The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (145 page)

Leo came out of the showroom and crossed the lot toward us, whistling. Holding his patriotic cap instead of wearing it.

“Where’d the accident happen, anyway?” the insurance guy asked.

“Route 22. Out by where the Indians are building the casino.”

Leo approached, placed his hand on the small of my back. “Numb Nuts here was driving down to play some blackjack with Tonto and the boys. Didn’t realize they haven’t broken ground yet.” He held out his hand for the investigator to shake. “Leo Blood.”

“Shawn Tudesco. Mutual of America.”

Leo nodded. “You work out at Hardbodies, right?” Leo said. “Weight lifter, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “You go there?”

“Me and him both. We play racquetball,” Leo said. “His girlfriend works there.”

“That right?” he said. “Who? Patti?”

Patti: little pot belly pushing against her leotard, Geraldine Ferraro hairdo. Joy told me once she hoped Patti got the rest of the way through menopause without driving everyone off the deep end. “Joy,” I said.

“Joy?
Really?
” He looked at me for the first time—inspected me up and down like I was a dented vehicle. “I know Joy,” he said.

“Everyone knows Joy,” Leo chimed in. “She’s world famous.”

The investigator nodded at Leo, then back at me. Smiled. I took both their grins, took the pain that shot up my right arm from the fist I was making. What did “
world famous
” mean? How was I supposed to take
that
little remark?

Mutual of America squatted down and passed his fingers over one of the truck’s front tires. “Rubber’s good,” he said. “Road slippery last night?”

I shrugged. He could read the police report if he was so goddamn curious. Behind the inspector, Leo grabbed an imaginary steering wheel and pantomimed me sleeping. Asshole. Dick-for-brains. . . . World famous as in how? She circulates? She’s a slut? What made Leo the big expert on
my
girlfriend?

The investigator leaned against the truck and rocked it. It made a metal-against-metal screech. “Buddy of mine grew up out there by the Indian reservation?” he said. “Just sold his parents’ farm to the tribe for
a million and a half
.” He shook his head. “They must have cash flow up the wazoo from the way they’re buying up land. Getting it from some billionaire Korean investor is what I heard.”

“Malaysian,” I said.

“What?”

“
Malaysian
investor. It was in the paper.”

“Well, they’re getting big bucks from somewhere,” Leo chimed in. “One of the chiefs or whatever came into the showroom the other day, him and his two assistants. Mr. VIP. Couldn’t talk to anyone but the GM. Ended up paying cash on the barrelhead for this top-of-the-line New Yorker. That damn car was so loaded with extras, it did everything except wipe the guy’s ass for him.”

The inspector walked over to his Firebird, took out a clipboard and some forms. “It’s just like what’s happening down in Manhattan,” he said. “The way the Japs are buying up the whole damn city, Radio City Music Hall included.”

“Hey, speaking of New York,” Leo said, “I was just down there this week. Had to go to a meeting with my producer.”

Mr. Insurance didn’t take the bait. “If that casino goes over,” he
said, “I hear they’re putting in a resort, a golf course, the whole nine yards. And every square inch of it tax-free. That’s what burns my butt.”

“I’m an actor,” Leo said.

The investigator got down on the ground, poked around underneath. “
You and me
pay taxes, right?” he said. “No one’s giving
us
a free ride.” He’d stuck a bumper sticker onto that briefcase of his:
Power lifters give good thrust
.

I fished around in my shirt pocket, felt those three pain capsules. That’s when Big Gene rolled into the dealership in his silver LeBaron. He was scowling his permanent scowl, surveying the Ponderosa. He braked as he was passing us. His power window whirred down. “Hey, Gene,” I said. “How’s it going?”

Looking right through me, he snapped at Leo. “Where’s your hat?”

“Right here, Pop,” Leo said, waving it at him. “I just took it off about two seconds ago. To let my head breathe a little. I swear to God.”

“Well, put it back on again! We’re in the middle of a promotion!”

Hello to you, too, Gene. Nah, I got shaken up a little, but I’m all right. Thanks for asking, you prick.
She
divorced
me
remember? . . . Sometimes I didn’t know how Leo stood it—working there, getting reprimanded all the time like a seven-year-old.

Leo suddenly looked older than his age, despite that classy suit, and the role in the movie, and the forty-dollar haircut. “Hey, you can say what you want to about the Indians,” he said, “but it’s going to go from bad to worse if the Navy cancels those
Seawolf
contracts and EB lays off as many guys as they say they might. I heard they’re going to employ a couple thousand people down at that casino once it gets rolling.”

“The Navy’s not going to cancel those subs,” Mutual of America said. “Not with this Persian Gulf situation. You watch. The Russians’ll back that lunatic over there and Bush’ll have no choice except to escalate. Electric Boat won’t be able to crank out submarines fast enough.”
He totaled something on his calculator, wrote something else on his clipboard. “If Saddam keeps screwing around over in Kuwait, Bush’ll kick his ass like he kicked Noriega’s. Bush rules, man. He wasn’t the head of the CIA for nothing.”

“Hey, how old are you, anyway?” I said. Truck or no truck, I couldn’t help it. Leo started jingling the change in his pockets.

Mutual of America looked up from his clipboard. “What?”

“What are you? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” he said. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t
seen
the shit that guys our age have seen.”

“Like what, for instance?” Don’t smirk at me, asshole.

“Like Vietnam. The
last
thing this country needs is for Bush to turn Kuwait into Vietnam II.” Leo gave me a zip-the-lip gesture. But I didn’t
want
to zip my lip. Mr. Weight Lifter. Mr. Hang Around Down at Health Clubs Impressing All the Women. When he laughed, the sun caught his little red earring.

“Vietnam, Vietnam, Vietnam,” he said. “No offense, but it’s like a broken record. Get
over
it.”

I saw those camouflage washouts down at Hatch. Unit Six. Those guys whose brains Vietnam had eaten. “We
can’t
,” I said. “We
can’t
get over it. That’s the problem.”

Why was I doing this—picking a fight with the guy who was going to either make me or break me, insurance-wise? Why couldn’t I just shut up?

Leo must have seen the mood I was in because he positioned himself between me and Mutual of America and started talking a mile a minute. “You were saying before about the Indians. Heh heh. . . . All’s I know is, if the defense industry goes down the toilet around here, half the state’ll be down at that casino, begging for jobs. Who knows? Maybe the Wequonnocs will end up scalping us and saving our sorry asses at the same time. You know what I mean?” He turned back to me. “Hey, Birdsey, didn’t you say you needed to call Ray? Have him pick you up? Go up there, use my phone. Hit nine first.”

I waited for a second, then started up toward the showroom.
Heard fragments of Leo’s conversation: “Poor guy’s been under a lot of pressure . . . sick brother . . . if you can diddle the numbers a little for him.”

Inside, I passed by Omar. Passed Gene’s office. He looked away when I nodded at him. Fuck you, Gene! It was
your daughter
who wanted out of that marriage. Not me.

I went back into the bathroom and locked it. Waited for the shaking to pass. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. That was the scary part: Dominick, the tough guy, the
un
crazy twin. . . . I was falling apart at the seams. I reached in my pocket, fingered those three Tylox. “The Father,” I said. “The Son.” I opened my mouth and popped a pair of them. Decided I’d save the Holy Ghost for later.

When I got out of the bathroom, I stood behind the god bless america! window sign and dialed my stepfather’s number. Watched the weight lifter through the
O
in GOD. Had he ever diddled my girlfriend was what I wanted to know.

I listened to the phone ring over at the duplex on Hollyhock Avenue. Crooked the phone against my sore neck. Outside, a sudden breeze blew that stupid cap right off Leo’s head. Sent Mutual of America’s Polaroids flying. The two of them went chasing after their stuff. Assholes, I thought. Idiots.

The phone clicked at Ray’s end. “’Lo?”

When I got back down there, the investigator said he’d decided to total the truck. We’d make out better that way, he told me. He said he’d try and work the numbers a little; there was a little bit of play in there, not too much. He could probably get us about five hundred dollars better than book value. That was about the best he could do.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Oh, it’s better than ‘fair enough,’” he said. “Say hello to Joy for me.”

“I will.”

“You do that.”

He shook Leo’s hand, got back into the Firebird, and roared out
of the dealership. Leo and I stood there watching him. “You all right, Dominick?” Leo said.

I told him I’d live. Told him thanks.

He waved me away. “Thanks for what? I didn’t do anything. What’d
I
do?”

Leo approached my stepfather, holding out his hand. “How you doing, Mr. Birdsey?” he said. “Long time no see. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Where’d you get that jazzy suit from?” Ray fired back. “You mug a Puerto Rican or something?” It was the way they always sparred with each other. Over the years, against the odds, my stepfather and Leo had come to a mutual appreciation.

Ray walked around the truck, whistling at the front end. “Congratulations,” he said, turning to me. “You really outdid yourself. What’s that gunk on the windshield?”

“Egg,” I said.

“
Egg?
”

Ray braked slowly, cautiously, gliding over the speed bumps on the way out of the dealership. “You didn’t say over the phone that you got hurt,” he said. “What’s the matter with your hand?”

I filled him in on the seventeen stitches, the pain in my neck.
Those two Tylox pills had begun to kick in nicely, though. The pain was still there; I just didn’t give a shit about it. Even riding with Ray was a breeze.

He turned onto the post road, accelerating steadily. “She with you when it happened?”
She
. Never her name. No love lost between Joy and Ray.

“Nope.” I could feel him looking at me.

“How about insurance? Your insurance paid up?”

I nodded.

“So what are you planning to do for transportation?”

I told him I hadn’t gotten that far yet—that Leo was trying to talk me into an Isuzu.

“Bullshit on that!” Ray said. He rolled the window down and spat. “Why should you buy some Jap piece of shit? So you can stuff money into the pockets of that son of a bitch father-in-law of yours?”
Ex
-father-in-law, Ray. The guy didn’t even bother to speak to me anymore. “Get yourself a Chevy,” he said. “Or a Ford. Ford’s a good truck.”

“God bless America,” I mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

We rode for a while in silence. At a traffic light, I felt him looking over at me again. “Why didn’t you tell me over the phone that you got hurt?” he said.

“You didn’t ask.”

“I shouldn’t have to ask,” he said. “You’re my kid, aren’t you?” He fished into his jacket pocket, brought out a couple pieces of hard candy. “Want one?”

I told him no thanks. Asked him what he was doing with candy in his pockets with
his
diabetes. They were sugarless, he said.

I looked out the side window—watched Three Rivers go by.
You’re my kid, aren’t you?
Much as I hated to admit it, it was more true than untrue—by default. He was here. I’d called and he’d picked up the phone. Had come and gotten me.

“Why didn’t they give you one of those collar things at the hospital? If your neck’s bothering you?”

“I’m all right, Ray,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you don’t
look
fine. You look like hell. You had any breakfast?”

I told him I wasn’t hungry—that what I wanted was to get my prescription filled and then go over to Gillette Street, pull those shutters, and get back home. Grab a nap if I had time, clean up, and then get ready for the hearing. He gave me an argument, of course—how was I going to remove shutters with my neck hurting and a banged-up hand?

I closed my eyes, repeated that I’d be fine.

He couldn’t help me today, he said—he had a doctor’s appointment—but he could give me a hand the next day. I told him the doctor who’d stitched me up hadn’t said anything about restricting myself.

“Probably figured you had the common sense to know that already,” he said.

“Look, Ray,” I told him, “I’ll feel
better
if I get something accomplished over there, okay? I been trying to get to work on that house all week. I told these people back when we signed the contract that the job’d be done by the end of the summer, and here it is Halloween.”