In the Middle of the Night (10 page)

“You don’t need experience on this job,” Dave said. “The computer does it all for you. You punch in the amount, the computer tells you how much change to give. You don’t even have to know how to add or subtract. You could flunk kindergarten and still do this job. Pretty good pay, too. Fifty cents an hour over the minimum. Name your own hours …”

He was about to say: I’ll have to ask my father. Instead, he said: “I’ll think about it …”

“Okay,” Dave said. He seemed like a nice guy. “The boss is all right, leaves you pretty much alone. I’ve worked in a lot of stores, and I like it here. I think you will, too.”

When another customer entered, Denny stepped away and had a chance to look more closely at the assistant manager.
Something strange about his looks. Denny could not put his finger on it. Then did: that black hair. He was wearing a wig. Denny knew it was a wig because it was too perfect, too black, too shiny, like shoe polish. Did not match his eyebrows. Surprise: he had no eyebrows.

Dave had evidently caught his scrutiny. When the customer had left, he said: “What do you think of my roof?”

“Roof?”

Gesturing to his head, Dave said: “I underwent chemo and all my hair fell out. It’s supposed to grow back better than ever, but not mine. Came back in clumps and patches. So I got this roof. Don’t worry—it’s not catching.”

“What’s not catching?” Denny asked, confused, uncomfortable at this sudden turn of the conversation.

“The Big One. What I’ve got. It’s not contagious.”

How could he be so cheerful?

“Hey, I’m in remission,” Dave said, smiling, a weird smile. Those teeth, a perfect row of gleaming teeth. Dentures, of course. But the smile seemed genuine.

Denny thought how tough it must be to have the Big One, to undergo chemo—such a terrible word—and wear false hair, false teeth.

“You have to count your blessings,” Dave said.

What blessings does Dave have? Denny wondered.

A flurry of customers now, and Denny made his getaway, breathless, the boredom of the afternoon and the uneasiness about the phone call fading as he pondered his strategy for getting his father’s permission to work at the store.

“I’ve got a job,” Denny announced at the dinner table, the words popping out of his mouth as spontaneously as a sneeze.

“What did you say?” his father asked, dropping his fork, which rattled on the plate.

His father seldom displayed any emotion and never showed surprise or disappointment. But Denny had scored with his announcement. His father’s eyebrows drew together, forming a big black mustache over his eyes.

“A job,” Denny said. “At the 24-Hour Store down the street. Part-time, after school …”

His father blew air out of his mouth and looked toward Denny’s mother as if for support. Another surprise, since his father usually made all the decisions.

“We have not talked about this,” his father said, his voice formal, his eyebrows back in their regular position. “This is an important step, Denny. You have to think of school, your grades, homework. You should have asked permission.”

That word
permission
rankled him.

“You keep telling me that I should accept responsibilities, that I’m a young man now,” Denny said, allowing himself for the first time in his life a display of anger toward his father. “But when I try to take responsibilities, like getting a job, you get mad.”

“I’m not mad,” his father said. “Surprised, yes. Disappointed, yes, because you didn’t talk it over with us.”

“How did this happen?” his mother asked, without rebuke or reproach in her voice. When Denny looked at her, he thought he saw some sort of approval in her eyes.

“I dropped into the store this afternoon and the assistant manager offered me a job. He said they’re looking for someone from the neighborhood.”

His father had not picked up his fork. The food lay neglected on his plate. His eyes were far away.

Denny knew he had deceived him. He had never lied to his father before, but at this particular moment he felt reckless, charged with energy. Without a shred of guilt. Maybe the guilt would come later. But right now: the hell with later.

“Look, Dad, I can earn my own way now. I won’t have to ask for an allowance.” Always humiliating, accepting money week after week, like a bribe for being a good son. “I can save for college.” This last was stretching it a bit, but what the hell.

“Good, Denny,” his mother said, looking at him with a hint of a smile, as if she was amused at that college remark but was going along with it. “I’m sure you’ll be a great success no matter what you do.”

Thanks, Mom.

“I suppose you
are
growing up,” his father admitted, nodding his head in resignation.

Denny knew he had won, had scored a triumph over his father for the first time in his life. He drew a deep breath, concentrated on the plate before him, aware of his parents looking at him as if they had never looked at him before. He felt, strangely, a huge tenderness and love for them at this moment. Which did not prevent him from thinking:

Next move—my driver’s license.

T
he girl stood at the far end of the bus stop, staring across the street as if something very interesting was going on there. Denny followed her gaze and saw nothing unusual: apartment buildings, people going to work, a homeless man pushing a grocery cart carrying his belongings. Everything in quick tempo.

The girl’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail, accenting her high and delicate cheekbones. She was even more beautiful than before.

Denny wondered if he should speak to her. Whether he should apologize. He wanted to celebrate the possible new job, wanted to share his good fortune with someone.

“Hey, Denny, your girlfriend’s here,” Dracula yelled.

Denny ignored the kid, his cheeks growing warm. The girl did not turn her head and made no comment, although she must have heard the little monster.

“Hey, Denny. I don’t think she likes you,” Dracula called out.

The awkward moment passed as the usual scuffle began, two monsters pushing and shoving each other. Dracula began to kick a kid Denny had never seen before—small, skinny, desperate on the pavement, clutching his stomach.

“Okay, break it up,” Denny yelled, pulling the kids apart.

Before he could take any more action, the bus arrived in a belch of exhaust.

Denny helped the new kid to his feet. The boy, about ten years old, was trying to keep from crying, although tears already stained his cheeks. He pulled away when Denny started to brush the dirt from his jacket. “Leave me alone,” he said. Typical, Denny thought. Learning young.

Denny was the last person to get on the bus. After flashing his ID at the driver, he shot a quick glance down the aisle and saw the girl settling into one of the rear seats.

Do I have the nerve? he wondered.

Because he felt reckless, he headed for the back of the bus and dropped into the seat beside the girl. Her bookbag was on the floor between her legs. This cheered him up. If she had really wanted to sit by herself, she would have placed the bookbag on the seat next to her.

Now what?

She surprised him by speaking first. “I saw you break up that fight. Isn’t that against your principles?”

“You set a good example the other day,” he said. He hoped that was a good response.

She did not say anything.

“I’m not really one of the bad guys.”

Still no answer.

“I’m trying to be civil.” Emphasizing
civil.

A small smile touched the edges of her mouth.

She still did not look at him, though.

“I’m thinking of starting a petition,” he said. “Maybe you’ll sign it.”

“What kind of petition?”

“A petition to get the power companies to put the wires underground. So that they wouldn’t hack the trees anymore.” Was he overdoing this tree thing? But it was the only good thing he had going with her. “Also it would help during storms. With the lines underground, there’d be no falling trees or branches. Nobody’s lights would go off.” Then, trying for a joke: “You wouldn’t have to watch television by candlelight.” A line he’d heard somewhere—he hoped it sounded clever.

She looked at him. “I guess today you’re Dr. Jekyll.”

“Does that mean I was Mr. Hyde the other day?”

Her face turned serious, gray eyes probing his, turning blue suddenly.

“Which one is the real …” She let the sentence dangle.

“Denny Colbert,” he said. “My name is really Dennis. My father came from Canada. He wanted my name to sound American and for some reason he thought Dennis was the epitome of American names.” He liked using that
word,
epitome.
He also felt ridiculous, knowing he was talking too much.

“My name is Dawn,” she said. Then spelled it out: “
D-A-W-N
.”

Dawn: beautiful. Like her. Sunrise, full of hope, Dawn. “That is a beautiful name,” he said.

“My name is actually Donna, which I hate. Everybody was named either Donna or Debbie the year I was born. So I changed it. I mean, I looked in a mirror one day when I was eleven years old and thought: I am not a Donna … I’m a Dawn …”

He relaxed and soon felt comfortable with her, and they fell into an easy conversation. He learned, almost immediately, that they had something in common: she, too, was new to Barstow, her father having been transferred from Rhode Island when his engineering plant opened new territory in central Massachusetts. She said she found it difficult to make friends. Girls, she thought, were more snobbish than boys. More critical of each other. Did not accept newcomers easily.

“Or am I being too harsh on the members of my own sex?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “My family moves a lot. I’ve been to three schools already. So I don’t try to make friends anymore. Because here today, gone tomorrow.” Which sounded fake and dramatic but was the truth. But not all of the truth.

She asked the fatal question that he should have seen coming from a mile away.

“Why have you moved so much? Because of your father’s job?”

He nodded. “My father gets restless.” Big lie. “He likes to travel.” Bigger lie. “But he wants to settle down here in Barstow.” This one was the truth. “He has a new job that he likes, with opportunities for the future.” Half-lie, half-truth.

“What does he do?”

Why did I sit down with her?

But he knew why: she was beautiful, those gray-blue eyes like no eyes he had ever seen before.

“He’s in plastics.” Safe answer. Half the workers in Barstow were in plastics, the factories inflicting millions of plastic articles, from toys to office equipment, on the world. “He’s an expert on molding machines that turn out the plastics. They break down, he repairs them.”

They lapsed into silence watching the world of Barstow lumber by. A beautiful day, really—sun radiant, splashing on the windows. The world inside the bus had diminished. Their seat was an island, an oasis, disconnected from everything else.

He learned that she lived in the same section of town as him. He told her about his job possibility. She said that she was sometimes sent to the 24-Hour Store when her mother forgot something or other at the supermarket. She was a sophomore at Barstow High, an okay school but nothing special. She asked him about Normal Prep. “I hear it’s abnormal,” she said, a joke. “My description exactly,” he replied. They talked like old friends. He was madly in love, knees weak, stomach churning. Suddenly the bus arrived at Barstow High. She gathered her bookbag and got up.

Gulping, he seized the moment: “See you tomorrow?”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “Guess not. My dad usually drives me to school. He passes by the same time the bus gets here. I only take this bus when he goes out of town.”

“Oh.” Felt stupid, mouth open.

“See ya,” she said. Cruel, cruel words.

Slinging her bookbag over her shoulder, she made for the door. He wanted to call her back, say something, detain her. But didn’t. And she was gone.

Not until later did he realize he didn’t know her last name or where she lived.

The day continued to go downhill after that.

Sitting in the bleachers during lunch hour, he heard sudden sounds from below: scuffling, a bellow of pain and protest, a thud. He walked toward the end of the bleachers, peered around the corner and saw, thirty feet away, two Normal students being not so normal: beating up a third student. Not exactly beating him up but pushing and shoving him all over the place. Denny recognized the victim as a kid in U.S. history: Lawrence Hanson.

The scene was ludicrous: three guys neatly dressed in Norman Prep uniforms, clean-cut and regular-looking, acting like street-corner goons. Denny watched, fascinated, heart accelerating.
I’d better get out of here.
But didn’t leave. Like being attracted to the scene of an accident.

Lawrence Hanson did not retaliate as the taller of his two assailants began to slap his face. First one cheek, then the other. Lawrence’s hands were straight down his sides. Red stains appeared on his cheeks. The second assailant
stepped in and began pushing against Lawrence’s chest. Lawrence stumbled backward, still accepting the blows.
Why doesn’t he fight back?