The Book of Joby (30 page)

Cally gazed at Frank as if he were a pouty child. “I still say you’re way too hard on yourself, Frank. You had every right to be angry.”

Frank traced lines in the frost on his beer glass, and shook his head pensively. “Not for what it’s cost my family. I should have bit my tongue and ridden it out.” He took a long pull on his beer, then stared at the glass as if it held the ashes of his favorite dog. “The whole thing’s driven Miriam right to the edge, Cally . . . and it’s
destroying
Joby.” Frank drained his glass, then looked up at Cally as if hoping she’d give in and berate him.

“Want another?” she asked.

“No. I should be going.”

He made no move to leave, however, only sat staring morosely at his empty glass. “He used to be such . . . such an incredible little kid. Now, I can hardly look at him without dying of shame.”

“Kids go through rough phases,” Cally said, turning away to wipe down her back counter, “but they don’t lose themselves forever.”

“All I ever wanted,” Frank murmured, “was to be a good husband, and a good father, Cally. Even in high school, I dreamed of having a family. Now I do, and I’m just . . . letting them down.” There was a pressure in his chest that made him want to smash all the glasses behind the bar, or shoot out the mirror, or crash through the plate-glass window, but he couldn’t seem to move. He could hardly even breathe.
“What’s wrong with me?”
he whispered harshly.

“You know, Frank,” Cally said, turning back to face him, “I’m not going to feed this little pity party you’ve got going.” She tossed her hair back, and offered him a reproachful grin. “There’s simply nothing wrong with you!” She leaned forward to look him in the eye. “Miriam and Joby are two
lucky, lucky
people. If you’d just get that through your pretty head,” she ran her fingers playfully through his hair, “the rest of this would sort itself out in no time at all.” She leaned away again, continuing to wipe down her countertops.

She was so pretty. . . . And so kind. Almost . . . almost he told her about the depraved nightmare that still plagued him after all these years. A hundred times, he’d wanted to, sure that she’d understand, that she might even know how to make it stop. But just thinking of it now made him loathe himself; Joby hiding in that locker, his thumb jammed between lips smeared with lipstick, clutching at his little dress. . . .

No, if Cally ever saw how sick Frank really was inside, he’d never be able to look her in the face again. . . . As if she’d ever want him to.

When Benjamin went to Joby’s house on Saturday morning and found him already out, he didn’t need to ask where he was. A short time later, he found Joby at their old tournament field bent down in the new spring grass, peering at something beneath the oak tree Laura Bayer had fallen out of back when they were kids.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Joby?” Benjamin called as he started across the clearing.

“Damselflies,” Joby replied without standing or turning.

Benjamin crouched carefully beside him, and saw two tiny turquoise dragonflies balanced atop a stalk of wild oat. One of the creatures was perched on the other’s back, its long tail arched to clasp its companion.

“What are they doing?” Benjamin asked. “Fighting?”

“They’re mating,” Joby said with scientific dispassion.

Mating.
The word evoked a slew of exciting, if somewhat embarrassing, associations in Benjamin’s mind. It had been almost a year since he had begun to notice how good it felt to lie in bed at night wearing nothing but his skin, and a mere six months since he had discovered that certain even more awesome sensations could be conjured without waiting for sleep or dreams.

“Joby?” he said uncertainly. “Have you . . . do you ever think about—” As the word “sex” balanced on his tongue, Joby turned to face him with the same clinical regard he had trained on the damselflies. Feeling his cheeks flame, Benjamin aborted the question.

“About what?” Joby pressed.

“Nothing. . . . It . . . nothing.” Suddenly, he knew that Joby wouldn’t . . . that he surely hadn’t . . . that he would think Benjamin a freak.

“Come on,”
Joby insisted. “What were you going to say?”

Benjamin scrambled for some plausible substitution. “Do you ever think about the Roundtable?”

Joby looked back down at the damselflies, his clinical expression replaced by sullen embarrassment. “Course not,” he said. “I’m no kid anymore.”

Benjamin was surprised at Joby’s tone and at the depth of his own disappointment. Whole landscapes of memory stirred in Benjamin’s mind, awakening thoughts that had been dormant for years. “Do you still believe in that quest?” he asked. “You know . . . against the enemy?”

“What do
you
think?” Joby mumbled scornfully.

“I don’t
know
!” Benjamin said. “That’s why I’m askin’!”

“Whadaya want me to say? That I still sit around figuring out how to visit
Camelot,
and help
King Arthur
fight the devil?” Joby swiped angrily at his suddenly reddening eyes. “I don’t need
you
making fun of me too, Benjamin. There’s enough people doing that.”

“I’m not making fun of you!” Benjamin protested. “I . . . I just always wondered what happened to,” he threw his hands up, “all that. . . . I miss it.”

Joby sighed, seeming to fall in on himself. “I’m sorry, Ben. It’s just that . . . I wish I could still believe it. You have no idea how much.” He turned to stare off into the thickets that had been their boar-hunting forest in better times. “You remember that dream I used to have? . . . The one with all the candles?”

Benjamin nodded.

“I still have it,” Joby said. “All the time. . . . And I wake up feeling like somebody punched my soul right out of my stomach, and I have no idea where they put it.”

Benjamin reached out and punched his shoulder, deciding it was time to change the subject. “You takin’ Laura to the dance?” he asked.

“She asked me . . . but I can’t dance. I told her that, but she got so mad I don’t think she’d go anywhere with me now.” Joby looked tentatively at Benjamin. “You should ask her.”

“
Me?
Joby, you are such a
dork
! She doesn’t wanna go with
me
!”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause she’s got a crush
this big
on Joby Peterson!” he laughed, stretching out his arms. “You must be blind, Joby! Just go with her, and stand around if you want to. Trust me. She’s not gonna care if you dance.”

“Why would she want to go
stand around
with the class spaz?” Joby frowned.

“Joby, if you don’t take Laura to the dance, I’m gonna tell every guy at school you wear purple underwear, and suck your thumb at night.”

“No you won’t.”
Joby grimaced. “That’s
disgusting,
Benjamin.”

“Yes, I will, Joby.” He was careful not to smile. “I’m
dead serious.
Nothin’s gonna happen at that dance half as embarrassing as what I’ll do to you if you chicken out, so get your butt in gear and ask her. It’s time you got a clue, Peterson.”

“Who are
you
taking,
Vierra
?”

“I,” Benjamin said, hoping to cover his embarrassment with a casual tone, “am going with Duane and Jamie, and Johnny Mayhew.”

“
Oh!
So
I
have to ask a
girl,
but
you’re
going with the
baseball team
?”

“I’m just keeping myself free to dance with
lots
of girls!” Benjamin bragged, hoping Joby would buy it. “Believe me, though. If I had someone like Laura drooling over me, I’d take her!”

“Okay,” Joby moped, “I’ll ask her, but if she says no, you can’t get me for that.”

“She won’t.” Benjamin grinned. “Shall we shake on it, Sir Joby?”

The big night arrived. Joby’s mom had gotten him a new set of slacks and a button-down shirt for the occasion, and Joby had purchased a small cluster of freesia and iris at the supermarket florist, remembering how Laura had liked them so long ago in the hospital. He’d even spent half an hour in the bathroom before dinner, combing his hair. Feeling nervous and excited, he
opened the refrigerator and looked in to make sure the flowers hadn’t wilted, then sat down with his parents to eat dinner.

The hiccups started halfway through his meal. They got so bad, so quickly, that he had to stop eating and lie down in the living room. But they only got worse, becoming surprisingly painful, until it was hard for him to breathe. His mother made him lean forward and swallow cups of water, eat spoonfuls of granulated sugar, and breathe into a paper bag, but nothing helped. Finally, half an hour before he and his dad were supposed to go pick up Laura, Joby went to his room, as much to escape his father’s disapproving scowls as his mother’s increasingly frantic ministrations. He had never heard of such hiccups. They were bearable as long as he remained lying down, but the minute he stood, they became huge gasping spasms that hurt his throat, and threatened to burst his lungs.

Ten minutes before they were supposed to leave, Joby’s father came into his room, trying to look amused.

“Hiccups, eh?” he said wryly, sitting down at Joby’s bedside. “I got a rash before my first date. I ever tell you that, son?”

Joby shook his head, fearing that speaking might make his hiccups worse.

His father patted his arm, and looked away. “It’s always scary to do things we’ve never done,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Remember how scary it was learning to ride your bike? But you weren’t sorry you tried, were you?”

Since they’d never given his bike back to him, Joby didn’t think the example a very good one, but he shook his head anyway.

Seeming to realize his mistake as well, Joby’s dad grinned crookedly, and said, “You know, it’s probably long past time you got that bike back. I’ll talk with your mother about it while you’re at the dance.”

Unable to believe this sudden burst of luck, Joby started to sit up, only to be wracked by another loud and painful spasm, forcing him to lie back down again.

“I can’t go,” he groaned. “I can’t even stand up.”

A flash of irritation crossed his father’s face. Joby hoped that didn’t mean he’d changed his mind about the bike.

“You told Laura you’d take her to the dance, son. I’m sure she’s gone to lots of trouble to get ready, just like you have.” He gave Joby another reassuring smile. “Tell you what, sport. I’ll call Laura’s house and let them know we’re going to be a little late. You just relax for a while. Let those darn hiccups settle down, and then we’ll go. Okay?”

“Dad, I’m not doing this to get out of the dance,” Joby said, suddenly realizing that’s what his father was mad about. “I
like
Laura. It’s just—” He was cut short by another loud, hard hiccup, and realized he didn’t want to talk about this.

“It’s just
what,
son? Eighth grade seems a little late to still be doing the
cooties thing,
doesn’t it?”

“It’s not that,” Joby said. “I just don’t think I like her like . . . you know . . . as a girlfriend. I—” He gulped in another hiccup. “I just like her more with”—another hiccup—“with my mind, I guess.”

His father stood up, clearly more than irritated. “Son,” he said, “you’re not a little boy anymore, so let’s just lay it on the table. You like a girl with
this,
” he pointed at his chest, “or
this,
” he pointed at his crotch. “
Not
with
this
!” He pointed at his forehead. “Is that clear?”