T. Boyle - Greasy Lake and Other Stories

The one problem was the girls. At first they’d been excited, the whole thing a lark, a vacation in the woods, but as the weeks wore on they became increasingly withdrawn, secretive, and, as Bayard suspected, depressed. Marcia missed Mrs. Sturdivant, her second-grade teacher; Melissa missed her best friend Nicole, Disneyland, Baskin and Robbins, and the beach, in that order. Bayard saw the pale, sad ovals of their faces framed in the gloom of the back bedroom as they hovered over twice-used coloring books, and he felt as if a stake had been driven through his heart. “Don’t worry,” Fran said, “give them time. They’ll make the adjustment.” Bayard hoped so. Because there was no way they were going back to the city.

One afternoon — it was mid-June, already hot, a light breeze discovering dust and tossing it on the hoods and windshields of the cars parked along the street — Bayard was in the lot outside Chuck’s Wagon in downtown Bounceback, loading groceries into the back of the Olfputt, when he glanced up to see two men stepping out of a white Mercedes with California plates. One of them was Arkson, in his business khakis and tie. The other — tall and red-faced, skinny as a refugee in faded green jumpsuit and work boots — Bayard had never seen before. Both men stretched themselves, and then the stranger put his hands on his hips and slowly revolved a full three hundred and sixty degrees, his steady, expressionless gaze taking in the gas station, saloon, feed store, and half-deserted streets as if he’d come to seize them for nonpayment of taxes. Bayard could barely contain himself. “Sam!” he called. “Sam Arkson!” And then he was in motion, taking the lot in six animated strides, his hand outstretched in greeting.

At first Arkson didn’t seem to recognize him. He’d taken the stranger’s arm and was pointing toward the mountains like a tour guide when Bayard called out his name. Half turning, as if at some minor disturbance, Arkson gave him a preoccupied look, then swung back to say something under his breath to his companion. By then Bayard was on him, pumping his hand. “Good to see you, Sam.”

Arkson shook numbly. “You too,” he murmured, avoiding Bayard’s eyes.

There was an awkward silence. Arkson looked constipated. The stranger — his face was so red he could have been apoplectic, terminally sunburned, drunk — glared at Bayard as if they’d just exchanged insults. Bayard’s gaze shifted uneasily from the stranger’s eyes to the soiled yellow beret that lay across his head like a cheese omelet and then back again to Arkson. “I just wanted to tell you how well we’re doing, Sam,” he stammered, “and. . and to thank you — I mean it, really — for everything you’ve done for us.”

Arkson brightened immediately. If a moment earlier he’d looked like a prisoner in the dock, hangdog and tentative, now he seemed his old self. He smiled, ducked his head, and held up his palm in humble acknowledgment. Then, running his fingers over the stubble of his crown, he stepped back a pace and introduced the ectomorphic stranger. “Rayfield Cullum,” he said, “Bayard Wemp.”

“Glad to meet you,” Bayard said, extending his hand.

The stranger’s hands never left his pockets. He stared at Bayard a moment out of his deepset yellow eyes, then turned his head to spit in the dirt. Bayard’s hand dropped like a stone.

“I’d say you two have something in common,” Arkson said mysteriously. And then, leaning forward and dropping his voice: “Rayfield and I are just ironing out the details on the plot next to yours. He wants in this week — tomorrow, if not sooner.” Arkson laughed. The stranger’s eyes lifted to engage Bayard’s; his face remained expressionless.

Bayard was taken by surprise. “Plot?” he repeated.

“East and south,” Arkson said, nodding. “You’ll be neighbors. I’ve got a retired couple coming in the end of the month from Saratoga Springs — they’ll be purchasing the same package as yours directly to the north of you, by that little lake.”

“Package?” Bayard was incredulous. “What is this, Levittown, Montana, or something?”

“Heh-heh, very funny, Bayard.” Arkson had put on his serious look, life and death, the world’s a jungle, La Lanne admonishing his audience over the perils of flab. “The crunch comes, Bayard,” he said, “you could support fifty people on those thirty-five acres, what with the game in those woods and the fertility of that soil. You know it as well as I do.”

Now Cullum spoke for the first time, his voice a high, nagging rasp, like static. “Arkson,” he said, driving nails into the first syllable, “I ain’t got all day.”

It was then that Melissa, giggling like a machine and with a pair of ice-cream cones thrust up like torches over her head, came tearing around the side of the building, her sister in pursuit. Marcia was not giggling. She was crying in frustration, wailing as if her heart had been torn out, and cutting the air with a stick. “Melissa!” Bayard shouted, but it was too late. Her skinny brown legs got tangled and she pitched forward into Cullum, who was just then swiveling his head round at the commotion. There was the scrape of sneakers on gravel, the glare of the sun poised motionless overhead, and then the wet, rich, fecal smear of chocolate-fudge ice cream — four scoops — on the seat of Cullum’s jumpsuit. Cullum’s knee buckled under the impact, and he jumped back as if he’d been struck by a snake. “Godamnit!” he roared, and Bayard could see that his hands were shaking. “Goddamnit to hell!”

Melissa lay sprawled in the dirt. Stricken face, a thin wash of red on her scraped knee. Bayard was already bending roughly for her, angry, an apology on his lips, when Cullum took a step forward and kicked her twice in the ribs. “Little shit,” he hissed, his face twisted with lunatic fury, and then Arkson had his broad arms around him, pulling him back like a handler with an attack dog.

Melissa’s mouth was working in shock, the first hurt breathless shriek caught in her throat; Marcia stood white-faced behind them; Cullum was spitting out curses and dancing in Arkson’s arms. Bayard might have lifted his daughter from the dirt and pressed her to him, he might have protested, threatened, waved his fist at this rabid dog with the red face, but he didn’t. No. Before he could think he was on Cullum, catching him in the center of that flaming face with a fist like a knob of bone. Once, twice, zeroing in on the wicked little dog eyes and the fleshy dollop of the nose, butter, margarine, wet clay, something giving with a crack, and then a glancing blow off the side of the head. He felt Cullum’s workboots flailing for his groin as he stumbled forward under his own momentum, and then Arkson was driving him up against the Mercedes and shouting something in his face. Suddenly freed, Cullum came at him, beret askew, blood bright in his nostrils, but Arkson was there, pinning Bayard to the car and shooting out an arm to catch hold of the skinny man’s shirt. “Daddy!” Melissa shrieked, the syllables broken with shock and hurt.

“You son of a bitch!” Bayard shouted.

“All right now, knock it off, will you?” Arkson held them at arm’s length like a pair of fighting cocks. “It’s just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Bleeding, shrunk into his jumpsuit like a withered tortoise, Cullum held Bayard’s gaze and dropped his voice to a hiss. “I’ll kill you,” he said.

Fran was aghast. “Is he dangerous?” she said, turning to peer over her spectacles at Bayard and the girls as they sat at the kitchen table. She was pouring wine vinegar from a three-gallon jug into a bowl of cucumber spears. Awkwardly. “I mean, he sounds like he escaped from a mental ward or something.”