Swing State (7 page)

12.

Z
ACHARIAH SHIVERED, WISHING HIS DAD THOUGHT
shirts were weather-appropriate. He felt the chill of fall despite his new weight. He had worried throughout the summer about the implications of his newfound bulk: would his dad be excessively optimistic about his son's warmth because of his newfound poundage? The answer, unfortunately, was yes. Time and again, Zachariah removed body paint from fresh flab with cold cream he had bought with his meager allowance. The addition of so much surface area to his frame meant new and exotic places for leftover blue and white to hide. Any paint he didn't remove yielded an itchy rash the next day, inevitably left unattended because of awkward location: underarms, stomach rolls, and, worst, under his newly acquired sagging breasts. No matter how thorough his post-game removal sessions, he always managed to miss some.

The playoffs were growing closer, and the team, with its lone loss to Schaferville, seemed a lock. The bleachers began to fill with faces out of context—familiar from the halls, yet alien to games.

Like Dixon.

Zachariah couldn't believe his stupidity. She shouted at the crowd from the front of the bleachers in the second quarter. What
did she care about the defense? Of all people, why would Dixon—with her smell and snarl—attend a football game? Had she sought him out for further humiliation?

No.

As she screamed, Paul Tietz rolled his eyes. “Gotta watch out for girls like that,” he said. “Nothing but trouble. Can your believe her?”

“No,” Zachariah said, thinking she's been giving me titty twisters pretty much every week since school started. She tore up one of my notebooks—not the game show one, thank God—and threw it up in the air right by her locker, near the front door. Everyone saw. Except for the ancient security guard who was always standing there. How did he not see it? And she pushed me into the girls' bathroom. But nothing since my powers started a few weeks ago.

He had a momentary, reckless urge to tell his father about the end of the Schaferville game, how his newfound abilities had manifested and had kept him safe since (though its boundaries did not extend to verbal attacks—or to his father).

“He's gonna go All-State,” his father said, nodding his head toward one of the players on the sideline. “Maybe All-New England. Even when we won the whole thing, we didn't have anyone go All-New England.”

Zachariah nodded.

“I hope you appreciate what you're seeing here,” Paul said. “This kid has a chance to go pro. When he does, you can tell your kids that Ross Dove played right here at Armbrister High. First player in town to get to the big show.”

The defense ran onto the field after a punt. As if on cue, Dixon appeared in front of the bleachers.

“That girl again,” Paul Tietz said.

She pointed at one side of the bleachers. They yelled with her.

Then the other side yelled something else.

“At least she has good taste,” Paul said.

“What do you mean?”

“She's having everyone yell Ross Dove's name,” he said.

Zachariah felt sick.

He listened to the crowd: ROSS! DOVE! ROSS! DOVE!

Dixon.

Dove.

Oh no.

He'd heard both names used together around the halls, but somehow never made the connection. Dixon Dove.

Ross Dove was her brother.

She'd be at all the games.

It was bad enough being called Piss all the time. And he hated wearing makeup. If Dixon—Dixon Dove—saw him at a game, Zachariah felt sure she would make his time at school even worse.

I hope she never sees me at a game,
he thought.

Then:
I just used my power
.

He'd be careful. He had to be. In the back of his mind was the nagging suspicion that he had no powers; maybe the pass hadn't been picked off because of his mind. Maybe it was just the right guy in the right place at the right time.

But he believed in it. More than anything, he wanted to believe it. And wanting it so badly was part of the process. Right? It had to be, in the same way that working on
Love Balloon
would get him out of Armbrister. Had to.

Believing didn't mean he could live dangerously, though. At school he'd continued to spend time in the library rather than the
cafeteria, where he knew—powers or no—that kids would make his life miserable.

The powers were like an insurance policy, maybe. A safety net.

He couldn't get out of going to games with his dad. He knew that. But hopefully his powers would protect him from being embarrassed by Dixon Dove at a game. Zachariah imagined his father's anger:
You're gonna let a girl treat you like that? Don't you have a pair?

Down front, Dixon Dove continued motioning to the bleachers, leading the crowd in chanting her brother's name.

Her brother. He felt the knowledge in his stomach.

“Do you know her?”

“I've seen her around school,” Zachariah said.

“Girls like her are nothing but trouble,” his dad said. “Stay away from her.”

Zachariah was happy to say he would.

13.

O
NLY WAY TO GET IN SHAPE
to walk was walking. Apartment too small for exercise. Woke up and did push-ups and sit-ups. Crunches. Not enough. Cheap place. Floor might cave in if he did jumping jacks.

Thought about a gym. Could barely pay bills. Far away. Would need to drive. Didn't want to. Felt a headache behind his eyes thinking about it. Wouldn't walk home sweaty. Freeze like that. So he just walked. Laps around the common. To the woods. By the quarry. Saw another deer up there.

Had some deer once. Guy his mom dated. Only one he liked. John. Garbage man. Smelled a little. Can't ever wash it off, he said. Not all the way. But for twenty-two an hour you take it.

He brought some venison over. And a little grill. Cooked it up. Mom made potatoes. Frozen beans. Tasted so good. Still remembered. Eight, maybe. Wanted to say keep this one. Not yell all the time. Eat good food. Throw a baseball. Holidays. All the stuff on TV. But real. But he stopped coming. Not right away. But close. A week, maybe? Two?

One morning he got tired of common laps. Seeing the same things. Leg still hurt but fuck it. He'd go. To Schaferville. Ask Artie if they needed help. Finally.

Up one hill, down another. The entire way. Felt his breath. Sucking air.

Basic. All the running. Fifteen miles. Packs. Up hills. Back down. Never got easier. Thought he was going to die. Stared straight ahead. Didn't want to scrub more bowls. What the fuck, Donaldson said. Like we're gonna have to run fifteen miles in the desert in full gear. That'll never happen. But if it does, Long said, we're ready. I will kiss McSorley square on the lips and give him a reach around if I ever have to run fifteen in the desert, Peck said. Felt a laugh come up. Bit it down. Didn't want McSorley to rip his head off.

All that gone now. Came home. Walked. Not the same. PT. Still hurt. The guys he met at the hospital said wow, you're lucky. Hard to think about.

The job would help. The garage. Be around people all day. Artie. Fix cars. Get strength.

Longer than he thought. And he thought it was long. Hours. Working late would suck. No shoulder. Cars close. Sometimes old people walked out there. They waved. He waved back. They wore reflectors. Vests, straps. Thought they looked dumb. But made sense. Night, hard to see. Didn't have light clothes. Fatigues. Sweatshirts. Navy blue. Always his favorite.

Downhill was bad. Almost worse than up. Felt it in his knees. His leg. Got rubbery. Probably the same on the way home. But worse. Have to walk it until he got a bike. But snow. Maybe Artie could drive. Wasn't far. By car. But the time. There and back. Couldn't ask. Too much.

Artie used to drive him everywhere. That car, Oldsmobile. Dead grandfather's. Boat. Shit mileage. Big backseat, though, Artie said. Elbowed him. Roy smiled, nodded. He knew. From videos. Not until basic. Weekend pass. Guys knew a place.

No money for driver's ed, Auntie Blake said. Sorry, Royal. We both know after driver's ed comes a car. And insurance. I have a job, he said. If that's the case, you'll have to learn on your own. He told Artie about it.

What a bitch, he said.

Maybe she resents it.

What, having to put you up?

She does, he said. She does. And Artie taught him to drive. I don't mind, he said. Means I can drink. You're the designated hitter. Laughed. But he didn't mind. It felt good, being useful.

Cars whizzing by. Close. Broad daylight. Didn't see him. Weren't looking. Bad road. Only way to Schaferville. Bus once a day. Noon. Why not more he didn't know. Made no sense. Back four hours later. Four. That one might work. Walk in the morning, early shift, bus home. Not bad. Sit in the same seat. Talk to the driver. Get to know him. Joke around. Meet the other people on the bus. Everyone would know he worked at the garage. Come by with their cars. Say hello, Roy. Artie's boss, whoever he was, would see him bring business. Job security.

Schaferville. Passed the sign. Incorporated 1726. Oldest town around. Up there on the river. That and Wilburton. Armbrister used to be part of Wilburton. Remembered that from school. Thaddeus Armbrister. Good American. Said no. All our kids being sent to war. None of yours. We're the poor part of town. Your kids can afford not to go. Not right. Split off. Hadn't
thought much about it. Story from school. But it was true. In their platoon there was one guy who went to college. Fuckin' hated it, he said. Filling your head with bullshit. His name was—what? Hard to remember. One semester of community college and his name was College Boy. They thought that was funny. Biggest guy in the platoon. Could've played football. Didn't. Bad knees, he said. Carried the radio. Sweated like a pig. McSorley always gave him shit. So did they. Pretty funny. Hey, College Boy, Peck would say. What did your college books say about carrying a radio? Fuck you, College Boy would always say, sweating. Maybe you should have stayed in college. That way, you wouldn't have to carry a fuckin' radio all over the desert! Ever think of that? Every goddamn day. And they'd laugh at him, but not like mean. Like ha. They were all in the same boat. All in the shit. Sucked for everyone.

College Boy collapsed. Heatstroke. Got redeployed. Someone went to see him. Donaldson? Said he asked College Boy what he'd do when he got home. Oh, you know, he said. The usual. Maybe read books about bullshit. Work a job where I use my hands.

Walked through downtown Schaferville. Bookstore, coffee shop. Trophy place. Sandwiches. Some new stuff. Flowers. Beer store. Not like drinking it but making it. He wondered how to do that. How hard it would be. Make beer. Probably expensive. Big jar. Buckets. Reminded him of chemistry class. Never got that. Why he had to do that stuff. Never used it. Didn't care. Maybe chemistry made it easier to make beer. He'd ask Artie.

He kept walking. Stores with nothing inside. Tried to remember what had been in them. Couldn't. Just remembered them full. Not when he left. Before that.

Left downtown. Bigger common than Armbrister. Probably good to walk around. Tried to imagine living there. Quiet. Walk common laps. Probably expensive. Maybe not when he got hired. Find a small place. Thought he remembered a bar. Go after work. Play some pool. Drink some beer. Watch the Sox. Wouldn't have to walk so far. Or worry about the bus. Moving, though. He didn't have much. But enough. Dresser. Futon. Couldn't fit that in a car. Not even on top. Maybe rent a truck. Have enough money. U-Haul. Or Artie would help. Friends from the garage. They could do an afternoon. Easy. Pizzas afterward. Beer. Perfect. Sit in the new place. Hopefully the porch. Sit out there. Sweaty, like College Boy. The first beer would be the best.

Saw a bar. Looked nice. Too nice. Like drinks instead of beers. And not Venerable. The kind from that beer store. People would drink it and talk about how it tasted. Never understood that. Beer is beer. And those places never had pool tables. He'd have to find someplace else to play. Maybe the whole town didn't have a table. He'd have to go back to Patterson's.

Fun to think about. Probably too expensive. Cheaper to have a car. Drive every day. Wouldn't be bad. One tank a month. Listen to news. No music. Back and forth. Keep playing pool. For fun. Maybe beer money. Cashing checks at the bank. Hadn't seen his check yet. Probably some holiday. That happened. Columbus Day, Presidents' Day. Pushed back the pay. Veterans Day. He would do that one. Find a parade. Get dressed up. Talk about it. Go to some bar. Get beers. Venerable.

City part ended. Trees. Rows of houses. Never looked at them before. Maybe nicer than his. But not by much. But these had siding. Not shingles. Warm in the winter. Wouldn't be hot during the summer. Find a vet landlord. Tell him just getting
back on my feet. You understand. And he would. No need for a deposit, soldier. Your word is good with me. Worry less.

Then it was more stores. Empty. Not like downtown. Standalones. Garages, gas stations. Plywood over windows. Graffiti. W
ESTSIDE
K
INGS
. D
EAD
T
REND
. M
IZST
L
IVES
. Didn't understand. People always needed gas. How could they not? Always had cars. Had to be bad.

Trash on the sidewalk. Then it ended. Then nothing. He turned around. Downtown still visible. After work. Walking through this part. He could handle it. Knew fighting. Killed sand niggers. Wasn't scared much. But it looked rough. Maybe he'd pack. A knife. Brass knuckles. Didn't have a pistol. Just the old rifle.

Mrs. Johnson. He went back to the house. Thought one of the great-aunts would be there. Sold. Didn't even go in. Could tell. The cars. Hybrids. She came out of her house. On the porch. Why, Royal, she said. Is that you? Yes, Missus Johnson, he said. Oh, you must be back from overseas! I just got back, he said. Didn't mention the hospital. That counted as back. I am very sorry about Blake, she said. She was a kind soul. Yes ma'am, he said. I have something for you inside, she said. Wait here. She came back out with the rifle in its camo bag. Glenda and Joan did not know what to do with this, she said. They did not want to sell it, but did not want to keep it. I told them I'd hold it for you. Thank you, ma'am, he said. I hope you are well, Royal, she said. Do let me know if there is anything I can do for you. He felt like saying well I'm having a hard time. I have no place to stay and my one friend is married. So if I could stay here while I get it together that'd be great. But he couldn't do that. She would say yes. He knew. Always nice to him. Offered him cookies until he was sixteen. Probably because he always took them. Husband
died young. Construction accident. Never remarried. Did a lot of church stuff. Her, Auntie Blake, Tillie Tompkins. She was nice. But she wouldn't be. She'd feel mad. Taking up space. Eating food. Coming in late. Never say anything. But hate it. Like Auntie Blake hated it. Him. No stake but a rifle. Thank you, Missus Johnson, he said, taking the bag from her. I'll do that. And never went back.

Sidewalk trash everywhere until the garage. He didn't remember this. Thought it was better. Beaters outside. Big. American. Wondered if that was all they did. One of those places. American repairs. Thought he could do that. Jeeps. Sounded good. Easy to get parts. Fords.

Electric buzzer when he walked in. Little bell tinkled in the doorway. He'd get used to both. Wouldn't hear them after a while. But would with his body. Like shots. His body knew. Found himself in the sand without thinking. Tinkle meant be nice. Someone coming in. Train himself like that. Wouldn't even have to try. Just happen over time. Hello, can I help you? Yes, your car is ready. I replaced the timing belt.

Woman came to the desk. Smelled like butts. Older. Tough broad. Help you? she said.

I'm looking for Artie, he said. Maybe she owned the place. Probably. Why else would a woman be in a garage? He stood straighter. Tired because of the walk. His leg. Should've thought of that before he came in. Didn't. Stupid.

He doesn't work Mondays, hon. Tuesday through Saturday. Need help with something?

He liked being called hon. Reminded him of diners. Wished Patterson lady called him hon when he played pool. Just told him how many beers he could drink.

No, I'm one of Artie's buddies.

What's your name?

Roy, he said.

Roy—?

Eggleton.

Well, Roy Eggleton, I'll tell him you were asking after him. Try back tomorrow or some other time this week.

He nodded.

Not working. All that way. For nothing. Pretty fucking stupid not to call first.