Someone Like You (10 page)

“You're not funny,” I said.

“Sure I am.” He chuckled. “Better get started before it gets any warmer. It'll take you a good two hours, at least.”

“Shut
up,”
I said, which just made him laugh harder. My father believes our lawn is impossible; over the years it had sent yard services and neighborhood mowing boys running for their lives. My father, the only one who could navigate it safely, saw himself as a warrior, victorious among the grass clippings.

“
Okay, here's the thing,” he said, now suddenly serious. “There's the Hole between the junipers that got me last summer, as well as a row of tree roots by the fence that were made specifically to pull you to the side and cut your motor. Not to mention the ruts in the backyard and the series of hidden tree stumps. But you'll do fine.”

“Just let me get it over with.” I leaned down and started the mower, pushing it to the front curb, with him still behind me chuckling.

It was hot, loud, and too bright out in that yard. I got sleepy, then careless, and hit the Hole, which of course I'd forgotten; my ankle twisted in it and I fell forward, the mower flying out from under me and sputtering to a stop. By this time my father had gone to the fence by the driveway and was busy talking lawns or golf or whatever with Mr. Perkins, our neighbor. Neither one of them noticed me do a faceplant in the grass, then kick the mower a few feet out of pure vengeance.

I heard a horn beep and turned to see a red pickup truck sliding to a stop by the curb, a green tarp thrown over something in the truck bed. It was Macon.

“Hey,” he said, getting out of the truck and slamming the door. “How's it going?”

“Fine,” I said.
“
Actually, it's not. I just fell down.” I looked over at my father, who was staring right back at us.

“That your dad?” Macon said.

“Yep,” I said. “That's him.”

Macon looked around the yard, at the small patch I'd done so far and the high grass that lay ahead all around us, spurred on by a straight week of rain. “So,” he said confidently, “you want some help?”

“Oh, you don't want to...
”
I said, but he was already walking back to the truck, pulling the tarp aside to reveal a mower twice the size of mine, which he wheeled off a ramp on the back. He had on his BROADSIDE HOME AND GARDEN baseball hat, which he flipped around backwards, readying for action.

“You don't understand,” I said to him as he started checking the gas, examining the wheels, “this lawn is, like, impossible. You practically need a map to keep from killing yourself.”

“Are you underestimating my ability as a lawn-service provider?” he asked, looking up at me. “I sincerely hope that you are not.”

“I'm not,” I said quickly, “but it's just... I mean, it's really hard.”

“Psssh,” he said, fanning me off with one hand. “Just stand back, okay?” And then he stood up, pulled the cord, and the mower roared to life and started across the lawn with Macon guiding it. It sucked up the grass, marking a swath twice as wide as I'd been managing with the Beast. I turned around to look at my father, who was staring at Macon as he glided over the tree roots and past the Hole, and edged the fence perfectly.

“Halley,” my father said from behind me, yelling over the roar of the mower, “this is supposed to be your job.”

“I'm working,” I said quickly, starting up my own mower, which puttered quietly like a kid's toy as I pushed it along between the juniper bushes. “See?”

I didn't hear what he said as Macon passed us again, the mower annihilating the grass and leaving a smooth, green trail behind him. He nodded at my father, all business, as he turned the corner and disappeared around the side of the house, the roar scaring all the birds at the feeder on the back porch into sudden flight.

“Who is that kid?” my father said, craning his neck around the side of the house.

“What?” I was still pushing my mower, circling the trees by the fence. The smell of cut grass filled the air, sweet and pungent.

“Who is he?”

I cut off the mower. In the backyard I could see Macon mowing around the hidden tree stumps. My father saw it too, his face shocked. “He's my friend,” I said.

There must have been some giveaway in how I said it because suddenly his face changed and I could tell he wasn't thinking about the lawn anymore.

My mother came out the front door, holding her coffee cup. “Brian? There's some strange boy mowing the lawn.”

“I know,” my father said. “I'm handling it.”

“I thought that was Halley's job,” she said like I wasn't even there. “Right?”

“Right,” he said in a tired voice. “It's under control.”

“Fine.” She went back inside, but I could see her standing in the glass door, watching us.

“This was supposed to be your job,” he said, as if reading off a script she'd written.

“I didn't ask him to do it,” I said as the mower roared around the corner of the house, edging the garage. “We were talking about it last night and I guess he just remembered. He works mowing lawns, Dad. He just wanted to help me out.”

“Well, that doesn't change the fact that it was your responsibility.
”
It was an effort, but he was fading.

The mower was roaring toward us now as Macon finished off the patch by the front walk. Then he came closer, until the noise was deafening, before finally cutting it off. We all stood there in the sudden silence, looking at each other. My ears were ringing.

“Macon,” I said slowly, “this is my dad. Dad, this is Macon Faulkner.”

Macon stuck his hand out and shook my father's, then leaned back against the mower, taking off his hat. “Man, that is one tough yard you have there,” he said. “Those tree stumps out back almost killed me.”

My father, hesitant, couldn't help but smile. He wasn't sure how my mother would want him to react to this. “Well,” he said, easing back and sticking his hands in his pockets, “they've brought down a few in their time, let me tell you.”

“I can believe it,” Macon said. I looked over his head, back toward the house, and saw my mother standing in the doorway, still watching. I couldn't make out her expression. “This thing is equipped with sensors and stuff, so it makes it easier.”

“Sensors?” my father stepped a little closer, peering down at the mower's control console. He was clearly torn between doing the Right Thing and his complete love of garden tools and accessories. “Really.”

“This thing here,” Macon explained, pointing, “shows how far you've gone. And then anything over a height the blade can handle pops up here, on the Terrain Scope, so you can work around it.”

“Terrain Scope,” my father repeated dreamily.

Then we all heard it; the front door opening and my mother's voice, shattering the lawn reverie with a shrillness she had never been able to control. “Brian? Could you come here a moment, please?”

My father started to back away from Macon, toward the house, his eyes still on the mower. “Coming,” he called out, then turned to face her, climbing the steps. I could see her mouth moving, angrily, before he even got to the porch.

“Thanks,” I said to Macon. “You saved me.”

“No problem.” He started pushing the mower back to the curb. “I gotta get this thing back, though. I'll see you later, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, watching him climb back into the truck. He took his hat off and tossed it onto the seat. “I'll see you later.”

He drove off, beeping the horn twice as he rounded the corner. I walked as slowly as I could up the driveway and front walk to the porch, where my mother was waiting.

“Halley,” she said before I even hit the first step, “I thought we had an understanding that it was your job to mow the lawn.”

“I know,” I said, and my father was studying some spot over my head, avoiding making eye contact, “he just wanted to help me out.”

“Who is he?”

“He's just this guy,” I said.

“How do you know him?”

“We have P.E. together,” I said, opening the door and slipping inside, making my getaway. “It's no big deal.”

“He seems nice enough,” my father offered, his eyes on the lawn.

“I don't know,” she said slowly. I started up the stairs, pretending not to hear her, turning away to keep my secrets to myself. “I just don't know.”

“I need you,” Scarlett said to me as I was busy weighing produce for a woman with two screaming babies in her cart. “Meet me in the ladies' room.”

“What?” I said, distracted by the noise and confusion, oranges and plums rolling down my conveyer belt.

“Hurry,” she hissed, disappearing down the cereal aisle and leaving me no chance to argue. My line was long, snaking around the Halloween display and back into Feminine Products. It took me a good fifteen minutes to get to the bathroom, where she was standing in front of the sinks, arms crossed over her chest.

“What's wrong?” I said.

She just shook her head.

“What?” I said. “What is it?”

She reached behind the paper towel dispenser and pulled out a small white stick-shaped object with a little circle on the end of it. As she held it out, I saw that in the little circle was a bright pink cross. Then, all at once, it hit me.

“No,” I said. “No way.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “I'm pregnant.”

“You can't be.”

“I am.” She shook the stick in front of me, the plus sign blurring. “Look.”

“Those things are always wrong,” I said, like I knew.

“It's the third one I've taken.”

“So?” I said.

“So what? So nothing is wrong three times, Halley. And I've been sick every morning for the last three weeks, I can't stop peeing, it's all there. I'm pregnant.”

“No,” I said. I could see my mother in my head, lips forming the word:
denial.
“No way.”

“What am I going to do?” she said, pacing nervously. “I only had sex one time.”

“You had sex?” I said.

She stopped. “Of
course
I had sex. God, Halley, try to stay with me here.”

“You never told me,” I said. “Why didn't you tell me?”

She sighed, loudly. “Gosh, Halley, I don't know. Maybe it was because he
died
the next day. Go figure.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “Didn't you use protection?”

“Of course we did. But something happened, I don't know. It came off. I didn't realize it until it was over. And then,” she said, her voice rising, “I thought there was no way it could happen the first time. It couldn't.”

“It came off?” I didn't understand, exactly; I wasn't very clear on the logistics of sex. “Oh, my God.”

“This is nuts.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, hard, something I'd never seen her do before. “I can't have a baby, Halley.”

“Of course you can't,” I said.

“So, what, I have to get an abortion?” She shook her head. “I can't do that. Maybe I should keep it.”

“Oh, my God,” I said again.

“Please.” She sat down against the wall, pulling her legs up against her chest. “Please stop saying that.”

I went over and sat beside her, putting my arm around her shoulders. We sat there together on the cold floor of Milton's, hearing the muffled Muzak playing “Fernando” overhead.

“It'll be okay,” I said in my most confident voice. “We can handle this.”

“Oh, Halley,” she said softly, leaning against me, the pregnancy stick lying in front of us, plus sign up. “I miss him. I miss him so much.”

“I know,” I said, and I knew now it was my job to hold us together, my turn to see us through. “It'll be okay, Scarlett. Everything is going to be fine.”

But even as I said it, I was scared.

 

That evening, we had a meeting at Scarlett's kitchen table. Me, Scarlett, and Marion, who didn't know anything yet and ate her dinner incredibly slowly as we edged around her. She had a date with Steve/Vlad at eight, so we were working with a time frame.

“So,” I said, looking right at Scarlett, who was overstuffing the napkin holder with napkins, “it's almost eight.”

“Is it?” Marion turned around and looked at the kitchen clock. She reached for her cigarettes, pushed her chair out from the table, and said, “I better start getting ready.”

She started to leave, and I shot Scarlett a look. She looked right back. We battled it out silently for a few seconds before she said, very quietly, in a voice flat enough to ensure anyone wouldn't, “Wait.”

Marion didn't hear her. Scarlett shrugged her shoulders, like she'd tried, and I stood up and got ready to call after her. I could hear Marion heading up the stairs, past the creaky third one, when Scarlett sighed and said, louder, “Marion. Wait.”

Marion came back down and stuck her head into the kitchen. She'd had to get two two -hundred-and- fifty-pound women glamorous that day at Fabulous You, one of whom wanted lingerie shots, so she was worn out. “What?”

“I have to talk to you.”

Marion stood in the doorway. “What's going on?”

Scarlett looked at me, as if this was some kind of relay race and I could carry the baton from here. Marion was starting to look nervous.

“What?” she asked, looking from Scarlett to me, then back to Scarlett. “What is it?”