T. Boyle - T.C. Boyle Stories II - Volume II

“I’ll follow you,” she said.

—

The streets were unfamiliar, narrow twisting blacktop lanes that dug deeper and deeper into the hills, and she’d begun to wonder if she’d ever be able to find her way back again when he flicked on his signal light and led her onto a dirt road that fell away beneath an irregular canopy of oaks. She rolled up her window, though it was hot in the car, and followed at a distance, easing her way over the washboard striations that made the doors rattle in their frames. There was dust everywhere, a whole universe of it fanning out from the shoulders of the road and lifting into the scrub oak and mesquite till all the lower leaves were dulled. Mailboxes sprang up every hundred yards or so, but the houses were set back so you couldn’t see them. A family of quail, all skittering feet and bobbing heads, shot out in front of her and she had to brake to avoid them. Scenery, a whole lot of scenery. Just as she was getting impatient, wondering what she’d got herself in for, they were there, rolling in under the shade of the trees in front of a low rambling ranch-style house from the forties or fifties, painted a deep chocolate brown with white trim, a barn set just behind and to the right of it and painted in the same color combination.

The dust cleared. He was standing there beside the truck, grinning, and here came the boy — Joey — bouncing across the yard as if he were on springs. She stepped out of her car, smelled sage and something else too, something sweet and indefinable, wildflowers she supposed. From the barn came the sound of dogs, barking.

Royce had an arm looped over Joey’s shoulder as they ambled toward her. “Great spot, huh? You want end of the road, this is it. And you should see the stars — nothing like the city where you get all that light pollution. And noise. It’s quiet as a tomb out here at night.” Then he ducked his head and introduced Joey — or reintroduced him.

The boy was taller than she’d remembered, his hair so blond it was almost white and cut in a neat fringe across his eyebrows. He gave her a quick smile, his eyes flashing blue in the mottled sun beneath the trees. “Hi,” she said, “bending to take his hand, “I’m Chelsea. How are you doing?”

He just stared. “Good.” And then, to Royce, “Mr. Harlock’s been ringing the phone all day looking for you. Where have you been ?”

Royce was watching her, still grinning. “Don’t you worry,” he said, glancing down at the boy, “I’ll call him first chance I get. And now”—coming back to her—“maybe Chelsea’d like to sit out on the porch and have a nice cold soda — or maybe, if we can twist her arm, just one more glass of that Santa Maria Chard we had over lunch?”

She smiled back at him. “You really have it? The same one?”

“What you think, I’m just some amateur or something? Of course, we have it. A whole case straight from the vineyard — and at least one, maybe two bottles in the refrigerator even as we speak…”

It was then, just as she felt her resolve weakening — what would one more hurt? — that the screen door in front sliced open and the other guy, the taller one from last night, stuck his head out. “It’s Marvin on the phone,” he called, “about next week. Says it can’t wait.”

“My roommate, Steve,” Royce said, nodding to him. “Steve,” he said, “Chelsea.” He separated himself from her then, spun around on one heel and gestured toward the porch. “Here, come on, why don’t you have a seat out here and enjoy the scenery a minute while I take this call — it’ll just be a minute, I promise — and then I’ll bring you your wine. Which, I can see from your face, you already decided to take me up on, right?”

“Okay, you convinced me,” she said, feeling pleased with herself, feeling serene, everything so tranquil, the dogs fallen silent now, not a man-made sound to be heard anywhere, no leaf blowers, no backfiring cars or motorcycles or nattering TVs, and it really was blissful. For one fraction of a moment, as she went up the steps to the porch and saw the outdoor furniture arrayed there, the glass-topped table and the armchairs canted toward a view of the trees and the hillside beyond, she pictured herself moving in with Royce, going to bed with him and waking up here in the midst of all this natural beauty, and forget the duplex — she’d be even closer to school from here, wouldn’t she? She settled into the chair and put her feet up.

And then the door slammed and Joey, having bounced in and back out again, was standing there staring at her, a can of soda in his hand. “You want some?” he asked, holding it out to her. “It’s good. Kiwi-strawberry, my favorite.”

“No, thanks. It’s a tempting offer, but I think I’ll wait for your uncle.” She bent to scratch a spot on the inside of her calf, a raised red welt there, thinking a mosquito must have bitten her, and when she looked up again her eyes fell on the cage standing just outside the barn door in a flood of sunlight. There was a dark figure hunched there, a dog, and as if it sensed she was looking, it began to whine.

“Is that one of your dogs?” she asked.

Joey gave her an odd look, almost as if she’d insulted him. “That? No, that’s just one of the bait animals. We’ve got real dogs. Pit bulls.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, the distinction he was making — a dog was a dog as far as she was concerned, and this one was obviously in distress. “Maybe it needs water,” she said.

“I already watered her. And fed her too.”

“You really like animals, don’t you?” she said, and when he nodded in response, she added, “And how are the kittens doing? Did you litter-train them? And what are their names — you name them yourself?”

She was leaning forward in the chair, their faces on a level. He didn’t answer. He shuffled his feet, his eyes dodging away from hers, and she could see the lie forming there— bait animals —even before he shrugged and murmured, “They’re fine.”

Royce was just coming through the door with two glasses of white wine held high in one hand and a platter of cheese and crackers in the other. His smile died when he saw the look she was giving him.

“Tell me one thing,” she said, shoving herself up out of the chair, all the cords of her throat strung so tight she could barely breathe, “just one thing — what’s a bait animal?”

—

The darkness came down hard that night. It was as if one minute it was broad day, bugs hanging like specks in the air, the side of the barn bronzed with the sun, and then the next it was black dark. He was out on the porch, smoking, and he never smoked unless he was drunk, and he was drunk now, because what was he going to do with an open bottle of wine — toss it? He hadn’t made Joey any supper and he felt bad about that — and bad about laying into him the way he did — but Shana would be here soon to pick him up and she could deal with it. Steve was out somewhere. Everything was still, but for the hiss and crackle of Joey’s video game leaching down from the open bedroom window. He was about to push himself up and go in and put something on his stomach, when the Lab bitch began to whine from across the yard.

The sound was an irritant, that was what it was, and he let out a soft curse. In the next moment, and he didn’t even think twice about it, he had the leash in his hand. Maybe it didn’t make sense, maybe it was too late, but Zeus could always use the exercise. And when he was done, so could Zoltan.

(2010)

People told her she’d get cancer in her bones, that the mice were growing into monsters the size of dogs, that if she planted a tomato or a cucumber in her own garden she wouldn’t be able to eat it because of the poison in the ground. And the mushrooms she loved so? The ones that sprouted in the shady places after a rain, the big brown-capped porcini that were like meat in your mouth? They were the worst. They concentrated the poison and put it in your body where it gathered and glowed and killed you dead. Was that really what she wanted? Was she touched in the head?