The worst part, I saw coming. Fast Forward was losing interest in the beach. If he ever had any. Most of the next morning he spent making his negotiations with Mouse, and the afternoon lying under his truck with a metal box and a screwdriver and two rolls of duct tape. Maggot and I sat on the front porch smoking weed and watching the man at his labors. Person after person walked by on the sidewalk, paying no mind to the Tony Lama boots sticking out from under the F-100, like that was regular everyday scenery. If this was back home, trust me, you’d have a crowd inside of ten minutes, interested kids plus the old guys with their free advice and power tools. But these city folk just turned a blind eye.
Later on we went out driving around to see the various things they had in Richmond, statues, state capitol building, etc. We ate at Popeyes. That’s where Fast Forward informed us we’d screwed around too much on the way up here, and now he had to get back. We were heading home in the morning. With the damn ocean no more than an hour away, two at the most, my dreams once again went down in flames. Son of a bitch. I was bitter and had nothing more to say to anybody, plus sick of smelling gasoline, so after we got back to the house I said I was sleeping in the cab of the truck. Mouse said I was crazy, she didn’t feel safe sleeping inside this dump, let alone on the street. Giving the impression of this being not her house, and her being some incredibly bossy visitor, which stood to reason. Her fingernails alone had seen more maintenance than any part of that property. But I did it, went out on the street. And slept.
The drive home was hideous. Fast Forward was all cocky over his score, the rest of us crashing from our various highs and expectations. The happy couple must have had a tiff, because Emmy wanted to sit by the window with me in the middle. Thankfully they made up at the first gas stop. But she was wrecked some way, I could tell. We all were. Maggot was borderline lunatic, either singing, unconscious, or blowing kisses at truck drivers from his throne back there. I was as mad as I’d been in my life. Mainly at myself, for believing in stupid dreams. And into withdrawals so bad, I had to embarrass myself by demanding unscheduled bathroom stops. If not for Dori waiting to rescue me, I was fit to drown myself in a truck-stop toilet.
Poor Dori, I’d left her for no good reason. We took forever getting back, with Fast Forward going the speed limit, thinking of his cargo I’m sure, plus you do not want to get pulled over with a boy-lunatic on open carry in the bed of your truck. There are laws. So I got dropped off late, in the dark. And there she stood under the porch light with her ice cream face and shiny hair, a big sweater buttoned up over her perfect body. We got inside and I was kissing her and then Jip got his teeth tangled up in the leg of my jeans to the extent of me punting him across the room, rolling and twisting.
“Sorry baby,” I said, and she said Jip meant well, and I let her think that. Clearly the little rat’s ass thought he’d gotten rid of me for good. Right away Dori asked to see pictures, shit. I’d never thought to take any, and was hard pressed to say where Angus’s camera ended up. Probably already pawned by one of Mouse’s dirtball boyfriends.
Dori gave me what I needed and let me cuddle on her till I quit being sick and fell asleep in her bed and nothing was ever better. I woke up finally with no idea how many hours I slept. She’d shut Jip outside, possibly a first. Seriously, words cannot describe her and that dog. But I’d moved into first place. Various parts of me returned to the living. Vester asleep downstairs, no Jip, we were home free and starting to mess around, and, hell. The phone rang.
It was Angus. I stood in the freezing hallway in my underwear and partial erection trying to understand what was so important about me getting over to Coach’s house. Today. Nobody was dead, yet she said, but Coach had gotten the robo-calls about me being a no-show at school all week. On further investigation, some or all of my teachers were unaware I was still enrolled. I asked what possessed Coach to start giving a shit about my off-season performance, and Angus said I was being a purposeful idiot. He cared, all right. He was making noises about putting me back on season rules. Curfew and lockdown. Angus said she’d run out of excuses for me, so I was advised to show up for dinner with my ass-kissing lips all shined up. I hung up thinking: I’m circling the bowl, and Angus for some reason is pleased of it. Damn her.
I promised Dori I would make it up to her, but I might need to spend the night over there. I took a pile of our dirty clothes because the washer at Dori’s had died. Not all that recently. We needed to take some action on this, but Dori said that old Maytag had been her mom’s and she was attached. Dori was a big one for letting things pile up. Too sweet for this world.
I didn’t even make it to dinnertime before the shit hit the pan at Coach’s house. I was back in the laundry room sorting out the whites and darks, trying not to mess up Mattie Kate’s piles because she had her whole system, and suddenly, U-Haul. The old sock-feet sneak attack, and he’s got me up against the Clorox.
“U-Haul,” I said. “Can I offer you a shot of bleach?”
“Ha ha!” His laugh was like a fox barking. He craned his neck, leaning in too close. “The thing is, I got to put myself on the line here. For Coach. He has give me an obligation.”
“Okay, nice. That and two bucks might get you a cup of coffee.” I must have been past tired into some form of dead. Opened my mouth, out came Mr. Peg.
“A job,” he hissed. “I’ll keep this to easy-reader words for you.”
“A job. This is on top of your higher calling of hauling around people’s shit?”
The red eyes shot fire. “Your druggie ass. That’s the shit I’m in charge of, and I don’t like the view. Coach wants me keeping a close eye. To see if I can get you back up to speed, or if you’re turning out to be a piece of trash like he thought.”
U-Haul’s eyes were closer to mine than anybody in their right mind would want. Freckles all over the face like spattered blood, even on the eyelids. I turned my back on him and shoved a wad of darks in the machine. Slammed the lid, and then faced him off again. “Okay. Remind me again why I’m scared of a fucking errand boy?”
He drew back like I’d kneed him in the balls. “Assistant. Coach.”
“Yeah, we’ve all been wondering whose cock you sucked for the promotion. Not Coach’s, I know that much. The man has got standards.”
“You don’t know jack shit about the man.”
“I’d say I do.”
U-Haul rolled his head and shoulders around, then twined his arms together, holding hands with himself. “I’m saying you don’t. If you can’t work out how I got kicked up. He might be your legal fucking daddy but I’m the one keeping his books and counting his Beam bottles. I know him. And you hear me, boy. There’s things he does not want known.”
“The man gets shitfaced and passes out from time to time. No law against.”
“Misappropriating of funds, let’s try that one for size. Embezzling.”
“You are so full of it.” I tried to get past him, but he kept stepping into my way, blocking the door with his beanpole frame. I was contemplating a takedown, but finally he stepped aside.
“The hell do you know,” he said. “Coach is just lucky there’s a grown man awake at the wheel in this house, to look out for the merchandise.”
“So I’m merchandise.”
“You’re dogshit. I’m discussing something a who-ole lot tastier.” He pressed out his tongue over his top lip, grabbed the air in front of him with both hands, and pumped his hips.
If there’s a picture no human wants in their head, it’s U-Haul performing the sex act. I was grossed out beyond all measure.
And then got it, about the merchandise. He meant Angus. My sister. I was going to have to break his filthy face.
47
Vester died in dogwood winter. April, the month of the whole sorry world praying for deliverance, with dogwoods and redbuds all pretty on the roadsides and new green leaves lighting up the mountains. Then comes a late freeze to turn it all black, every fruit of the year killed in the bud. It’s a fitting time to die, I reckon. If you’re past believing in deliverance.
Dead people I had known, and so had Dori. But she showed no sign of getting over this one. She couldn’t stop crying or worrying she’d OD’d him on accident. The nurses had left her in charge of so much, the morphine and fentanyl patches and pills she had to crush and give him in a dropper. Nothing was her fault, least of all the ice storm that took the power out. She was bleary and frantic on the phone, saying she’d been asleep and woke up with the house freezing and his oxygen had quit and she couldn’t get the lights to come on. I told her to hang up and call the ambulance, but he was already gone. I should have been there.
The funeral was like Mom’s, in all the bad ways. This Aunt Fred person with her L.L.Beans and mini-me daughter drove in from Newport News to take charge. Newport News what state, we had no idea, it sounds like a brand of cigarettes. Dori barely knew these people. They took one look around the house with their matching pulled-up noses and checked into Best Western’s. The church, hymns, clothes he wore to the casket, all decided by Aunt Fred. The daughter that gave up her entire life to drive him to his appointments and spoon-feed him got no say. She sobbed through the whole service. They closed the coffin and put him in the ground, and I had to hold tight to stop her from crawling in there with him. In weeks to come, she’d go every day to sit on his muddy grave. I hate to say this. I got jealous of a dead man.
Once Aunt Fred got him buried, she called a meeting of the store employees and a lawyer to discuss the finances, not good. The store would be sold to level out the debts. The house was paid off, from the asbestos settlement years ago, and Dori could stay there if she chose, but was on her own as far as utilities. She could draw his social security till she turned eighteen, which was five weeks away. Not even time enough to file the paperwork. And that’s Aunt Fred back to Newport News, over and out.
Taking care of Vester was Dori’s whole life. The home health people came to take out the hospital bed and his sickness equipment, and she just howled. His oxygen machine was like a heartbeat at all hours pounding through the walls, you don’t even realize. Now it was a dead house. She didn’t know what to do with herself, and couldn’t sleep without a lot of help. I tried mentioning the cheerful aspects, that we could be like other people now and go out partying or to the drive-in. She got hurt at me and said I was dancing on Vester’s grave. All the party she wanted was to take another round of 80s and Xanax and ride that Cadillac back to dreamland.
In other bad news, our medical situation fell apart pretty fast. All these legit things that had been in steady supply, the patches, morphine pills, 80- and 40-milligram oxys, his different nerve pills of Xanax, Klonopin, and so forth: gone overnight. I’m not saying Dori took the man’s medicine out of his mouth, good Lord no. But the way these doctors prescribe for a dying person, there’s plenty to go around. And Dori was a smart little housekeeper, in that one regard. The oxys alone, he got a bottle of 80s every month that cost him one dollar on Medicare. If you know where to go, those pills sell for a dollar a milligram. Eighty times thirty, a person could about live on that for a month, till the next scrip rolls around. Could and did, come to find out.
Not that I was completely ignorant. She’d always been particular about picking up his prescriptions herself, other than the one time mentioned where I ran into Tommy at Walgreens. I knew she had to be going somewhere to trade some meds for other ones, according to what was needed. How else is an old man going to come by Mollys, I mean. You put two and two together. But I still had surprises in store, the first time I went along with her. She rounded up everything we could find in the house and said she was making a run. But she was in no condition. I told her I was driving and didn’t back down, so. Our first date after Vester died: the pain clinic.
The one she used was out west of Pennington Gap in a strip mall that looked bombed out, as far as any other stores operating. Even still, there were probably two hundred cars parked in the lot. Seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, people lined up waiting to get in the door. Ladies and kids asleep in cars, men lying on the pavement. It was a rainy night and most were huddled under the awning but some of them were just out in the rain, like they no longer found it in their hearts to give a damn. I told Dori I didn’t like the looks of this.
She was resting against the door, eyes closed, the seat belt running across her neck in a way that scared me. My little nymph. These vehicles are made for taller people. I leaned over and pulled the belt away from her throat so she wouldn’t choke, kissed her and nudged her a little till she came around. She looked through the blur of rain and said, Oh. She said this was busier than normal. It was May, the first of the month, the entire county had just gotten their benefit checks. I told her I couldn’t see waiting in that line, we’d be here till midnight, and she said, Don’t be silly, we’re not going in. All those people are waiting to see the doctor and get their prescriptions. Our scrips come from Daddy’s doctors, we’re just here to sell.
I stared at her, trying to work this out. She still had the mark across her neck from the seat belt, and looked about twelve. She’d quit wearing makeup since Vester died, because the crying just wrecked it anyway. I told her I should have been coming down here with her all this time, because I didn’t think it looked very savory. We had an argument about keeping secrets, which she said she wasn’t. She just knew I wouldn’t like it, and now I was telling her I didn’t, so that was the reason. Also, supposedly the person running this clinic was somebody I knew.
Then she dipped out again, and I watched the comings and goings, trying to figure it out. There were the ones waiting to go inside, and the ones that pulled up in their old Chevies and got out with their white paper sacks and went away with money. Peddling the wares. You think of dealing as a young man’s game, but a lot of these were older. I’m saying old, bum legs, walkers. A wad of chew in the cheek, flaps down on their hunting hats. Mr. Peg would have fit right in here. I thought of that night Kent gave Mr. Peg the coupon for free samples, and Mrs. Peggot said she would flush them down the toilet. The little did she know, they could have come over here and scored a month of groceries. These old hillbillies were using their resources, the same way Mr. Peg, back in the day with all his mouths to feed, used to sell venison roasts after he’d shot a buck, or tomatoes out of their garden. He’d made moonshine. You use what you’ve got.
It took me awhile to get up my nerve and go out there in the rain. I was thinking how Dori was a pro at this and I’m chickenshit, and then a guy came over pecking on the car window and I sold him half a bottle of oxy, lickety-split. Dori told me what to charge him for it. So that was good and we called it a day, headed out to Food Lion because she’d run completely out of everything at the house, t.p. and food. Planningwise, Dori was on the par with Mom.
