Fourth of July Creek (46 page)

The other three boys were Indians or half-Indians and shared a laconic humor that Cecil couldn’t penetrate, and were in any case not disposed to proffer him any kindness. Cecil had by now acquired a reputation for viciousness, and was considered in the small violent society within the institution to be something of a comer, a real hard case who didn’t give a fuck. The Indians called him No Fuck, he said it so much. Cecil called them stupid prairie niggers, and if they’d been inside, he would’ve been obliged to fight them all. But the boys worked in the hammering summer sun all day chopping at the hillsides with pickaxes and shovels while the ranch manager watched them from the shade of his pickup. By bedtime they promptly passed out, and at dawn their backs ached from nape to asshole and they were sore everywhere else.

There was also a straw boss on the ranch, a kid about their age. He had a contempt for Cecil and the Indians born most likely of a significant wonder of what it was they’d done to wind up here. He supervised their efforts from his horse. He chewed tobacco, spitting poorly so that his blue shirtsleeve was constantly stained. The Indians quietly joked that he wiped his ass with his shirt cuff.

The straw boss, this nephew or some relation to the owner of the property, asked Cecil what the Indians were saying about him. Cecil told him. The next day, the straw boss didn’t chew any tobacco and looked at the Indians like he dared them to say anything. Come late morning, they obliged him with some muttering and small trickles of laughter.

“What did those fuckin Indians say?” the straw boss asked Cecil.

“I didn’t hear,” Cecil said.

The kid rode up and asked them did they want to go back to the prison, he could arrange for that, and when they looked at him with faintly disguised indifference, he rode off to visit the ranch manager, who was dozing in his pickup a half mile away. They all watched the kid ride his horse up to the truck and then lean over and talk with the foreman. Then the pickup started up and crossed the uneven earth to where they stood by a pile of fence posts. It seemed the boom was about to come down, the way the manager exited the pickup and slammed the door and hiked his belt and marched at them bandy-legged and swole up. But the ranch manager was utterly unequipped to deal with bickering boys, was in fact astonished that these kids had any time at all to mess around talking, much less arguing, and it was immediately evident that he was as disgusted with the straw boss as with any of them.

He checked their progress on the fence. He asked Cecil to show him how he was using the posthole digger. Before Cecil could finish, the man snatched the tool from him and demonstrated a few tips toward using it more efficiently, as though that were the source of all the trouble. Then he got back in the truck and watched them return to work.

The straw boss sat on his horse, seething.

That night, the straw boss sent the Indians to bed early. Alone with his one white prisoner, he said his name was Jeremy.

“Do you want to escape?” he asked.

“What?”

“We can take the pickup. It’s mine to inherit anyway,” he whispered over the fire. “All this property belonged to my daddy before he died and my uncle took over. He acts like it’s his, but it’s mine. But he can fuckin have it. I hate it out here. I hate fuckin Indians especially.”

He spat, wiped his lip with his finger, wiped his finger in the dirt.

“Do you have anywhere we could light out to?”

The spikes of campfire stabbed at the dark as Cecil contemplated this plot and this would-be coconspirator.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“What is?”

“Two of us against them three insubordinate Indians,” he said. “Only a matter of time before the dirty fuckers slit our throats.”

Cecil pokerfaced his skepticism.

“You just wait, friend,” Jeremy said.

At last, Cecil said that yeah he had a place they could go. But the next day Pete showed up and took him to Tenmile for his mother’s funeral.

It was two weeks to get the necessary paperwork filled out and the approval for Cecil to attend the service. Pete had to ask Judge Dyson to call the Kalispell morgue to keep Debbie’s body on ice, then to transfer it to the Libby morgue, then for the Libby morgue to hold on to it for another few days. Ultimately, none of this was necessary as there was no grave plot for her and she had to be cremated in Missoula anyway. Her ashes hadn’t even been returned in time for the small service in the Tenmile funeral home. Her brother Elliot sent flowers and a note that curtly informed Pete that he and his wife wouldn’t take either of Debbie’s children.

Only Cloninger, Katie, Cecil, and Pete attended the service. Katie sat with Cloninger, resting her head on his arm. When Cloninger gave Cecil his condolences, the boy suggested he go fuck himself. Katie put her hand inside Cloninger’s to take back his attention and shot her brother a quick raspberry.

The reverend said a few words about redemption and what a trial Debbie’s life was. Her childhood in Colorado and a variety of military bases in California and Texas and how she settled in Tenmile with a man who’d run out on her and her children. He’d gotten the biography from Pete, but even Pete wasn’t sure how much of it was true and wondered if Debbie was telling lies to the very last.

The reverend invited anyone to say anything about her, share a memory or funny story. There were no such stories. Cecil blew out a long sigh. Pete stood, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and said she was trying to get her life together, she was always at least trying. Katie cleaved to Cloninger and cried some. Cecil didn’t show the slightest distress, save looking toward the door, as if someone coming for him was about to enter or so that he might flee at the first opportune moment during the service.

It wasn’t until they’d crossed the Idaho panhandle that Cecil realized they weren’t on the way back to the ranch outside Box Elder.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked when they passed a sign indicating they’d entered Washington.

“You want to go back to that camp?” Pete asked.

“Where are we going?”

“Spokane.”

“What for?”

“You think you can make it on your own?”

“Holy shit.”

“If you don’t think you can, I gotta take you back.”

“Hot shit. Holy shit. For real?”

Pete nodded.

“Holy fuck. Awesome.”

“What I said wasn’t true. About your mom trying. She never tried. I only said it for your sister.”

“Sure.”

Cecil’s mind raced forward down the road, out of the pickup, into the Next.

“Cecil, look at me.”

The boy’s face was wild with freedom. He put his hands on the dashboard and was shaking his head in wonder.

“She was a piece of shit, Cecil. She didn’t try a day in her life. I was wrong to have put you in the—”

“You’re not fucking with me?”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”

“You’re really letting me out in Spokane. For real.”

“Yes. Your friend, Ell, she called to tell me to tell you they’d moved to Spokane. That you were still welcome.”

“No way.”

“Listen. I’m going to tell Pine Hills you ran away. You can’t come back to Montana.”

“This is so fucking awesome.”

“You can’t come back. At least not for a long time. You hear me?”

“No. Yeah. I won’t.” He drummed the dashboard. “This is so goddamn awesome!”

Bear had found a janitor gig in Spokane. Pete pulled up to their apartment and when Ell came out, astonishing tears ran down Cecil’s face, and his nose ran, and Ell started crying as well. She twisted to hug him with the baby. Pete helped him get his bag, and Cecil bounced into her apartment with her and she showed him his room.

Pete slipped away before Cecil could say good-bye or thank him.

Did she watch Yo work?

On accident.

A not unhandsome forty-year-old man with a leather satchel and nice gray hair at his temples moved with purpose up the block and she followed. Paused at a mailbox, as if dropping in a letter, and then went in among the girls along the graffitied wall, girls who mashed out smokes and scurried over when he started to chat with Yo. She watched Yo walk up the street, disappear around the corner with the man, and come back surprisingly soon.

After that she watched from across the street. The girls just stood around smoking or chewing gum and then a guy would come and one of them would leave with him and come back later.

Did she follow Yo into the hotel and sneak past the front desk and find the room? Did she listen at the door as Yo serviced this man?

No.

She asked Yo about it later, as Yo douched in the apartment bathroom.

Was it less frightening than she imagined? According to Yo was it just a matter of teasing it out of the guy, so little touching really, and that you don’t have to kiss the customer, you don’t even have to really look him in the eye, yeah, there is a little weirdness sometimes—a guy will try put a finger in your butt or he might want to toss you around—but you just keep yourself between him and the door and keep your pepper spray nearby is all. When it comes down to it, all anybody wants is to get their rocks off and feel cool about it. Was it just a matter of being cool?

Of course it wasn’t.

But it seemed that way.

She swallowed a couple of times and almost didn’t ask it, but then she did:
Would you help me if I tried it?

Yo acted as if Rose had just asked to borrow a comb, just nodded sure.

What was it like?

It was like this: Yo introduced her to other girls. To a one, they were young and kind to her. They shunted away the freaks and rough ones that were known to them. Yo told her to be confident and just ask the guy inside the car if he wanted a date. Then to do what he asked for.

How much?

Tell him it’s your first time and you want as much as he’s got.

Really?

Yes. Really.

The car rolled up along the curb. Yo nudged Rose, and she walked over, thinking this is the car where I will become a whore. Astonishment shivered over her. Yet most of the girls she knew were. Rose didn’t feel like she was dressed right in just her regular clothes. Her sneakers looked childish and she had no idea yet that that was the idea, that she would now be trying to look childish, girlish, and whorish. Still, she couldn’t imagine giving a guy head in these sneakers.

Was her first date kind?

Kind enough. He was thrilled by the claim that this was her first time—though he didn’t believe it—and he tried to kiss her on the mouth, and she let him because she didn’t know how to stop him. She didn’t know how to stop anything. He gave her forty-five dollars, which seemed a fortune.

Yo said that wasn’t too shabby.

She soon learned to climb in the car, show the date where to park, and say,
You can’t kiss me. I touch you. You can’t kiss me. I do all the work. You tell me what you like and I’ll do it, and if it costs more, I’ll tell you.

Did she ever get in a car and feel in the way the date breathed through his nose or pinged his eyes to the rearview every few minutes that she should get out at the next light get out right away, that this one was too sketchy?

Yeah, but she didn’t think it would happen to her. The dates were so goddamn grateful for her tiny hands, her wry, filthy mouth that expressed in word and act a twisted and premature craving for cum, for specific cum, for your special cum, only cum, let me get it out of there, baby, I need it, give it to me, give me your goddamn cum baby. Give it. Come on. Cum for me. Come on.

And then it was three or four in the morning, and Rose and Yo would make their way in the dark back to the Golden Arms and Yo would give Pomeroy her money and Rose would too.

And Pomeroy would buy them presents with it?

Yes. A ghetto blaster for the apartment and new velvet pillows and a box of comic books and strawberry shampoo.

He talked about getting other girls, making some real money.

Did she get diseases?

Of course. Herpes came in a series of hot pinpricks between her legs. Yo took her to the free clinic on Madison Street. After she was examined, she waited for counseling in an office jam-packed with boxes of rubbers and other contraception, douches and paperwork. She fidgeted and then a large maternal counselor came in with a clipboard.

So where are you from, Rose?

Montana.

Family there?

Not really. My mom’s in Texas. That’s where I was last.

Bad situation at home?

She didn’t want to talk about it.

Where do you live?

Rose looked at the counselor with suspicion.

What’s with all the questions? Are you gonna give me medicine or not?

The counselor pulled off her cardigan sweater and pumped her collar up and down to cool off.

This is all just so I can help. I could maybe get you a place to stay for a little bit if you’re interested. Do you ever use protection?

I don’t like rubbers.

Do you like herpes?