Chapter 63
Ricky’s stuffing T-shirts into a backpack, getting ready to go on vacation to Galveston with Bethany and her folks. He’s planning on trying out some surfing and, of course, the obligatory girlfriend boat ride around the Gulf of Mexico.
“So,” he says, folding another shirt. “Sounds like your dad’s hooked up with a semi-crazy woman.”
“I don’t think there’s any
semi
about it.”
“Well, I guess that’s about what you can expect when you’re still out there looking for a girlfriend at forty-something years old.”
I figure that comment is aimed at me and my track record with girls, but that’s all right—I deserve it.
He stuffs the T-shirt into the backpack. “But what I can’t believe is that you had me swallowing that whole my-dad’s-a-hotshot-executive-in-the-Chase-building story. I mean, you kept that thing going for years.”
“It’s not my fault you’re gullible. I mean, didn’t you even wonder why you never saw him?”
“Hey, I don’t know any hotshot executives. I just figured he was always wheeling and dealing.”
“Yeah. It was a stupid story. But once you get started with something like that, you’re stuck with it.”
“I guess.”
I can tell he’s pretty disappointed in me, and I don’t blame him. But when you’re a guy you don’t come right out and apologize. You think of some other way to make up for it, so I’m like, “You know, this whole situation with my dad, and with what happened with Aimee and all, has me thinking—you might be right.”
“Dude, I’m always right. You know that.”
“I mean, about the cutting back on drinking thing. It might be more fun if I just do it on the weekends.”
“If you can.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I just wonder who has more control over the situation, you or the whisky.”
“Dude, I’m always in control. You know me, I’m the virtuoso musician. Whisky’s just my million-dollar violin.”
“Right.” He zips up the backpack. “Look, I have to head over to Bethany’s. If I don’t see you before we head out, look for a postcard from me. Or maybe I’ll e-mail you a picture of me riding some wild waves.”
And that’s it—he goes his way, and I go mine. Used to, we would’ve broken down that whole story about my dad until we found the very truth of the truth of it, but now it’s just, “So long, I’ll see you later.”
That’s all right, though. I have to get over to Aimee’s pretty soon anyway. We’re going to Marvin’s for dinner this evening. I’ve been postponing it, but there’s no more waiting. Time for the Big Talk.
As it is right now, I’ve been transformed from a semi-villain into a real hero around the Finecky household. Seems Aimee told her mom we had a flat tire on the highway in the rain, and while she was helping me change it, a car swerved off the road and would’ve killed her if I hadn’t risked my life to pull her out of the way. It was just the passenger-side mirror that clipped her, she explained, and she didn’t even think her arm was broken until she woke up in so much pain the next morning.
So it’s weird going over to her house and having everyone, even Randy-the-Walrus, beaming at me like I’m James Bond or somebody. In actuality, I feel like a double agent infiltrating their ranks under false pretenses. Not only because of the hero thing, but because of what I have to tell Aimee.
At Marvin’s nothing has changed—the lights are still dim, the clientele still sparse, and Dean Martin still available on the jukebox. I guess the only thing that’s different is no whisky in the 7UP. Maybe Ricky doesn’t have much faith, but I haven’t had a drink since the trip to Fort Worth, five whole days.
Aimee’s having a great time, even with her arm in this elaborate cast that makes you wonder how she’s even able to put a shirt on. Luckily, she’s right-handed, so at least wielding a fork isn’t too difficult. She just has to make sure not to order anything that requires using a knife.
The first time I saw that cast, I wondered if she’d even be able to move to St. Louis, but she said nothing was going to get in her way now. I asked her if she could still start work at the bookstore, and she said of course she could. All she’d have to do is run the cash register and help customers find what they’re looking for. “Think about it,” she said. “It’ll be a lot easier doing that than trying to fold newspapers.”
“I guess you’re right about that,” I said.
“You bet I am.” She grinned. “I’m spectacularly right.”
Anyway, for Aimee, our trip to Marvin’s makes a nice little ceremony, a good way to say goodbye to our lives in Oklahoma. And it is a ceremony, all right, but for a different kind of goodbye.
That’s not something you jump right into, though. You have to go slow, so I start out with the answer to the question Aimee’s too tactful to ask—has my father called yet to explain what happened?
“He hasn’t called as far as I know. But if he did and got my mom, then I’m sure she wouldn’t even tell me.”
“Maybe he’s embarrassed or feels guilty or something. You could call him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you ever tell your mom or your sister that you went down there?”
“No. Mom would probably shit a Cadillac if she found out I went down there. Holly called me about it, but I told her I had to postpone the trip. I don’t want to hear them say
I told you so.
It’s bad enough the old man turned out like that. I don’t need to see them gloat about it. I’m sure they already think I’ve got the screwed-up Keely male gene. I just don’t want them to know
I
know it. Anyway, that’s enough about my so-called family. They’re too depressing.”
“That’s okay.” She reaches over with her good hand and squeezes my fingers. “I’ll be your family.”
Chapter 64
Being on the wagon doesn’t seem to bother Aimee a bit. She actually appears a little relieved about it. It’s great to see her so confident, though. She even takes the initiative and starts in on some of her own stories. Used to, you had to get about four drinks in her before she’d bust loose with anything very personal, but now she’s completely comfortable with it.
This evening, she has another paper route story, a good one too, about the time she met up with the tough girls. I recognize her tactic—telling me a story to make me forget I don’t have a real family.
She was fourteen—still had to walk her part of the route at that age—when she ran across these two fifteen-year-olds all dressed in baggy black with silver chains looping down from their belt loops. More mascara than Cleopatra. They’d been up all night and were obviously high on something—drain cleaner, for all Aimee knew.
At first, they’re like, “Look, it’s Little Red Riding Hood. Whattaya got in the bag, something for your granny?” It was looking bad. Aimee pictured them ripping her bag from her shoulder and scattering her newspapers down the street, which is probably exactly what would’ve happened if she hadn’t somehow come up with the perfect thing to say.
“Did you see that UFO that came through here a while ago?”
They’re all, “UFO? What UFO? Are you high or just insane,” but Aimee goes on with this detailed description of what it looked like—blinking purple lights, a big banana-shaped hull, a mysterious sound like a music box playing a song previously unknown to humans.
All of a sudden, the girls completely changed. They looked at the sky, and expressions of wonder drove the hardness from their faces. Aimee kept on making stuff up. This wasn’t the first time anyone had spotted this UFO, she said. There were stories about it in the news. People had reported positive effects from having witnessed it. “It’s the music,” Aimee told them. “It leaves people feeling smart and happy and good-looking.”
Suddenly, the girls became her best friends. They helped her throw her route, hoping to see the UFO, to hear the music, to transform into new, beautiful beings.
“That is a splendid lie,” I tell her.
She’s smiling at the memory. “And it didn’t even seem like a lie when I was telling it. Then I saw them about a week later at Little Caesar’s. They didn’t even say anything to me. It was weird—they didn’t seem tough anymore. They just seemed kind of pathetic and small and lost.”
“I guess they needed some UFOs to believe in.”
“Yeah. Luckily, my UFO did come for me.”
“It did?”
“Of course. You’re it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I mean, look at how much I’ve changed in just these last couple of months.”
“Yeah, you’ve changed, all right.” I can’t help but glance at the mammoth cast on her arm. I mean, this thing is so elaborate she has a hard time walking through doorways.
“And now we’re heading to St. Louis. We’re really going to do it. No way would I have had the nerve to tell my mom I was going there before I met you.”
“Well, I have the feeling that St. Louis is really going to be your own special Bright Planet, you know it? And you’re going to be the Commander Amanda Gallico of the whole thing.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any Bright Planets.”
“Oh, that? I was just in a bad mood. I’m over all that.” I take a hit off my 7UP. It tastes weird, whiskyless and all. “But the thing is, I’ve kind of like been wanting to talk to you about this St. Louis deal.”
“I know, you’re still worried about staying with my sister in her little apartment, but that’s only for a couple of weeks. She’s got that job all lined up for me, and I’m sure you’ll get one too. We’ll have our own place and rent furniture and everything. Don’t mention that to my mom, though. She still doesn’t know you’re going to live up there too. She just thinks you’re helping me move.”
“Yeah, no, that’s not what’s been worrying me.” My hand moves back toward the 7UP glass, but it’s just instinct. Plain soda won’t change anything right now. “See, there’s, like, something I haven’t told you. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
She’s still smiling her little smile, and it strikes me that, actually, she is drunk, not on alcohol, but on her St. Louis hopes and dreams. I wouldn’t sober her up for anything, but she doesn’t need me anymore. She can hang on to her dreams by herself now.
“What happened was, you know how I wasn’t doing so hot in algebra? Well, Mr. Asterhole wouldn’t cut me a break. I tried to tell him I’d take more algebra in college, but I guess he thought he’d teach me a lesson for thinking he was so boring.”
Her smile flatlines. “So, does that mean you didn’t graduate?”
“Kind of.” I take a drink, but of course it doesn’t help. “Looks like, if I want my diploma, I’ll have to go to summer school.”
“Summer school,” she repeats, the disappointment seeping into her pale blue eyes.
“Yeah. It doesn’t start for a couple more weeks.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, forcing herself to be positive. “I’m sure you can take algebra over in St. Louis somehow.”
“No, I checked into that. I have to take it at the school I’m getting my diploma from.” Okay, so I didn’t actually check, but it makes pretty good sense.
She’s not giving up, though. “Well, that just means I’ll stay down here with you and help you study. We can go to St. Louis at the end of the summer. That way we’ll have more time to plan and get ready.”
“No, that’s no good. Your sister’s all set to come down this weekend to help you move, and she already has that job lined up for you and everything. The only thing that makes sense is for you to go ahead, and I’ll stay here and go to summer school and work on the loading dock for Geech and save up some money.”
She grabs my hand. “I don’t want to go without you. I’d be lost.”
I stare into her eyes, shooting confidence beams into her. “You won’t be lost. Are you kidding me? You’ll be great. You’re going to do what you always wanted to do.”
Of course, I’m also thinking that she’ll find the perfect guy, too, a splendiferous equestrian scientist who’ll see her as a fantastic new planet, full of miraculous wonders. But I know she can’t accept that right now.
She’s like, “I want to do all that with you,” and I go, “I know you do, but look at it this way—how great of an organizer am I? Not too great, right? If you go up there first, you can get everything squared away, make all the plans. I’d appreciate it to no end if you’d do that for me.”
Once she gets her mind around that notion, it begins to restoke her enthusiasm. Now she has a mission, something she can do for somebody else. She has no shortage of ideas either. She’ll learn where everything is in St. Louis and how to get around and where the men’s clothing stores are so that I can get a job in one when I come up. And she’s like, “As soon as I get some money saved, I’ll go ahead and rent our apartment and start buying things for it. And I’ll do the artwork for the walls and everything.”
“That all sounds great,” I say. “But maybe you should hold off on renting the apartment. I mean, I need you to do the planning, but I have to do something too. I’d look at it as a big favor if you’d wait till I send you some money before you go renting an apartment and buying stuff for it. You have to let me feel like I’m making my contribution, okay?”
She smiles and squeezes my hand. “Okay. I guess I can do you that favor.”
If I’m a rat for doing things this way, then, all right, I’m a rat. But sometimes you have to choose between honesty and kindness, and I’ve always been a sucker for the kind side. Besides, I figure she has to get out of town before I can tell her the whole truth or she’ll never go. I’ll wait till she’s been in St. Louis for a month and has her job and her new life. Then I’ll drop her a long e-mail. I don’t know exactly what it’s going to say yet, except for the part about how I won’t be coming.
See, I do have a future to give her after all, just not one that includes me.
When I take her home, I have a hard time letting her go. Sure, it’s awkward trying to hug her with that huge cast in the way, but I really can’t kiss her enough. We’ve never had sex in the car sober before—or with her arm in a cast—but I’m ready to now, not just because I’m horny, but because I want to be as close to her as I can one last time.
She slows me down, though. She kisses my nose and my forehead and tells me we have plenty of time to make love later. “My mom might walk out on us,” she says. “And just think when we’re in St. Louis, we’ll make love in every room of our new apartment.”
I kiss her one more long one. And then we say goodbye.