Mark Dunn - We Five

“Can I see your sketchbook?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think it’s great.”

“Thanks, but your approval don’t make no difference to me.”

Lyle got up. He tucked his sketchpad and the art book into his bookcase. It was mostly an open junk cabinet, but it did have a few books there. Jane hadn’t noticed before, but almost all the books were art-related.

“I mean seriously, Lyle. How long have you been sketching?”

“You really interested? Five, six months.”

“Wow.” The word was nearly inaudible, as if Jane had intended to keep her amazement to herself.

“Isn’t it way past your bedtime?” he asked.

“I know it’s late, but I’m keyed up. Now I know what you mean when you sometimes say you’re too wired to sleep.”

“Did you let him in your pants?”

“Don’t be gross. We all had a nice time.”

“Does he want to see you again?”

Jane smiled. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help herself. “I think so.”

“What’s he look like? Is he mule-faced like us?”

Jane got up. “Why do you do this? Why do you assume the only man who’d ever want to take me out would have to look like Beavis or or or or Butthead? Which one’s the ugly one?”

“They’re both pretty fucking ugly. I’m sorry. Sit down.”

Jane sat back down.

“Do you want a beer?”

“Okay.”

Lyle went to the little mini fridge he kept in his room and got a frosty can of Bud for each of them. He popped the cap on both before he sat down.

Then he said, “You know those paintings of the countryside the old woman brought in a few weeks ago?”

“You mean the ones we took for the frames? You were gonna toss the pictures into the incinerator.”

“Well, I never did.”

“They were pretty awful, Lyle.”

“Of course they were. But the more I looked at ’em, the more they got me to thinkin’—Dad was a good artist, I mean, back when he was young. And I liked to draw when I was kid, remember?”

Jane nodded.

“So it’s kind of in the genes. Well, I kept lookin’ at those crappy paintings the woman brought in and I started sayin’ to myself: ‘Hell, I could paint better than that. I mean, if I worked at it.’”

“I like it you’re tryin’ something different.” Jane touched her brother’s hand, taking a swig of her beer.

“Don’t talk down to me.”

“I don’t know any other way to talk to you, Lyle.”

“You’re funny. My life is a shit pit. This ain’t no big news bulletin. Both of our lives are shit. You’re workin’ as a cocktail waitress at a casino. And when I do have the store open, the people who come in — they know the stuff we’re sellin’ here ain’t antiques, even though that’s what the sign says. They know it’s all junk. Crap. And I’m tired of trying to sell it to them. I wanna do somethin’ different. So that’s what I’m doing: I’m trying somethin’ different. Like you meeting that Katz guy and all of a sudden you’re walkin’ around here with a kind of smile on your face I ain’t never seen before.”

“I made a New Year’s resolution, Lyle: that I was gonna shake up my life this year.”

Lyle smiled. “It looks like you’re shaking up everybody’s lives in the bargain. I mean, you and your four gal pals. Never thought I’d see the five of you going out on a what — a quadruple—”

“Quintuple, I think it is.”

“—date. It’s like I’m in some kind of alternate reality where everybody’s almost normal.”

Jane play-glowered. “I’m glad you’re happy for me. Show me your sketchbook.”

“Why?”

“I wanna see your work. Please.”

Lyle went to the bookcase to retrieve the pad. “I’m just starting out,” he hedged.

“I won’t judge you.”

The sketches, each taken from famous landscape paintings and rendered in colored pencil, were good. Very good. Jane didn’t say a word. She just shook her head in undisguised amazement. And for the next twenty minutes, she didn’t think of Tom Katz at all.

However, later, alone in her bedroom, she allowed her thoughts to return to the young man who had made her laugh and think quite differently about herself. Sleep wouldn’t be coming any time soon for Jane Higgins.

Maggie stood in the doorway watching her mother sleep. Clara Barton didn’t snore per se, but because of constantly clogged sinuses, she often breathed through her mouth when she slept. Someone once told Maggie the word for it; her mother chuffled.

Part of Maggie wished her mother had been awake when she got home so she could tell her all about the night she’d just spent. In spite of her pair-up for the night being a first-class dick, she’d still had a great time. It was fun seeing her sisters let their hair down and get silly and flirty — showing sides to themselves Maggie hadn’t thought existed.

But how the hell did she get Jerry Castle? He wasn’t even all that good-looking — that is, compared to Carrie’s Will and Molly’s Pat, and Jane’s Tom, who looked like a particular rock star whose name she couldn’t quite conjure up. Jerry had a high forehead, which came partly from the fact that there was simply a lot of head above his eyebrows. But, as it turned out, his hair was also receding. An “early receder.” Just like Maggie’s father. She guessed Jerry would be totally bald by the time he was thirty.

And it would serve him right. Jerry Castle had a Mack truck— sized ego and a real mouth on him; he was brash and smart-assed in a way that could never be considered attractive. Plus, he kept grabbing her leg to the point where she had to tell him off. In front of everybody. Maggie wondered why his friends put up with him. In the ladies’ room, she asked Jane if she knew. Jane guessed it was because Jerry had had to overcome a pretty sucky childhood. According to Tom, Jerry’s father had been a real tightwad. He was assistant manager of a Hickory Farms store and Jerry grew up eating mostly castoff cheese and nitrite-embalmed summer sausage. Jerry’s buddies probably felt sorry for him.

“Just because you had bad breaks when you were a kid is no reason to act like an asshole when you grow up,” Maggie had replied, checking her teeth in the mirror to make sure some of the rib meat hadn’t gotten stuck in a way that would be unsightly when she opened her large Julia Roberts — esque mouth to laugh or talk. “Look at Ruth,” Maggie pushed her point with Jane, who was applying a little of Molly’s Tommy Girl perfume to the back of her ears. “Ruth had the very same messed-up childhood and she’s as nice as can be.”

“Did you just wake up from a coma ?” retorted Jane. “Ruth has an edge you could use for a Weed Wacker. I’ve seen it. You have too.”

“But she doesn’t talk over people and blabber her opinion all the time and use the ‘F’ word for all the different parts of speech.”

Jane snickered. “He does have one big ol’ gutter mouth on him, don’t he?” Jane turned to Maggie, her look suddenly sympathetic. “Oh, you really don’t like him, do you? I’m so sorry, Mags. I tried to match everybody up right, but it looks like you got the short straw, didn’t you? You’re not gonna hold that against me, are you? I mean, you don’t have to ever see him again.”

“I won’t hold it against you, if you do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Talk me up to…” She pointed to the word ‘Tommy’ on the perfume bottle. “I think I like him.”

Jane sucked in her lips. Then, dourly: “You can’t have Tommy. Tommy is spoken for.”

“ Really , Jane?” said Maggie, not even trying to hide her annoyance. “You and Tommy? You’re serious ?”