Going Underground (4 page)

“I'll go start on the third grave if the turf's cut,” Marvin says.

I point to a spot in front of where we're standing, three rows up, first from the road, with the turf cut and stacked and the tarp spread to receive the dirt. Marvin takes his shovel and heads off with Gertrude walking every step beside him.

Branson reaches the second grave and hands me a sample cup while Fred greets him with a burp, a fart, and the sound of a telephone ringing.

“What's up, Fred,” Branson says as I get clear of the grave, drop my shovel, turn my back, and oblige him with the sample he's wanting. “And hello to you, too, Del.”

“Hello,” I say back, but not until I've got my pants zipped and the plastic lid twisted tight. It's hard to be conversational while pissing in a cup. I just hope I didn't get any dirt in the sample.

“Marvin looks busy. Do you pay him to help out?”

I hand Branson the sample cup and go for my shovel. “I keep him in burritos so he can stink up the place.”

“Is that the stench? I was afraid it was—you know. The dead guys.”

“Or girls,” I point out. “But no. Embalming and coffins and caskets and vaults and dirt take care of the dead-guy-smell problem.”

“Fred,” Fred says, eyeing Branson with her feathers poofed out, which is parrot for,
Maybe I like you and maybe I'll bite off your face. Want to take your chances?

Branson keeps his distance from Fred's cage as he seals my sample into the white bag. “I'm assuming this will be clean. And assuming you're working on your applications and letters. Did you keep your appointments with Dr. Mote?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” The shovel bites into the dirt as I push it hard, trying to get a good start on this section.

“One, two … four,” Fred says.

I correct her automatically. “One, two,
three
, four.”

Fred starts beeping like an answering machine, or a bulldozer about to back right over Branson.

Branson puts the sealed white sample into his shoulder pouch and pulls out a packet of brochures bound up with rubber bands. He hands these to me, but I lay them down beside the grave and keep digging. I know what they are. I know they won't make any difference and so does he, but he wants me to keep “making an effort.”

“Those are mostly community colleges,” Branson says. “Ones that don't turn away felons on the front end. You'll still have to tell them and write your explanation letter, but you'll have better luck starting there than a four-year.”

I stare at my shovel and keep digging. There's a smile on my face and I feel like laughing, but not because I'm thinking any of this is funny or bright or a real possibility.

“You've got good grades and a good record of community service,” Branson tries again. “It's not hopeless, if you'd just put a little feeling into those letters. A little bit of the real Del. You
can
win people over if you try.”

Here we go. He's about to get to wanting me to testify at the juvenile sex offender laws hearings, and I don't want to hear it.

Keep digging
.

That's to myself, not him. He's trying. I know that.

“Fred,” Fred says, and she's trying, too, probably feeling the waves of
tense
and
wary
coming off me all of a sudden.

“Del, if you really make an effort tell your story—
especially
if you tell it at the hearings—somebody will look past the felony convictions and see you as a person. Somebody will give you a chance.”

“I'm not testifying,” I tell him.

Branson's rolling now, so he won't stop even though I've said no—again. “The press is all over this, accusing senators who support the bill of going soft on the worst types of crimes and criminals. If we don't put a human face on this nightmare, if they can't see the real cost to real people, I'm not sure the law has a chance of passing.” His eyes have a gleam when he gets all wrapped up in this, and I'm not bothering to say anything to him now because he won't hear it, and my opinion doesn't matter. “You could help a lot of people by doing this, a lot of kids just like you. This could be a new start. The moment where you move forward again instead of just treading water. Maybe the moment where you convince a college or even a university to give you the opportunity to prove yourself.”

Before he finishes getting out the
prove yourself
part, Marvin says to Branson, “You're a nice guy and all, but you're dreaming about schools giving him a chance.” He's back with his shovel and Gertrude, maybe figuring I need extra support. “Kaison took away all of Del's chances.”

“His record will be sealed at eighteen.” Branson frowns at Marvin, who steps into the grave rectangle and starts to dig beside me. “That's a first step.”

Marvin doesn't smile at bad times like I do. When he gets
tense
and
wary
, he looks it. “Wherever he goes, he still has to register as a criminal. He'll still get shut out of everything. Why are you setting him up for shit by asking him to go public all over again? Wasn't it hell enough the first time?”

Branson comes back with “Yeah” a little too loud, when he's usually in control. “That's—that's why I brought those.” He points to the brochures. “And I'm still hoping you'll change your mind about the hearings, Del.”

I'm not smiling anymore, but in my case, that's probably good, like the digging and digging and digging that's keeping my hands busy. Branson's a good guy. He doesn't want it to be over for me, even though really, it is.

When I was little I wanted to be a doctor, or maybe a vet (parental obsessions can be contagious). Now I think off and on about being an avian vet. There are never enough of those. But even if I get into school and graduate with perfect scores, manage to get residencies and fellowships and pass those with perfect scores, too—even if I turn out to be the Messiah of Avian Medicine, I still can't get licensed in any state I've researched. So I'd have the skills and the degree, but I wouldn't be allowed to practice. At least I'd be able to keep Fred healthy, and if Dad ends up with a broken rooster farm, I wouldn't be useless.

“The hearings—well, if they pass the Romeo and Juliet law, things could get a lot better for you.” Branson brings this up like it's new, but we've covered it before.

“I'll be fifty before all that's settled,” I remind him. “There isn't any miracle do-over for poor Romeo, dead before the laws take effect.”

Branson lets out a breath, half sigh and half grumble. “Kaison's long gone and you can't make a living digging graves.”

“I'll figure something out.”

“What?” he asks, like he and Dr. Mote have been comparing notes, which come to think of it, they probably do. “And when?”

You've got ten months before you're through with all this.

He doesn't say that because he knows he doesn't have to, but you never know about people. That's one lesson I've learned, and I'll never forget it. Branson might sell me down the river at the final hearing to close out my probation, but I hope not.

And …

And …

I stop hoping. Stop thinking. Stop existing in the same reality as everyone else.

She's drifting past Branson, behind him, about a hundred yards from where we were standing.

Fairy Girl.

Can't breathe.

Her dark hair's down, sleek and shining in the bright sunlight as it hides her face. She's wearing a light blue skirt with a matching shirt and light-looking sweater, more angel than fairy today, and every nerve ending in my body reacts to her existence.

Not normal. I'm not okay. Harper's right, something's definitely wrong with me.

I realize I'm blinking at Branson, and since I can't fire up my music to make my brain and body act right, I think about ice cubes, my great-grandmother, Mom, dad's one-eyed rooster, and the time I did real damage falling straddle-legged on a sawhorse. Fresh sweat breaks across my forehead, streaking the dirt on my cheeks and neck as it trickles slowly downward.

Marvin's not digging, either. He's just leaning forward watching the girl go by, because really, when she's in the universe, what else can you do?

Branson glances from me to Marvin, turns, and goes very still when he sees her. It's like the three of us, me, Marvin, and Branson, are caught in some web-spell of silence, wrapped up tight and glued in place, unable to speak or move or do anything to save ourselves.

Fred, always aware of the exact wrong thing to do, cuts loose with a whistle that would put any construction worker to shame. Then she follows it with the loud “HEY!” I use to warn the dogs off dad's chicken lot if the gate's open.

I jump so hard I almost slip into the grave. Gertrude hisses, and Marvin pitches forward, hitting himself in the teeth with the shovel handle. Branson jumps, too, swearing to himself, then glares at me and realizes I didn't do it.

“Parrot,” I mutter.

Branson rolls his eyes.

I'm burning hot from top to bottom as the girl pauses and turns her head to where the three of us are just standing like giant, grave-digging idiots.

She studies each of us for a few seconds, too far away for me to make out the details of her face. Marvin points back toward Branson, who points at me, so I point at Fred's cage. I can't say anything. It's Marvin who forces out a quick, “Sorry. That was Del's parrot. Her name is Fred, and he takes her everywhere even though she doesn't know how to behave.”

Fairy Girl seems to appraise Fred, squinting toward the tree where the cage is hanging. Then she looks from Marvin to Gertrude, who's bathing her front paw and drooling into the dirt piled next to the second grave.

“Gertrude,” Marvin calls to her. “That's the cat's name.” Then he says “Sorry” again, like that'll help anything.

The girl waits another few seconds, like she might be wondering if Branson is going to speak, or maybe me.

Fred says, “Fred,” then counts to four, making
three
the loudest, just like I do when I correct her.

The girl laughs.

It's a sound like all the music I enjoy, rolled into a few bright, happy notes. Then she gives us a wave and heads on toward her usual destination, in the Oak Section, one of Rock Hill's more recently dug areas.

It's Branson who talks first, and all he can say is, “She's—uh.”

I get the shovel moving again. “Yeah.”

Branson's not finished. “She's probably a bad idea, Del.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, there's nothing saying you can't have girlfriends, but if I were you, I'd wait until all this is over.”

“Yeah.”

Marvin and I dig. He's giving me a half-ticked look now and then, and I can tell he's wondering if this is why I asked him about dating.

Branson stands there, staring in the direction the girl went. Then he looks at the college brochures I still haven't touched. “Then again, on second thought, it might be good for you. Give you a little something to look forward to, maybe a little motivation. If I talk to your parents—wait, I could talk to her parents, and—”

“No.” I choke the shovel. God, that would make me want to die. “Thanks, though.”

Keep digging. Just keep digging, and burn off the steam, and maybe Branson won't get back to the stupid hearings and the laws that'll come way too late to help me
.

Branson looks disappointed, but also like he probably understands. For a while, he doesn't say anything. Then he gives us a nod, and a few minutes later, he leaves. His Jeep engine makes a growly noise when it starts up, but it's smooth and quiet as he guides it out of Rock Hill.

“My lip's bleeding from where I hit it on the shovel,” Marvin complains, then fouls the air with a new round of burrito farts.

I'm trying to dig, to pay attention to squaring my corners, but I'm thinking about Fairy Girl. If Marvin weren't here, I might slip over to the Oak Section, just to look at her again for a few seconds.

“She doesn't go to G. W.,” Marvin says over Fred's flurry of whistles, clicks, and other bird noises, the crow sound being her best. “She's got to be new to Duke's Ridge. I would have noticed her before if she'd been anywhere in town.”

Duh
.

I mess up my corner and have to back off, glare at it awhile, and start over fresh.

“Are you going to talk to her?”

“No.” My shovelful of dirt splatters on the college brochures, but Marvin reaches over, shakes the dirt off them, and moves them next to Gertrude.

He waits a few seconds. “Mind if I talk to her?”

I jam my shovel double-hard into the ground. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Marvin looks triumphant, like he has the answers to all his questions. He's not mad that I can tell, or even interested in talking about the weather, because he's easy, and I'm way glad. Marvin burrito-farts, and he digs, and I dig, and Fred sings a garbled verse of “Baa, Baa Black Sheep.” If I really believed in God, like a traditional fatherlike God in the sky, I'd think he sent Fred to stick pins in my brain right when I need to be stuck.

I'm not sure what I think about God, or what God thinks about me, but I'm sure that whoever Fairy Girl is, she's sad because somebody important to her died. That makes me double-sure that the last thing she needs is the biggest black sheep in Duke's Ridge interrupting her peace at the cemetery.

Three Years Ago: In My Dreams

“It's not like having sex.” Cory's voice sounds whispery through the phone, and I know she's probably under her covers with her door locked and her lights off, because it's midnight. If we get caught talking, we'll be so fried.

It's amazing.

Cory's way amazing.

The picture she texted me—I can't stop staring at it. She's so beautiful, clothes off or on, doesn't matter. I don't want to tell her that the only naked women I've seen before are porn pictures on the Internet and some movies and magazines, but if I did tell her, I'd be sure to say she's prettier.

She is.

She looks real, and soft, and the light on her skin is perfect. One day, when I do touch her naked, I want it to be in a bed with nice sheets like she has in the picture, and candlelight. Or maybe in a hot tub with the water slowly moving around both of us. Or maybe outside on a blanket in the moonlight, somewhere quiet and private and just right. I want it all to be pretty, like she is.

The thought of touching her makes my body ache. It makes my brain burn. I've joked about wanting this or that, or this girl or that one before—but I didn't know what
want
even meant. Now I know, and it's hard to think.

“It's not like sex,” I tell her through the speakerphone, keeping my voice low as I stare at the picture. “But it kinda is.”

“Can't get pregnant from it.” Her laugh makes me feel watery inside, like I don't have as many bones as I'm supposed to.

“I want to see you,” she says. Quiet. To the point.

My face goes hot, but she's not asking to see my face. She doesn't keep at me about it, and I know she won't, not tonight anyway, but it's something she wants from me, and I like giving Cory what she wants.

But taking a picture of myself?

That feels stupid.

Sort of a rush, but stupid, too.

I'll be embarrassed as all get-out. And I'm sure a guy's body won't look as good as a girl's in a picture like that, especially when the girl is Cory, but—

But what the hell.

Really, it's not sex, and you can't get pregnant from it, like she said. And I trust Cory not to get all movie-whack-job and pass the picture around if she gets pissed at me. Besides, we're not putting our faces on pictures, even if Cory's little rose tattoo beside her belly button gives her away. Her dad so doesn't know about that tattoo, but her mom thought it was okay.

I make sure I'm stretched out as best I can under the covers, and that stuff's … you know … arranged as much as it can be, and make sure I'm not too close or touching anything, and I snap the picture.

From the speakerphone, I hear a soft giggle, and then, “Did you take it?”

I get the phone back up high enough to say, “Yeah.”

Then I check the picture out.

Okay, that is
so
not something I want to stare at for very long. I click Save, then start a message to Cory.

“Let me see,” she says, all happy sounding, which makes my face go even hotter.

“Just a sec.” I'm aching all over, getting tense—in lots of ways—needing some relief. This isn't a huge deal, but it feels like a huge deal.

My finger hovers over Send, and I can't help wondering stupid crap like, has she seen bigger ones? Better ones?

How many has she seen?

Whose?

Don't go there.

But seriously, how am I supposed to know if my junk, uh, looks good, or whatever?

Worrying about how I look makes everything … deflate a little bit. That's probably good.

“It's me,” Cory tells me like she's reading my mind. “You know I'll like it.”

She doesn't say,
I showed you mine, now show me yours
, but she could, and she'd be right. I didn't exactly say
no
when she told me what she was doing under her covers.

I close my eyes and press the button, and it's gone.

Now I'm so hot I have to come out from under the covers, but I wiggle all around and leave my head under so the light from the phone doesn't spill into the room and maybe sneak under my door to bust me to my parents. I don't think they're up, but who knows. Rescued animals vomit a lot, so Mom and Dad are always washing sheets in the middle of the night.

This is taking forever.

Has she seen it yet?

She should have seen it by now.

I can't breathe.

Totally stupid. Why did I send that? She'll think I'm stupid when she sees it. I don't feel like art, like the picture of her that she sent me.

Her breathing echoes into the phone, then stops, then starts back.

“What?” Damn. Too loud. Take a breath.

I take a breath.

Cory says, “I think you're hot.”

I'm definitely hot, as in inferno, but the other meaning? “Guys aren't supposed to be hot. Are we?”

“Yes, you are too supposed to be, and you are.”

I manage not to cough or choke or puke like one of Mom's rescued animals, so that's good, even if I can't manage to say anything that makes any sense.

Cory's voice drops, like her mouth is closer to the phone. “One day, I want to look in person. One day soon.”

When I swallow, I feel like I've got sand in my throat, but I get “Okay” out without sounding like I need a gallon of water to talk right.

“I want to see you because you're hot.”

She's teasing me now, only not really.

I start to smile. “Stop saying that.”

“No,” she whispers. Then quick, but not panicked. “I have to go. Love you.”

And she's gone.

“Love you, too,” I tell my phone, even though it's telling me what time the call ended, and I'm getting a little more sure. Cory really will be the one, and I'll find some way to make it pretty. I think that's my job, if I like her a lot, to make our first time together something special for her, and I do like her a lot.

But … will I know what to do?

I know all about protection, and babies are definitely not in
any
of my plans until after my career's up and going, and I'm through with professional sports. That part's not an issue.

It's … the rest of it.

The actual sex.

I've watched it in movies. I've talked to my dad about it, though not in details like how-to or ways to make Cory the happiest. (Dad would croak on the spot if I asked him something like that.)

I'd call Marvin, but he doesn't know any more than me, and he won't hear his phone because he'll have his headphones in like he always does at night. I don't know how anybody can listen to music all the time. All that background noise would make my brain rattle—and when does he have time to think?

I think when I listen to music
, he always tells me,
I just don't think about bad things
.

From down in the laundry room, I hear a smoke-detector screech noise and barely hold back a groan.

It's that parrot.

The thing won't even eat unless I'm around, and Mom's saying the parrot thinks I'm its person.

I'm not. Definitely not.

I don't know why anybody would want a parrot. If the parrot did learn to talk, or if it made noises all time, when would
I
get time to think? You know, about Cory and stuff. About how it will be. And where. And when.

Something like this will probably take lots of thinking and some whole new plans, if I'm going to get it right, and I definitely want to get it right. With no Marvin or music or parrots or Dad or anything like that, and definitely no plumbers with pipe wrenches.

“Shut up,” I mutter at my door as the parrot makes another smoke-detector screech. “No parrots allowed.”

No parrots. No pipe wrenches.

Yep.

Lots of thinking to do. Lots of plans to make.