Russell Banks - Rule of the Bone

Get a seat next to Grandma, I whispered to Rose and then I walked up to Mister White and said loud so he and Jamie could hear, Be careful now, sis, and remember what Pop said about don’t talk to strange men or anything.

She traveling alone? Whitey asked. He was wearing raspberry pink pants and a white polo shirt which didn’t help to cut the glare. Also he had a diamond stud in one ear which was cool but definitely not normal. The wife was wearing this long jean skirt and a striped tee shirt and a duck-bill cap that said Mountaineer on it and looked fairly normal so I was more drawn to her than him but he was obviously the boss.

Yeah, she’s alone, I said. Going home to Milwaukee, to be with our mom. I live with our dad.

No kidding, he said. Where’s your dad?

Drives a schoolbus. Can’t be here this early, so I’m seeing her off.

Too bad. Then he said to the little old lady beside him, Mother, maybe you can keep an eye on the little girl. At least as far as Albany. Be good company for you too, he said smiling down at her and it was like he’d taken her off a leash the way she went forward toward Sister Rose already talking and in deep grandma mode after weeks probably of feeling old and in the way around Mister White and the wife.

That’s the moment I chose to back off and then slip away and head quickly out to the street before I started to cry or worry too much about what was going to befall Sister Rose when she got to Milwaukee and had to reunite with her mom.

Maybe ten minutes later I’m standing out there on Bridge Street with my thumb in the air and this flashy new silver-colored Saab Turbo 9000 stops and it’s Whitey and Jamie Lee Curtis. Jamie’s driving and Whitey goes, Hop in, kid, and I jump into the back seat and we’re off. A minute later we’re out of town headed west into the mountains aiming toward my old town of Au Sable on the way to where they lived in Keene, it turned out. We were out on 9N yakking about this and that, me and Whitey mostly because his wife was really into the driving. I think the Saab was hers and brand new or something because of how it smelled and out of the blue I asked them if they knew the Ridgeways up on East Hill Road in Keene and they both said oh yeah, sure.

Nice people, he said and she laughed like maybe they weren’t.

Yeah. I used to work for them, I said but I don’t know why, the words just popped out like marbles. It was like I wanted to confess or something.

You did, eh? he said. Doing what?

Oh, mostly yardwork, raking grass and cleaning out their swimming pool and so forth.

So you’ve been there, Whitey said sounding suspicious. I wondered did he hear about the break-in and all that.

Yeah, but mainly I was only helping out a friend of mine who worked for them regular, I said back-pedaling like mad.

Is that so? Whitey said. And who might that be?

You probably wouldn’t know him. He lives in Au Sable, except for when he lives in Keene with his aunt and uncle. Russ Rodgers is his name. Friend of mine.

Oh, we know Russ! the wife chirped and Whitey shot her a look like keep out of this and I’m thinking oh shit I’ve blown it, the guy is on to me somehow and he knows more than I thought or else he knows stuff I don’t. Russ’s probably been busted and confessed all and told everyone about me to keep from going to jail himself. He probably even said I was involved in stealing all the electronics and the fire. Suddenly I was incredibly pissed at Russ not for confessing but for copping a plea like that and at my expense too. He should’ve taken his punishment like a man and not ratted on a friend.

You know Russ? I said. No kidding. How is ol’ Russ? We kinda had a falling out actually. I haven’t seen him in over a year and in reality to tell the truth I only helped him out there at the Ridgeways’ one or two days. Way back last summer, I think. In the spring maybe, before the Ridgeways came up from wherever they live.

Connecticut, Whitey says.

Yeah, Connecticut. How’re they doing, the Ridgeways? Nice people, I understand.

Oh, fine, fine, he says.

We were coming into Au Sable then and I said to drop me off wherever, right there by the Grand Union’d be fine, so the wife pulled the Saab over and I got out and pulled my backpack out and shut the door when the guy, Whitey, he leans out the window and says, What’s your name, son?

Bone, I said.

Bone, eh? What’s your last name? Who’s your dad?

My last name’s different from my dad’s. On account of being adopted, I said and I gave him a wave and said see you around and started walking off in the opposite direction real fast. No more questions, man. I heard the Saab start up and after a few seconds I turned back to make sure they were definitely on their way and the car was maybe a hundred feet down the road. I saw then that it had Connecticut plates. It was them, the Ridgeways, I suddenly realized and then in a flash I remembered seeing pictures of them in the house with tennis rackets and horses and with their kids and even with the little old lady they’d just been putting on the bus.

And then it came over me like a huge wave of cold water from the Arctic Sea and I felt really sorry for the first time that I had done so much damage to their house and burned all their antique furniture and shot up the picture window and used all their food and stuff and left it a mess. I wondered if they had a clue who they had given a ride to and I decided they did. They weren’t stupid. I wondered if Mr. Ridgeway’d noticed that my cutoffs were originally his green pants with the red anchors or if he’d recognized the backpack I’d stolen from them and knew that practically everything inside it was his, the woodcock and the gun and the clothes and the sleeping bag and the cook kit and the flashlight and the classical music CDs. The only thing I owned that I hadn’t stolen off of them was the roll of money, and that I’d stolen off of Buster. What a stupid wasteful thieving little bastard I’ve turned out to be, I thought as I walked out to the edge of town and crossed the bridge and came up to the light blue mobile home where my mom and stepfather lived and I used to live with them.

My old dirt bike was out back by the deck getting all rusty and it looked almost like I still lived there. Nothing was changed really, at least on the outside so I just walked up onto the deck to the back door like I’d been sent home early for screwing up at school again and tried the door as if expecting it to be unlocked and it was which surprised me some since usually when my mom and Ken were at work they locked the doors and left the key under the mat.

Inside the place was really all messed up with beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays and furniture out of place and the TV busted and on its side and dirty dishes and glasses everywhere like the bikers had been living here not my mom and her husband Ken. The place smelled of wicked ripe BO and stale beer and old food and cigarettes like they’d been partying for a week. It was weird. In the past they were capable of really getting lifted at times and staying there for whole weekends and longer and forgetting all about me but usually they sobered up by Monday and cleaned up the place and went to work and so on like regular citizens. This was so unusual that I stood at the door and for a few seconds wondered if maybe they’d moved out but everything was theirs, the furniture and kitchen stuff and even Ken’s beer can and mug collections although they were spread around and not lined up like little soldiers the way he always told Mom to keep them when she dusted and cleaned the shelves and me if I even touched one.

I put my backpack down by the door and then I thought of ol’ Willie and started looking around calling, Here, Willie, here, Willie, c’mon out, Willie, and when I walked through the breakfast nook into the livingroom there’s my stepfather Ken standing at the hallway that leads from the two bedrooms in back. He was in his bright blue bikini underpants and a tee shirt and looked pretty fucked-up like he hadn’t shaved or showered in a week and he even had a boner.