Brad Watson - Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives

“What about Carl?” she said. “Who was that?”

“A counselor from school. He said Carl fought with his teacher today and got sent to the principal.”

She looked at me and set the knife down on the block and wiped her hands on a towel.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Kids know things. They can tell when something’s wrong.” She picked up the knife again. “It’s us he’s upset over.”

The phone rang again.

“Jesus, if that’s him again,” I said. We had a couple of old phones that came with the house. No caller ID, none of that stuff. “He’s called three times already.”

“Who?”

“The counselor. He said his phone’s messed up.”

I answered it on the third ring.

“Bob?” the caller said.

“You must have the wrong number,” I said, and hung up.

“What are we going to do about Carl?” Lanny said.

“We need to sit him down and tell him. Explain it to him.”

She was quiet. She chopped another potato. Schock. Then set the knife down again. “It’s not going to be easy,” she said. “We’ve just ignored Carl through all this. We never pay him any attention. And he’s going to be the one it’s hardest on.” She breathed hard and looked down at her hands. They were pink from working in the kitchen and I had a moment of guilt about sitting out on the porch while she started supper by herself. I put it out of my mind. Lanny took a deep breath and seemed on the verge of tears. The phone rang again. I snatched it up.

“Yes?”

“Who is this, please?”

“Who is this ?”

They paused and hung up. Lanny was looking at me. I hung up the phone.

“We never even taught him to ride his bicycle,” Lanny said. “He can’t even ride a bike. The kids all rode by here a few minutes ago and they all had their own bikes except Carl. He was riding on the back of Frederick Nelson’s.” Our kitchen was in a small separate wing of the house. A window at the sink overlooked the backyard, and our breakfast table sat near a bay window that looked out front. Lanny could see the street out that window. I’d seen the kids ride by, too, when I was on the porch, Carl on Frederick’s old splayed banana seat while Frederick rode the pedals. Carl’s legs hanging listless, bare ankles in old sneakers and toes stubbing pavement with Frederick’s desultory lunges.

“Even the little girls ride their own bikes,” Lanny said. “He hasn’t even touched the one we got him last Christmas.”

“I know,” I said.

“Well, why haven’t you taught him to ride it?”

“Well, why haven’t you?” I shot back.

“My father taught me .” Schock. Four large Irish potatoes, halves rocking on the cutting board, crazy beveled edges like fat whittled sweetwood sticks. We seemed to have more than enough for supper.

“All right, I will,” I said then. “But I don’t know why his friends haven’t taught him, if it’s such a tragedy.”

“It’s a matter of pride, Ben,” Lanny said, not looking up.

The phone rang again.

“How you been?” a woman’s voice said. “I ain’t seen you in a long time.”

“Who’s this?”

“Terry?”

“You have the wrong number,” I said, and hung up. I felt the urge to turn on Lanny and held it back.

“I’m going outside,” I said. The phone rang as I stepped onto the porch, but I ignored it. The kids were a couple of blocks down the street on their bicycles. I walked out to the curb, cupped my hands, and called out, “ Carl! ” Down the street a few heads among them turned. The bicycles wobbled to a stop. They talked among themselves, then turned and started my way.

It was seven o’clock, daylight saving time. Thin, high pink clouds fading overhead. They looked like faint brushstrokes in a painting. The lush greens of the trees and grass deepened, the sharp lines and angles of houses and cars and power poles easing off, softening. The children drew closer, brown-skinned on their rangy bikes. Poker cards were fastened by clothespins to the bikes’ front forks, so that they flapped against the spokes making stuttering noises the children imagined to sound like motorcycles.

They called their group the Road Hog Club. I knew how they came up with this. What they loved to do was line their bikes up in the street until a car came along. Then they reared up on their back wheels and stood their ground until the driver got out cussing. Then they scattered and scooted, motocrossing through the yards and whooping like Indians.

They zipped up and skidded to a stop, looking at me and waiting on what I had to tell Carl. They may as well have been reared up, the looks on their faces. The formidable Road Hog Club, defiant. I could hear the phone ringing faintly inside the house. Carl sat loose on the back of Frederick Nelson’s rigged-up banana seat, waiting.

“C’mere,” I said to him.

“Aw, I want to ride.”

“Just c’mere. I want you to do something with me for a few minutes.”

He dismounted in silence, Frederick slipping forward on the bar to let him off. Carl’s a good-looking kid, with his straight sandy blond hair down on his forehead and his tiny wedge build. He doesn’t have the wiry or pudgy looks the others have. Carrot-headed Bubba Weeks, Wick’s kid, stared at me with a cool gaze I took for insolence.

“Y’all go on. Carl’s going to be a little while. Get.” I shooed them away with my hand. Carl stood a little behind me with his back to them. The Road Hogs wobbled slowly around and at some silent signal scooted, Bubba Weeks and Frederick Nelson’s sister doing wheelies. They dipped, turning right onto Ashland, like birds swerving.

“Come on,” I said to Carl. We went around back, phones ringing faintly, then clearly, as we passed windows thrown open for a breeze.

“What’re we doing?” He stayed a few steps behind me, dragging.

“We’re going to teach you to ride your own bike. Your mother’s ashamed.”

He mumbled something, then said, “What’s Mama ashamed about?”

We turned to the little window above the kitchen sink and saw his mother’s head there.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was only kidding. We want you to learn to ride your bike.” He mumbled something. “Come on, now, let’s do it.”

I got the bike from the shed and rolled it through the backyard, past the cherry tree, and out to the alleyway lined and shaded with old woolly oaks and tall upflung sweetgums. Twice a week garbage trucks rumbled through, stirring dust and a faintly sweet stink. Carl followed like a small prisoner. He stood a couple of steps away, hands in pockets. I heard a breeze and looked up, the thick oaks rustling and the star-pointed sweetgum leaves playing against the sky. I heard something and looked at the little window and her head was still there. Shouting something.

“ The phone keeps ringing. ”

I laid the bike down and went up to the window.

“There have been five calls since you went outside,” she said.

“Wrong numbers?”

“Yes. What the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you should call the phone company.”

“What are you doing out there?”

“I’m teaching Carl to ride his bicycle,” I said. She looked at me and I could tell she was holding back a comment. Behind her, in the kitchen, the phone was ringing. She looked around at it and then at me.

I went back out to the alleyway and picked up the bike and grabbed it by the handlebars and the seat.

“Okay,” I said to Carl, “get on.”

He trudged over, wiped the dust off the seat with his soft grime-edged fingers, wiped his fingers on his shorts. He grabbed the bars and mounted.

“You set?” I said. He put his feet on the pedals and nodded.