter.”

Zachariah handed him the ten.

“Need a bag?”

“No thank you,” Zachariah said as the guy handed back change.

“See you next time,” the guy said.

Zachariah said bye and exited the L'il Bee, the door announcing his departure.

The smell of car exhaust and cigarette smoke was strong outside.

He'd gone in and looked around all painted up. Because he'd been thinking about his powers he'd forgot about his colors.

Zachariah opened his bag of gumdrops and selected a green one. It had been a while since he'd eaten candy. But the smoke and car exhaust were so strong he almost couldn't eat.

He'd seen a red gumdrop underneath the green one. Red was his favorite.

It might be a few minutes. Sometimes his dad saw friends at the liquor store. Especially on game days. Zachariah remembered sitting in the car once for close to half an hour, hoping no one would see him, painted, while his dad stood inside talking about the state championship.

“TIETZ.”

Zachariah knew the voice.

His mind went loose with fright.

Dixon Dove emerged from around the corner. The stink of cigarettes enveloped her, though Zachariah could not smell the explosive aroma that usually accompanied her appearance.

“School colors,” she said, smirking.

Zachariah said nothing. He felt himself trembling.

“You go to all the games, Tietz?” She put a hand on one of his boobs. He recognized alcohol under the cigarette smell. Both were on her breath. He could feel it on his face when she talked. There were other smells around her, too, that he didn't recognize—girl smells, maybe, though he didn't remember them from his mom. Maybe they were teenage girl smells.

Her eyes had a look she recognized from his dad drinking. But there was something else in there, too.

He nodded. Where was his dad? Why couldn't he pull into the parking lot?

“Like them?” With her free hand—the one not on his boob—she placed a hand on one of hers. Zachariah felt his eyes widen.
His fingers pressed tight against the cool surface of the sauce bottleneck. He felt himself getting hard.

He nodded.

“Why?”

What could he say?

“Gumdrops?”

As she laughed her hand came off Zachariah's boob. “Not candy. My tits.”

He had no idea what to say.

“Yes.”

“Ever seen any before?”

He couldn't lie. She'd know.

“No.”

“Can I have a gumdrop?”

He held the bag out, trembling. She removed the hand from her boob and took it.

“Thanks, Tietz.”

She shook the bag over her open mouth. A few of the gumdrops made it inside. Most fell to the ground.

“I don't know if you know this,” she said, returning the hand with the bag to her breast, “but my mom is really sick.”

He felt himself begin to tremble harder.

“I was wondering if you could help her out.”

Zachariah didn't understand. Help her out?

I don't want her to hurt me
, he thought.

“What do you mean?”

“She needs money,” Dixon Dove said.

She removed the hand and the bag from her boob and shook the remaining gumdrops into the hand that had been on him. She jammed them all in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
Zachariah watched her, fascinated. She smiled and returned a hand to her boob.

She put the other hand on him. Down there.

He couldn't look away from her eyes. She smiled and chewed. When her mouth was empty, she said, “You want to help, don't you, Tietz?”

He stuck his free hand into his pants pocket and began fumbling for his change, all the while feeling her hand resting still on his boner.

“Here,” he said, finally extracting the bills from his pants.

“Thanks very much,” she said, taking the hand from her breast to retrieve the money. “My mom appreciates it.”

She stood, still grinning.

He wanted her to stay there. With her hand on him.

He needed to say something to her. So she would stay.

“Where did you get them?”

“Get what, Tietz?”

“Those fireworks.”

“Fireworks?”

“At the Pines.”

“What do you know about fireworks at the Pines?”

“I saw you there,” he said. “The other day.”

She took her hand from him. “You were spying on me?”

“No, I just . . .”

“You were spying on me!” She put both hands on his breasts and heaved. He went pinwheeling backward into the wall of the L'il Bee. He felt the barbecue sauce fly up out of his hand. As he gasped for breath the bottle landed with a dull thunk.

Dixon Dove half-dragged, half-pushed him around the corner of the store. She kicked him in the butt. He went sprawling, stomach first, into the dirt.

“You know who spies on people? Pervs spy on people!”

He felt himself trembling anew. Why had he said that? He should've known she'd get mad.

He wished he had done something. Or could do something. Hit her. Kick her. Anything. He knew he wasn't supposed to hit girls. But everyone in school made fun of him already. His life would be better if she wasn't in it. And the other kids might leave him alone, at least for a little while.

His trembling grew stronger.

I just want this to be over
.

“Get up, perv,” she said, pulling the back of his jeans. He put his hands on the ground, pushup style, and lifted his body. He felt a rock dig into his knee.

“Fucking Tietz,” she said, facing him. “Three dollars. Spending all your money on candy.”

“I haven't had candy in months,” he said.

“You're standing around eating gumdrops. Thanks for those, by the way,” she said. “And thanks for the barbecue sauce.”

He felt a fresh wave of panic hit and started speaking before he realized he was doing so. Again. “No. You can't. I got that for my dad. He'll be mad if I don't have a bottle.”

She grabbed and twisted one of his tietz. He howled and tried to push her away. But her grip was too tight.

Then the other one.

He felt himself losing control.

No, he thought. I can't cry in front of Dixon Dove.

But his breath came in stuttered gasps. He felt tears, thick with face paint, run down his cheeks.

He heard her footsteps walking away as he blubbered, eyes stinging. Maybe she's done, he thought. I hope so. I hope she's done.

Had he just used his power? He thought he had—he remembered thinking he wanted things to be over.

Everything would be okay.

He got up.

He was still hard.

But the footsteps came back toward him.

Everything would not be okay.

There was no okay.

He tried to calm himself, but was crying so hard he could barely see. He felt the ghost imprints of her fingers and nails in his tietz. And the ghost of her hand on his boner.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

He knew he was unable to act.

No matter the brand of humiliation inflicted on him, he could not stand up for himself.

He could not fight back.

He was only able to be acted upon. Not to act.

Always a defenseman, never a striker.

He was powerless.

The interception had been a fluke.

So was his dad, after the game. There was no way he could stop his father.

Or Dixon Dove.

Or the kids at school.

A breaking sound, but controlled. A tearing.

His nostrils filled with sweetness.

He felt a thick liquid sensation atop his head.

“There,” she said. “You'll have the bottle for your dad.”

22.

H
IS FIRST QUESTION: HOW DO YOU
know Sheila?

Couldn't say I don't know her. Which was the truth. So he said the other truth: she's my friend's boss. Artie Travers. Know him?

Ahmed shook his head. I do not. But I know Sheila. I trust her.

Weird. The whole thing. Getting an interview. With this guy.

But he was nice. Smiling. Gave him a bottle of water. Smelled like cologne. Shiny button-up shirt.

Not many people were nice like this. Sheila, Artie, Pattersons. Pretty much it.

So:

Roy, why did you decide to join our military?

Finished high school. No money for college. A chance to see the world. Thought about the GI Bill. Not for me. No good at school. Like cars. Trucks. Working on them. Over there. Want to stick with it. Might like it. Always happy doing it.

Thought about Artie, Sheila. Didn't say might want to work at a real garage later.

A Purple Heart?

Said, wounded. Leg. Got sent back. No permanent damage.

You are very fortunate, my friend.

They all said that. All of them. Sometimes “my brother.” But same thing. Always wanted to say you're not my friend. We just met. But never did.

I am.

Be even more fortunate if this job works out. From an Afghani guy. What would Peck think? Probably that it was funny. Sense of humor. Took a crap in a paper bag once. Came back with the mail. Here you go, guys. Passed everything out. Sweeney didn't even notice there was no address. No nothing. Just a paper bag. Opened it. Oh man, someone took a shit in a bag! It's because I give a shit, Peck said. They all laughed. Now you can't say I never gave you shit, because I did. What do you think of that?

Funny. Sweeney. They liked him okay. Didn't know what happened to him. Tour must be over. Never heard back. Tried. Email. PalCorral. Go to the library. Try again.

Ahmed said I am very fortunate too, my friend. I came here on a student visa in the seventies. I completed an MBA at the University of New Hampshire. It took several years to accrue enough capital to begin working for myself.

Impressed by that, accrue. His English was real good.

I saw that automobiles were an excellent opportunity. People will always need them. So I decided that a business that worked to maintain them would be very wise. And good for the community. When people know there is an honest businessman in the community, there is one less thing to worry about. This is why I have decided to open a new franchise in Wilburton. People have come to trust my business. They drive miles to get their oil changed. I will provide the same high level of service there in a more convenient fashion.

Liked talking to him. Wanted to ask questions. About what it was like. Almost asked when the Russia war started, before or after. He knew he should know. Should remember. Couldn't. They talked about it in training. History. Easier to remember it there. Different groups. Factions. Couldn't remember them. Never used them any more. Faded. Like in high school. French. Took it because Auntie Blake told him to. She said it's a better decision than Spanish, Roy. In case you want to go to Canada. No use going to Mexico, with their drug war. French is a much better decision. He got Ds. Hard to speak it. He could understand Ms. LaPierre sometimes. But couldn't remember now.

So I have not been directly involved, Ahmed said. I have watched from afar. I feel strongly for all those involved. It pains me to see such conflict. I am grateful to the United States military for the aid they have provided toward restoring peace to the region. I thank you for your service.

You're welcome.

When might you be able to start?

Right away, he said. Hoped he didn't sound too excited. Wanted to get a job. Felt stupid sitting all the time. The house kept getting colder. Heat. Oil. Six hundred bucks a tank. Called them up. Said can I get fifty gallons? Minimum of a hundred. We have to fill the truck. Get it out there. Smallest order we can do. He didn't have the money. Still waiting for his check. Get the job, fill the tank. Tenants downstairs used theirs. That helped. Floor felt warm under his feet in the morning. But not enough. Wanted them to turn it up. Like ninety.

You will have a two week training period. This will pay minimum wage. Once you have completed training your pay will be twelve dollars an hour. This is our starting rate. From there you
will be reviewed every six months. You will have the opportunity to become a supervisor if you are good at the job and a position opens up. There may be more expansion depending on the success of the Wilburton location. We would like to open another branch in Haughton.

Okay, he said.

Good money. Not have to worry. Fill the tank. Get a second beer every time. Listen, Patterson, I have a job now. But she was okay. Hadn't let the kid know he played pool. Liked that. He'd give her a better tip. Buy her a beer.

He could save. Get a new place. A lease. They gave deposits back. Investment in the future. Sounded good. Look around. Get a car. Hopefully work, routine, no headache. Easy. Bike for sure. Go see Artie after work. After they finished their shifts. At their garages. Compare notes. Swap stories. Drink beers. Sounded great.

Ahmed tapped his phone. Nice one. Touch screen. He could get one. Drop the prepaid. Never carried it. No one called. But he could find out about the Sox. Pats. Read the box scores. Not go to the library so much.

Today is Thursday, Ahmed said. You will start Monday. Except it sounded like a question. Monday?

I can do Monday. Thought it sounded good. Important. Like he had other things to set aside.

The Auto Emporium opens at eight, Ahmed said. Please be here at seven thirty. Luis and Mark will show you around.

You will need to bring your documentation for paperwork. W-2. I-9.

Forgot about that stuff. Been a while. Enlistment. Before that the mill. Trays in boxes all day. Took years to get promoted. Bags.
But the other mills closed. Seniority. Got bumped. Couldn't find anything. Over and over. Before, since. Applications.

Have to find his birth certificate. Blank next to father. Social security card. Military ID. Not sure what else.

Ahmed stood. Stuck his hand out. The cologne smell again, stronger. Thank you, Roy, he said. I'm sure you will be a great employee.

He stood. I'm sure I will be, too. Thank you, Ahmed.

He looked around the office. Clean. But not tidy. Piled papers. Nice enough. Felt himself smiling.

Walked out to the lobby. Big TV, magazines.

He'd get a drink. To celebrate. Except no place in town was open. Patterson's wouldn't be until later. The Bellweather closed while he was overseas. Sad about that. Never got to go. Remembered he could smell it when he walked by on the way to the mill job. Old beers and hamburger patties. Urinal pucks. Thought he'd go when he turned twenty-one. But he never did. Stabbing. Drug deal. Oxy. Boards over the windows.

He walked downtown. Asian place. Didn't like it. And food at home. Rice. Beans. Ramen.

But the Pattersons' other place. Ice cream. Couldn't remember the last time he had any. Liked it. Never bought it. Too expensive.

Checked his wallet. Six bucks. Enough for a few beers. Or a cone. Check coming soon. Had a job. Could play some pool. Make some money. Deserved it. Finally had a job.

The Double Scoop.

Went in. Recognized him right away, writing in a notebook. The fat kid. No paint. But still.

Patterson behind the counter. Smiled. Hello, Roy, she said. I don't think I've ever seen you in here before.

Never been, Roy said. First time.

Thanks for coming! What would you like?

I don't know.

Chocolate or vanilla?

Had those before. And strawberry. Didn't want those. Something new. Like a beer during the day. To celebrate.

I just got a job, he said.

No kidding! Where?

Auto Emporium.

Ahmed, Patterson said. He's a good guy. Comes in a lot. He brings his kids.

He has kids?

Yes, she said.

It surprised him. Didn't know why. Plenty of them did. Overseas they were everywhere. Peck. Why would these fucking people bring more mouths into this miserable world? Not enough food to go around. Fucking animals. Never heard of a condom before. Or pulling out. It's not Allah's way or some shit. Or maybe they're just stupid.

What does he get?

Something different every time.

He looked at the flavors on the chalkboard. Rum raisin. Butter crunch. Berry blast.

Pick out something new for me, he said. Something I've never had.