All the Ugly and Wonderful Things (14 page)

“Even though you're not related to her?”

He laughed and drained his drink. “We're friends is all.”

Lisa looked at him more closely, squinting against the pall of smoke that hung in the bar.

“How old are you?”

“I just turned twenty-four,” he said.

She stared at him, feeling stupid. He wasn't old enough to be Wavy's father. He was younger than Lisa. How had she mistaken him for an adult?

They drank another round without talking. He gestured for the bartender to keep them coming.

“What got you so upset tonight?” he said when the next drink came.

“John Lennon was killed on Monday. They shot him out in front of his apartment.” Lisa thought she might finally be drunk enough, because for the first time in days, thinking about it didn't make her want to bawl her head off.

“Who's that?”

“John Lennon? The Beatles?”

“Oh. Did you know him?”

“No, but—well, sort of. As a fan. I…”

He didn't get it, and Lisa was too drunk to explain how John had narrated her whole childhood and most of her adulthood so far. No matter where she went, John had gone with her, even to this horrible little town. Now he was dead and she was alone.

“I'm sorry,” Kellen said.

To his left, a guy in a cowboy hat laid a hand on Kellen's shoulder and said, “Can I squeeze in here for a sec, Cochise?”

Kellen knocked back the rest of his drink, set the glass on the bar, and said, “You know what? Seeing as how you don't know me, why don't you just call me
sir
?”

Until then, Lisa had only considered him a curiosity: some previously undiscovered species of redneck biker Indian. At that moment, there was a menacing quality to the way he said
sir,
with the whiskey still wet on his lower lip, that also made her consider him a possible solution to one night of loneliness.

The cowboy tipped his hat with a smirk. “Whatever you say, Chief.”

Kellen swung so fast that his fist whiffled the air beside Lisa's ear. When the blow landed on the cowboy's face, it was like a bomb going off. People jumped into the fight from all sides. Lisa was too stunned to do anything but put her head down over her drink and cover the back of her head with her hands.

“Goddamn it! Knock it off, you assholes!” somebody yelled, and then from that same corner of the bar came the sound of a pump shotgun being racked. The scuffle came to an immediate halt. When Lisa looked up, she saw half a dozen men clustered around Kellen. They were all bloodied and at their feet lay the cowboy, his hat trampled underfoot. Kellen's hair was mussed and someone had torn his shirt and popped open half the snaps down the front, revealing a solid-looking gut and a giant tattoo on his chest.

The man with the shotgun waded through the crowd.

“Goddamnit. Junior, what'd I tell you? You gonna get yourself banned again.”

“Sorry, Glen. I was just trying to teach him some manners,” Kellen said, snapping his shirt up.

“Manners, my ass. Get outta here before I call the sheriff.”

“Will do.” Kellen pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and tossed a hundred dollar bill on the bar. He glanced at Lisa and said, “You ready to go?”

“I think so.”

She had never witnessed a bar fight, and she walked out on Kellen's arm unsure whether she had yet. She hadn't seen anything beyond the first punch, but she felt sure that was permanently imprinted on her brain. Powell in a snapshot: drunk hillbillies beating the crap out of each other.

When they pulled up in front of Lisa's house, Kellen turned off the engine. Panic engulfed her. She had not in fact invited him to spend the night, but there he was getting off the motorcycle and reaching to help her down.

“I'm fine from here,” she said.

“Coulda fooled me. You couldn't walk yourself outta the bar. You're welcome to try, though.”

She leaned on him all the way to the front porch and, once the door was unlocked, she remembered how empty the house was.

“Do you want to come in? I could make you some coffee.”

“If you don't mind,” he said, right before she kissed him. With all the whiskey, it was hard to tell where her mouth ended and his began. He pulled back after just a few seconds and said, “We should go inside.”

Of course, he was right. No sense advertising her shame and desperation to the whole town. She stepped backward into the dark entry and he followed.

“Let me go put some coffee on.” Turning toward the kitchen, she nearly wiped out, the floor going crooked under her. He caught her under the arms and brought her upright.

“Why don't you sit down and I'll put the coffee on.”

It was ridiculous, but she nodded. He steered her to the couch, and then went into the kitchen. She slumped there, listening to him rattle around in drawers and cupboards. A few minutes later, the smell of coffee wafted out to the living room. He came in from the kitchen, carrying two mugs and handed her one of them. Then he stood there, sipping his coffee, and looked around at the dirty wineglasses, empty bottles, and record albums spread all over the rug. Having him witness the messiness of her grief embarrassed Lisa, and it seemed to bother him, too. He seemed to be thinking about cleaning it up until she set her coffee mug aside and patted the spot on the sofa next to her.

“So, where are you from?” he said as he sat down.

“Connecticut. I went to school there, too. I'd never been west of the Mississippi until I took this job. How long have you lived in Powell?”

“Forever. I was born six blocks north of here. Just across from the grain elevators.”

“No offense, but I hate this town.”

His only answer was a shrug.

“There's nothing to do. Nobody I have anything in common with. Stacy, the girl I came to the party with, we're only friends because everybody else our age is already married with kids. And everybody knows everybody's business. I can't even go on a date without everybody knowing about it.”

Kellen leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table. Lisa scooted closer, so that when he sat back, their arms brushed together. She turned her head up to him as a hint, but he didn't kiss her.

“Would you take some advice if I give it to you?” he said. Now that she knew how old he was, his tone of voice rankled. More paternal than he had any right to act. “You need to figure out how to live here or you need to get the hell out. I was you, I'd leave. Go on back to Connecticut.”

KELLEN

Miss DeGrassi asked me to stay the night, but I could see how she'd regret it as quick as she sobered up, and I'd likely regret it sooner than that. After I left her place, I shoulda gone home, as much as I'd had to drink. I shoulda taken my own advice, and got the hell outta Powell.

Except for Wavy. She kept me there. More than that. She kept me tethered, not just to Powell, but to being alive. In the whole world, she was the only person who cared whether I lived or died. If there was anybody who remembered tonight, it was her.

When I pulled into the drive at the farmhouse, there was a light on in the kitchen. I hoped it wasn't Val, because I didn't need that kinda grief. I was doing the best I could for Wavy, and Val always treated me like garbage.

I walked through the door, not sure what I was gonna find, but there sat Wavy reading a book. On the table in front of her was a chocolate cake with candles stuck in it.

“You made me a cake,” I said.

She put a finger up to her lips, so I reckoned Val and Donal must be asleep. I didn't even know what time it was. While I took off my coat and pulled out a chair to sit, Wavy went to get the box of matches off the stove.

On the way back to the table, she stopped at the chair I'd put my jacket over. Leaning down 'til her nose was almost touching the collar, she took a long whiff of it. I started to laugh, until I figured out what she was doing. Wavy wasn't sniffing my coat because it smelled like me. It musta smelled like Miss DeGrassi.

“I been down to Liam's party,” I said.

She nodded and climbed up in the chair across from me. After she lit the candles, I let them burn for a while, just to look at them reflected in Wavy's eyes. When the wax started to run down to the cake I blew out the candles in one big go.

The knife was there to cut the cake, but neither of us reached for it.

“You wanna know what I wished for?”

“Won't come true if you say,” she said in this husky voice.

“I don't believe that. Lean across here and I'll whisper it to you.”

She got up on her knees in the chair and put her hands on the table to lean across. I put my hands on either side of the cake and met her half way. I put my mouth up to her ear, like I was gonna whisper something, but all I did was blow a big puff of air into her hair like it was more candles. She ducked her head down against my chest and started laughing, so I kissed the only part of her I could reach: the top of her head.

“It already came true. You remembered my birthday,” I said. “And I got cake.”

 

6

KELLEN

July 1981

Wavy walked around the garage bay, looking at herself in the finish on the Barracuda. I picked the thing up cheap at an insurance auction and bought a new back end from a salvage yard down by Tulsa. For a good six months, Wavy had been watching me put it together in the evenings. I was all the time teasing her about how I was gonna paint it Moulin Rouge.

“That's a factory color,” I'd say. Just to get her to roll her eyes, thinking about me driving a pink car. I ended up painting it black with metallic gray striping.

I'd planned to sell the car, but the way she looked at it once it was painted and ready to go, I wasn't sure. She looked impressed.

“Wanna take it out?” I said.

She nodded and gave me that squinty look of hers that meant, “Let's go fast.” She was like me that way, kind of a speed fiend, and the Cuda was built for it. We took it easy out around the lake, taking in the view, but the damn thing was champing at the bit. So I took it out to Highway 9 and opened it up a little.

Wavy leaned back in the seat, smiling, the wind blowing her hair around. I put my foot in the gas, kicked it up to about eighty. Then we came over a hill, damn near on top of a cop sitting on the shoulder. I braked hard, got it down to somewhere around sixty, and coasted past the cop.

I held my breath, but a mile on, the cop hadn't come after us. I looked over at Wavy, who'd sat up to see why we slowed down.

“You tired?” I said.

She shook her head. She was a night owl.

“Feel like doing some drag racing?”

Hell yeah, she did. We ran the Cuda into Garringer and down to the flatlands where they drag on the weekends. It's not legal, but the cops mostly look the other way, because it keeps the draggers off the main roads. And if you're looking to sell a car like the Cuda, that's where you find buyers.

The place was nothing but hard-packed dunes and old gravel pits. Not a tree to cut the wind and just ugly. When we pulled in, there were probably thirty cars, guys talking trash and checking out the competition. I parked and got out, went around to put up the hood. Let people know I was thinking about selling. Behind me, I heard some guy say to his buddies, “Look, it's that big goddamn Indian.”

That was Billy, still wearing a letter jacket for football, when he'd been outta high school longer than I had.

“What're you driving tonight?” he said.

“You're looking at it.”

I didn't know him from anywhere else, but I'd seen him out there plenty of times when I had my '64 Polara. Summer before I met Wavy, I was out there nearly every weekend, dragging that old Dodge.

While Billy and his buddies checked out the Cuda, Wavy came up and slipped her hand into mine. Right away, Billy got his eye on her.

“Say, what's this little girl's mommy gonna do if you lose her in a race?”

“I ain't losing nothing tonight,” I said.

“She's a little young for my taste,” his buddy said, “but she'll be worth racing for in a couple years. I do like blondes.”

Wavy glared at them, even though it was just a joke. Nobody ever won somebody else's girl. The drags were strictly about the money and the winning, showing your car was faster. I mean, I'd won plenty of races, and only ever took home two girls. One was done with me as soon as she sobered up. The other one went home with a different guy every week.

Billy wanted to put fifty bucks on our race, so while me and him queued up for the track, Wavy headed off to where all the spectators were.

The track was shaped like a D. A loop around the big gravel pit, then a quarter-mile straightaway. It was a good track, except for this tight spot early on. About a hundred yards from the start, the track cut into the side of a dune. It meant you had to ride close to the other car until you passed it.

As I pulled up in the line, I glanced out of the corner of my eye and caught Wavy staring up at the stars. She was the prettiest girl there easy, with her hair blowing back like a flag. Amazed me how fast she was growing up. She'd be twelve in a couple weeks and she was gonna be long-legged like Val. Every time I looked at her, the gap between the bottom of her skirt and the tops of her boots was bigger. As soon as I thought it, I got to worrying about all the other guys there looking at her and thinking the same thing. We had a minute before the flagger sent me and Billy around the loop to the straightaway, so I called her over.

“Come gimme a kiss for good luck,” I said.

She walked over and rested her arm on the door panel. Leaning in through the window, she pressed her lips to the corner of my mouth, real soft. The wind whipped her hair up, and blew it all around, brushing against my face and my neck. As she straightened up, she tucked it back behind her ears.