Now Is the Hour (36 page)

Inside the Buick it still smelled like the night before. Despite Dad's Old Spice, despite Mom's new perfume, inside the Buick smelled like the Green Triangle. Sex and booze and rock and roll.

When we parked in the Saint Joe's parking lot, when Dad got out of the car, I took a good look at him. His face was drut cow face, and he was feeling stupid. You could tell.

After church, when Mom was making breakfast, the pots and pans were getting slammed down extra-hard, the silverware drawer was getting slammed shut, and the refrigerator door slammed shut, the mush a big lump of glue, and the eggs were cooked hard, and when I asked for more toast, Mom said: Get your own damn toast.

When I left the house to go do the chores, as soon as the screen door slammed behind me, inside the house, all hell started breaking loose. Yelling and screaming and things getting thrown around, dishes breaking, you name it.

Damn hick! Mom yelled. What did I do but go and marry a damn hick!

The chores took me extra-long that day. After my Viceroy, after whacking off and breaking the sixth commandment, after listening to the top-ten countdown, after I fed the cows their twenty bales of hay, I didn't have anything better to do, so I went into the Mexican house. The wood box that was the front step, the blown-out screen door, the two bare rooms smelling of cookstove, tortillas, sweat, cigarettes, and instant coffee. I sat on one of the two double beds, then lay back. The springs made a
pinche
racket. The sun from the window was warm on my face and red in my eyes when I closed them. I wondered which bed Flaco and Acho slept in. I wondered where they were now. I wondered if the stain on the ceiling looked like a terrible blossom to them.

That night, Dad didn't come in to watch
Bonanza.
He stayed out in the machine shed and didn't eat dinner. There wasn't any dinner to eat. I had a bologna sandwich and a glass of milk. I tried to call Billie, but there was no answer. Dad didn't come in that night at all. Slept in the truck, I guess.

It was weird lying in bed thinking about Mom lying in bed alone, and Dad outside in the machine shed or the barn lying alone somewhere.

Monday morning, Dad didn't go to the lawyer. He sat at his end of the table, sipping his hot tea with two sugars, reading the
Idaho State Journal
same as ever. I looked hard across my mush at Mom. Behind her big plastic glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes weren't giving up a thing.

It went on all week like that. One evening, walking down the hallway, the bathroom door was open. Dad was standing at the sink with his long johns top draping down over his Levi's. From his shoulder to
his Levi's was a long scratch. When I looked at the scratch, Dad was looking in the mirror at me to make sure I saw that scratch.

Billie still wasn't answering my calls, so when Wednesday came along, I drove to Billie's house and parked and walked up her windy sidewalk past the lamp with the ivy growing on it. When the world falls apart, you can pretend it's not and make it look good from the outside, or you can try and move forward, even if all you take is one step.

I rang the doorbell.

C
not for
Cody,
but for
cunt.

The man who pushed open the aluminum door wore a gray work shirt with
CODY PLUMBING
on the pocket and a matching pair of gray pants. He was short like Billie with big shoulders and chest and arms. A way of staring that made me forget what I was going to say.

All I could think was, if I married Billie, both Sis and I would be married to plumbers.

Billie's dad had a toothpick stuck between his lips, and he was chewing gum like he had a wild animal in his mouth.

What can I do ya for? he said.

His left arm with the gray sleeve rolled to the elbow, the dark hair on his forearm, held open the aluminum door.

Is Cunt here? I said.

Yes, it's true.

Really, that's just what I said.

I said,
Is Cunt here?

I know. I know. Can you fucking believe it? Even now, just thinking about it, I have to put my arms over my head.

Homer Cody's index finger drilled his ear. He took his finger out of his ear, looked at his finger, sniffed his finger.

Then: Speak up, son, he said.
Who
you looking for?

Billie!
I blurted out. I'd like to see Billie!

Homer Cody's eyes looked at me the way you look down the sights of a gun.

Young man, he finally said, I don't like you.

Sir? I said.

Then over his shoulder, Homer Cody yelled: Hey, wife! Someone's here to see you.

From the back of the house, a woman's voice: Who is it?

Homer Cody's blue eyes were square into my eyes when he yelled: Some dipshit!

Mr. Cody turned back into the house, and then it was Mrs. Cody at the door. Her brown hair cut short in a bubble around her face. She pushed the aluminum door away, and I was freestanding again.

Bare feet and little toenails. Thirty-six years old. Twice the age of Billie. The cigarette in Mrs. Cody's hand.

Hello? Mrs. Cody said.

The conductor of a symphony, the cigarette and Mrs. Cody.

He's looking for the cunt of the house, Mr. Cody said loud from back somewhere inside the house.

So I called for you, he said.

Mrs. Cody took a long drag on her cigarette. She was looking at me and back behind at her asshole husband at the same time. There on that day was the first time she looked at me the way Mrs. Cody did sometimes. Not like I was something of her daughter's. Her blue eyes right close in at me like she knew something about me I didn't know yet and when I knew, it was going to break my heart.

You're Rigby John, she said.

Her blue eyes more gray than Billie's. The reason I know is because it was such a long time since I looked into them. Pain in those eyes too, same way as my mom's.

Then out of the blue, Mrs. Cody said: Billie was right.

I said: Mrs. Cody?

You
are
lovely, she said. Never seen anything like it.

Mrs. Cody smiled big, so much like Billie when she smiled. She bowed a little and rolled the cigarette starting at me, then out, like she was introducing me to an audience.

Dramatic.

Come on in, then, she said. Wait in the living room. I'll tell Billie you're here.

I stepped one foot inside the house. Four empty Budweiser cans on the counter. Two more on the kitchen table. Suddenly the house got real hot.

I said: I don't think Mr. Cody wants me in here.

The quick puff on her cigarette.

Neither does Billie, she said. But you're in here, aren't you, at least halfway.

I stepped my other foot inside.

Mrs. Cody put her hand on my shoulder, then let her hand roll down my arm. It was nice the way she touched me, soft. In all my years, my mother had never touched me like that.

Her voice went low. She was telling me a secret.

I'm glad you've come, Mrs. Cody said. It's the right thing.

Her hand went up to my shoulder again.

It shows Billie that you care, she said.

Then the cigarette the way you play with sparklers on the Fourth of July.

And don't mind Billie's dad, she said, her voice still low.

He's a damn drunken fool, she said. So don't pay him any attention.

Billie! she yelled. Someone here to see you!

In the living room, I quick sat down in the beige armchair. Outside, through the aluminum picture window, Mr. Cody was zipping up his bomber jacket that said
UNITED STATES MARINES
on the back. He was flipping the bird at the house, flipping the bird at me. The way he walked down the steps was like a soldier.

Billie came around the corner into the living room pulling a black sweater over her head. I quick stood up. I thought it was weird that when she said, Hi, Rig, I couldn't see her face. Now, as I look back on it, I understand why Billie was doing that. But that day, I just wanted to look into Billie's eyes and see myself inside them looking back.

When I spoke, my voice wouldn't come out at first. But I had to speak. I wasn't going to end up like Mom and Dad.

Where have you been? I said. I've been calling and calling.

Billie's eyes got red, not from tear duct cancer, and they were full of tears. Her face was in the buttons of my shirt in no time.

Oh, Rig! she said. I've been feeling a little weird.

The palm of my hand on the back of her head. Billie's smell clean, something French. Her body up next to mine like that in somebody's very warm beige living room with the lights on. I started to sweat.

I said, Let's go park in the cemetery next to Russell and listen to the radio and smoke and kiss.

Let's smoke here, Billie said. Do you have cigarettes?

Here? I said. You can smoke in your house?

Dad's gone, she said. That's all that matters. I smoke with Mom all the time.

In my shirt pocket were four Viceroys. I pulled out two cigarettes, gave one to Billie, lit hers, mine.

Billie's inhale was a gulp of air. Her blue eyes were looking up the way Mom looks up when there's a migraine.

Don't you think the ceiling looks like paramecium? Billie said.

Then she said: The plural I guess would be paramecia.

I said: Billie.

Billie kept her chin lifted up at the beige paramecia and took a long drag.

When I looked down, Billie's other hand was gripping the lip of a green glass ashtray. Something so sad right then the way her fingers and her little blue fingernails were shaking.

Above us, the beige ceiling paramecia were moving slow.

Very slow like what Billie said next.

I've been seeing Chuck diPietro, she said.

Everything very slow, slow and thick, the way my stomach feels when it's full of mush.

Seeing him? I said. You mean dates?

No, Billie said. Just at the Snatch Out.

So weird smoking inside somebody's house where everyone can see.

More than once? I said.

Twice, Billie said.

Two beige ceiling paramecia above the aluminum window slid down onto the wall.

Seeing him, I said. What does seeing him mean?

Paramecia down the wall around the aluminum window out onto the floor into the beige carpet.

Driving around, she said. Having a Coke.

Paramecia under my feet, under the beige carpet.

He's got a cool pickup, I said.

The next thing I said I couldn't think about very long. But I had to say it. Somebody in my family had to say things.

Did you kiss him? I said.

Paramecia, the whole damn beige room was crawling.

Rig. Billie's voice was low, an especially low Simone Signoret. She was still looking up at the ceiling.

I looked up too.

The paramecia that ate Pocatello.

Do you remember that promise we made to each other? Billie said. That no matter what we would be friends?

My heart was slamming in my chest, in my ears. Sweat rolling down my sides. I crushed my cigarette into the ashtray.

Well, Billie said, this is one of those times.

Seems like I sat on the hearth forever, the paramecia that ate Pocatello eating at my heart. Sat and smoked. Everything all at once going around in my head, and that everything was loud.

How long did he kiss her, where were they when he kissed her? What kind of girl would go around kissing two boys at the same time? Was I doing homework, doing the chores, having supper, watching
I Love Lucy,
when Chuck diPietro was kissing Billie? Beige paramecia crawling inside my pants like hay dust. We sat on the hearth for an hour, maybe longer. A couple of times, Billie went to touch me, but I wouldn't let her. Each time I scooted away, Billie scooted over to me. It went that way, Billie going to touch me, me scooting, for the whole length of the hearth.

When I finally let her touch me, my butt was hanging off the end.

We promised, Rig, Billie said. We promised to be friends no matter what.

My mom and dad had made a promise too. Look where it got them. But Billie and I were differnt. We could talk to each other. We weren't trying to hide.

I reached down and took a hold of Billie's hand, pulled her hand up next to my heart.

I'm still your friend, I said.

Billie closed her eyes and kissed me, two lips against two lips, soft with a kind of suck, tobacco, and the taste of pink.

Promise? Billie said.

All the tea in China. An audience with the Pope. The moon.

My voice was low. Yves Montand, we called my voice when it was low.

I promise, I said.

Back home, same as ever, breakfast was served at eight o'clock, dinner at noon, and supper at six. Mom still cooked, and Dad and I ate. After supper, Dad had his hot tea with two sugars and his Viceroy and read the paper. Everything was back to the way it had always been, except Sis wasn't there to help with the dishes. Like to drive you crazy. Same as with Russell, Dad's threat to divorce was something scary
that was going on, and everybody knew it was going on, but nobody had the courage to talk about it.

Things were differnt this time, though. All that was beneath the surface of things and not talked about was gaining velocity. All you had to do was scratch a little bit, and there was pandemonium.

The little things. Mom burning the cookies, Dad running out of gas in the field, me riding the fucking bus to school, weren't just the miserable things they were, but misery itself. The whole world was against us except we weren't even an
us.

That whole spring, Mom and Dad stuck to the script so close I started to believe it myself. Divorce seemed to be off the table anyway, which was a strange kind of relief to me. I'd considered the idea that divorce might be a good thing for Mom, but finally I just couldn't imagine anything that differnt. Their papered-over stalemate was awful to be around. But I understood stalemate. Billie and I had patched things up our own way too, and we were back to our routine of Wednesday and Friday nights at Mount Moriah. Things were the same and weren't the same, but parked under the elm tree, spring outside, the bushes and trees and flowers blooming, everything coming back to life again, all around us so much hope, Billie and I looked into each other's eyes and talked as best we could about what was inside.