This is Just Exactly Like You (33 page)

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because if you’re going to lie here in bed with me, then we both need to say we know that she’s stopped fucking him.”

“OK,” he says. “Fine.”

“Say it,” she says, serious.

“We said it.”

“
I
said it.”

He says, “She stopped.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re OK with that.”

He doesn’t know what it would mean if he were or weren’t. “Yes,” he says.

“And now you’re going to buy a giant catfish.”

He knows the answer to this one. “Yes,” he says.

“And the rest of them, too, right? You’re going to buy them all?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Probably so.”

“Who is it you’re trying to impress?” she asks.

“You, aren’t I?”

“It’s working,” she says. “Some.” She puts her hand flat on his chest. “Who else?”

“Nobody,” he says.

“Everybody’s a safer answer,” she says.

“Fine, then,” he says. “Everybody.”

To take Hendrick to see them. To take himself again. Because every stray should have a good home. He’s got his reasons. When they arrive, he’s happy to find it’s all still blue. The flea market tables and metal roofs are blue. The trailer is blue. The Buick parked out front of it, same car as yesterday, is blue. Jack gets Hen out of Rena’s car, and Rena takes Yul Brynner over to the side of the lot, lets him pee. Hendrick stares up at the undersea creatures. It rained all night, all morning, but
the remnants of Ashley
have pulled north and out to sea, are spinning off toward Philadelphia and New York and Massachusetts. There are a few high, thin clouds left, but there’s sun, and it’s hot. Like they’re in a greenhouse. Jack leans on the wet wooden fence and the top rail gives way, crumbles and half-implodes. Hendrick picks up one of the splinters and holds it out. “Thank you,” Jack says.

“You are very welcome,” says Hendrick.

The trailer door opens up and a woman comes out, smoking. She’s so slight that at first Jack thinks she’s a girl, a twelve-year-old girl. Up close, though, her face is creased. She’s fifty, maybe older. She could not weigh a hundred pounds. Jack wipes his hands on his jeans. “Sorry about your fence,” he says.

“It’s rotted to shit,” she says, her voice high, porcelain. “Don’t sweat it. We’re closed.”

“When are you open?” Rena asks, back with the dog.

“We’re not,” says the woman. “My husband runs the flea market. He’s in the hospital. We’ll open that back up when he’s out. But the golf’s closed permanent.” She waves the hand with the cigarette at the undersea creatures. “Don’t make enough money to keep it going. His stupid idea. Wanted a soda stand and some mini-golf. Donald loves the ocean. When he said he wanted the holes in blue, I said, No, people want their mini-golf green. But he wanted blue.” She drags on her cigarette, ashes it down onto her shoe. “And look where that got him. We got a cooler-freezer for sale, too, if y’all could use one. I’m selling whatever I can while he’s in.”

“I’m sorry,” Rena says. Jack looks at the catfish, wonders how many people it might take to move it.

“Don’t be,” the woman says. “Best thing for him. Only thing for him, really. Doctors told him to lay off, and he kept right on drinking. Had a heart attack, and when the paramedics came, they found fifteen bottles of wine behind our headboard. I didn’t even know they were there. Now he’s drying out. He’ll be all dried out when he comes home. Like a raisin. Then we can go on a trip. Maybe to see the Grand Canyon. I’ve never been west of Tennessee.”

“That’ll be nice,” Rena says.

“Nicer than Donald falling off the back porch at three in the morning and spraining his ankle. Which he did the week before he had his heart attack.”

“Wow,” says Rena.

“Wow is right,” the woman says. “I tell you what. Don’t marry a boozer. More trouble than it’s worth. First few months are fun, like it’s all some long party, but then it’s bad news and worse. Listen,” she says, looking out at the blue holes. “You want to play a round? It’s all wet, and it ain’t been sweeped out or nothing in months, but you can probably play through the leaves and all that. Never mind what I said about being closed. Come on. I’ll give it to you free.”

“Absolutely,” Jack says. He loves this woman, her drunk husband, loves the Carolina Flea Market and Undersea Adventures Mini-Golf. There’s something here, finally, that seems correct. Broken, but correct.

“What about Hendrick?” Rena says. “And Yul Brynner?”

“You know who loves the mini-golf?” the woman asks. “Kids love the mini-golf. He’s free, too. And you can let that dog run loose in there. It’s all fenced in. Keeps the deer and raccoons out. Donald says we’ll get bears in here soon enough, with the way they’re cutting all the forest out to put in these goddamn houses. I tell him if we get bears then I’m moving someplace else. Anyway. Just cut the dog loose. I don’t care if he shits the place up. Holes aren’t for sale, anyway. Can’t be. It’s all poured concrete, and that turf is glued right to it. They’re probably there forever. Be there after we have nuclear war. Just the animals and all the putters and balls and scorecards is what we got for sale.”

Jack checks the low chicken wire that runs around the perimeter of the mini-golf. It’ll be fine for Yul Brynner. He says, “Do you have a cigarette I could have?”

“You don’t smoke,” Rena says.

“Sure, honey,” says the woman. “But they’re menthols. I hope that’s OK.” She shakes a long skinny cigarette out of the pack for him.

“You don’t smoke,” Rena says again.

The woman hands over a lighter and Jack gets it going. It tastes awful, but he keeps at it, blows a cloud of smoke out of his mouth. He says, “I just feel like it.”

“That’s what I always tell people,” the woman says.

Rena looks at him, blinks. “You’re freaking out,” she says.

“I’m not freaking out,” he says.

“You are. I get it. That’s what this is.”

The woman looks at each of them. “Tell you what,” she says. “I’ll go get your scorecards out and get the putters lined up. Y’all come on up to the window when you’re ready.”

“OK,” says Jack.

“It’s fine if you’re freaking out,” Rena says, after the woman has walked back up to the blue trailer. The border covering up the base of the trailer is light blue, cut into the shape of waves, like the sign. The woman goes inside, bangs the door shut behind her. “You should be,” Rena says. “You’re due.”

Jack looks down the hill at all the empty tables, imagines what the market must look like going full bore, old photographs and Coke bottle glassware and stick pistols. Hendrick’s playing with the rotted fence rail, probably trying to piece it back together. If she knew he was here—if Beth knew he was thinking about carting the catfish back home, or to the yard, Rena aside—she’d go pretty apeshit.
You’ve got to be kidding me,
she’d say.
But I’m not kidding,
he’d tell her
. That’s the thing with me.
He can’t let the undersea creatures end up out front of some knock-off burger place. It wouldn’t be right. “I’m not freaking out,” he tells Rena. “I just want to play a round. That’s all. It seems like it’d be fun.”

“That’s not all,” she says, squinting at him.

He makes a golf swing in the air, smiles at her.

She looks out at the course. “What’s that supposed to be over there, do you think?” She’s pointing at a lumpy pink cave.

“A coral reef,” he says. He smokes some more.

“A coral reef?”

“What else would it be?”

“Give me that,” she says, and takes the cigarette from him, puffs on it. “How can you stand this?” she says. “Goddamn.”

“I’ve come a long way, baby,” he says.

“Don’t call me baby,” she says, and drops the cigarette on the ground, crushes it out.

“Hey—”

“No. If I have to play mini-golf, you’re not smoking. Or calling me baby. OK?”

“OK.”

They stand there and look at each other. Hendrick pushes his forehead against a fence post. It holds. She says, “So are we going to play, or what?”

Jack lets Yul Brynner out onto the course, and the dog sprints the edges first, checking the perimeter, then starts sniffing everything, drinking rainwater out of the holes. He barks at a smaller fiberglass something, what looks like it’s probably supposed to be a clam. It’s got a big toothy grin and eyes on top of its shell. The shell opening is the mouth. It’s a good thing to bark at. The woman opens up a window in the side of the trailer, and she gets five or six putters lined up, and six golf balls, all varying shades of blue and blue-green. She says, “Donald had to order from four different companies to get enough kinds of blue. I told him people would get confused, but he had to have everything blue. Said it all had to match up. He’d joke with the pretty girls about blue balls. It’s a wonder he didn’t get arrested. No one could tell them apart at night, under the lights. We’d get high school kids out here shoving each other around about whose was whose. And grown men, too.”

“I like it,” Jack says. “I mean, I can see where you’d have trouble, but I like the idea.” He picks up a turquoise ball.

“Men,” the woman says to Rena.

“I’m Rena,” she says, holding her hand out.

“Lovely Rena, meter maid,” says the woman. “Or something like that. I’m Zel.”

“Short for Zelda?”

“Just Zel, honey,” she says. She holds up a glass with something frozen in it. “I’m gonna have a daiquiri while you all play, if that’s OK.”

Rena says, “Fine by me.”

“Can I get either of you anything? Or a Coke for the young man? We got bottles.”

“No, thanks,” Jack says. “None for me, anyway.” Though the daiquiri looks good to him. Blue like everything else.

“I’m good, too,” Rena says.

“Suit yourselves,” says Zel. “I’m right here if you change your minds. With the blender. Just give the high sign. Here’s your scorecards.” She hands them across. “Now. Lemme give you the run-down. We got two courses. Twelve holes each. Don’t ask. It was something to do with space. He ran out of room at twenty-four. Was going to add the last six to each of them eventually. In the back there. Clear some more trees out.” She sucks at the straw in her drink. “Anyway. Two courses. Guess what they’re called.” She waits for them to guess, but not long enough. “Never mind. It’s Atlantic and Pacific. Pacific’s better, I always said. Got better holes. But play ’em both and see what you think.”

Jack chooses a short putter for Hendrick, chooses one the same size for himself. He leans way over, pretends to putt.

“You’ve got a funny one there,” Zel says.

“Yeah,” Rena says. “Class clown. One in a million.”

“Keep him,” says Zel. “He seems nice enough.”

“Oh, shit,” Rena says. “Maybe I will.”

Hendrick walks over to the gate, lets himself in, throws his golf ball for Yul Brynner, who runs after it, brings it back. Jack and Rena stand at the window, watching.

“Good-looking kid,” Zel says.

“Thanks,” Jack and Rena say, at the same time.

Sometimes he thinks of his life like everything that’s happened to him has been something he’s at least half-fallen into: History because it was easy, mulch because it was even easier. Butner appeared as if Jack had rubbed a lamp right and been granted some wish.
Here’s how it needs to be done
, is what Butner’s saying every time he opens his mouth. Not that way. This way. Like Jack is some kind of protectorate in Butner’s empire. And there was no HELP WANTED sign in the window when Ernesto arrived: He just arrived, was standing in the doorway of the office one day asking if they needed someone five days a week. Beth teases him about it:
Good things happen to Jack Lang.
Sort it all out another way, a more likely way, and Jack’s standing alone out there on the lot for six months hemorrhaging money, piles of mulch around him, nobody buying a single thing. But he’s been lucky, has tried to make a habit of often enough finding the low spot in the valley, watching the water come to him.