Night Kites (7 page)

Dad said, “It’s all right, Erick.”

It didn’t look all right. Jack’s face was down to his shoes, and Nicki sat staring at her hands folded in her lap.

Dad got up. It was the first time I’d ever seen him wearing old pants and a sweater in New York City.

I said, “Is Mom okay?” It was the only reason I could think of for his being there, that something had happened to Mom.

“She’s fine. Mom’s fine,” Dad said. “But Pete’s little virus landed him in St. Vincent’s hospital last night. I think they’ll let him come home later. So why don’t you kids come to my place?”

Dad had known that Jack and I were staying at Pete’s, but I’d told him Dill and Nicki were staying at Dill’s aunt’s.

I think Dad had figured things out for himself, because as we were all getting our stuff together, he never once asked the girls if they had anything to get from Washington Heights.

Dill babbled away guiltily about how lucky we were to get to stay in his beautiful apartment, as we taxied there.

“Yes,” said Dad, “but you’re going to have to put up with me … I’ll give you girls the bedroom, though.”

I was sitting up front with the driver. I didn’t dare turn around to see the expression on Dill’s face, Jack’s, or Nicki’s.

I
NEVER WATCHED ANYONE
perform without seeing myself doing the same thing. I suppose if I’d been watching Boy George that night, I’d be picturing myself wearing a wig, or red eyeglasses and lipstick, doing those loopy steps he did. But I was seeing myself as Bruce Springsteen. I was imagining myself after a few months without shaving, a red-and-white bandana wrapped around my forehead, my hair longer, and an old T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled, stained with sweat, sticking to my back.

By the time he got around to doing his old hit “Born in the U.S.A.,” the sweat was pouring off him and he looked supermacho, punching the air with his fists, flexing his muscles…. I was already planning to work out.

Most of the time we stood on our seats. Half of me was as high as anyone there wired on coke or pot or ’faced on booze, but the other half of me was thinking the same thoughts I’d had all day: that there was something lacking in me, that I ought to change. I couldn’t seem to leave myself behind, even for Springsteen.

I couldn’t seem to leave Nicki behind, either.

I’d done a double take the second she’d stepped out of Dad’s bedroom. She had on these black fishnet tights with an orange dress over them. Tipped forward on her head was one of these porkpie jobs in black leather. But it was the black-leather fringe jacket that got to me. There was a picture of a white Corvette slamming into a red Porsche, with other sleek sports cars rammed into each other behind it, white stars shooting out above it. Under that in yellow were the words: TRAFFIC ACCIDENT.

She’d said Ski’d found it for her.

“What’s it supposed to mean?” I asked her.

“It’s just a traffic accident, see?”

I kept watching her all through the concert.

If anyone knew how to enjoy a rock concert, Nicki did. She stood on her seat mesmerized when Bruce Springsteen sang songs like “I’m on Fire,” then jumped down and danced in the aisles to numbers like “Thunder Road,” and “Dancing in the Dark.” She sang, whistled, shouted, squealed, and clapped.

Jack was trying hard to whip himself up, sneaking sips of Long Island Tea he’d brought along in a flask, wearing a Sting T-shirt Nicki’d given him for his birthday. Dill was excited, but Dill excited was Dill grinning broadly and grabbing my hand—nothing ever completely totaled Dill.

The three of us seemed like grown-ups who’d brought a kid along to the circus, only Nicki wasn’t a kid—one whiff of her perfume told you that, one glimpse of her long legs moving to the beat, a rhinestone bracelet flashing at one ankle.

We were all really pooped after, and in the taxi on the way back to Dad’s, I asked Jack what was in that tea, anyway. He was sitting there singing Elvis Presley’s old torcher “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” Springsteen’s first encore. Jack was doing sort of a slow, dopey version of it, keeping time with his hands.

“Have some and see.” He offered me the flask.

“Erick?” Dill said. “It isn’t tea. I was there this morning when Jack made it.”

“I know it isn’t tea, but what’s in it? Is it strong?”

“Is it strong!” Nicki said, but she’d had only a taste. None of us were drinkers.

“It’s got tequila, rum, vodka, gin, Triple Sec, and lemon juice in it,” Dill said.

“And Coca-Cola,” Jack said. “You just sip a little of it. Have some!”

I passed. We all did but Jack. Dad had put the kibosh on that part of the celebration. Even though he’d said he was going to stay out late so we could have the apartment to ourselves for a while, I didn’t dare get wrecked anywhere around him … I didn’t know how to figure Dad’s mood. He didn’t seem at all teed off at the fact the girls’ luggage was at Pete’s. All he wanted was our promise not to hang out after the concert. Pick up a pizza on the corner of Eighty-second and Second, he’d said. I’ll see you tomorrow, or if you’re up very late, later.

We stopped for the pizza. (We’d left the meat loaf in Pete’s refrigerator.)

While Jack and I were paying for the pizza at the counter, I said, “When did my old man show up?” We hadn’t had a chance to talk since that morning.

“Nicki and I took a walk, because as soon as you and Dill left, Nicki started talking about going back to Seaville right away. She always wants to go when she gets anyplace. I got her calmed down, but he was there when we got back from the walk, around three.”

“Sorry, old buddy.”

“Don’t be. It wouldn’t have been the right time anyway. She wanted to see Springsteen so damn much, then she pulls this ‘let’s go’ shit! I can’t figure her out. She says she hates to stay till the end of anything.”

“She sounds bananas to me,” I said, and I noticed Jack lurching.

“This girl’s got me on a roller coaster. I’m flying!”

“You’re flying, all right. Why are you drinking?”

“No Coach Paul lectures, please.”

“Coach Paul would have your ass if he could see you now.”

“I feel great!” Jack said.

“Do you know what I’m saying, Jack? You’re not really irresistible when you drink. You sing off-key, too.”

“Do you know what
I’m
saying? I’ll probably marry this girl!”

“Now you’re going to marry her.” I didn’t want to hear about it. “What’d you all talk about for an hour, while you were waiting for Dill and me?”

“College. S-A-T.s. Your dad said I really ought to go to college, and he got Nicki saying the same thing. I kept thinking at the concert, maybe I ought to go.”

“Then go!” I said.

“It’s a crazy idea, just when I meet someone I don’t ever want to leave. What college could I get in?”

“Shit, Jack!”

“Don’t say shit Jack! What college could I get in?”

“What college can
I
get in? When we get back to Seaville, we’ll talk about it. You’re not in control, buddy.”

“I love her, Erick. She says we have to be careful today, because it’s the fifth and five is a mystic number that means trouble.”

“Don’t have any more, okay? Dad’s going to break my butt if you’re drunk when he gets back.”

Dad’s apartment consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, a study, and a kitchen off the living room. I figured Dad could sleep on the couch in his study, Jack on the living-room couch, me on some pillows from the couch on the living-room floor.

It was Dill’s idea to change for bed, then eat the pizza in the living room, watching MTV.

Since Jack and I didn’t have anything to change into (we slept in our shorts) we put the pizza out on the coffee table and found some paper plates up in Dad’s cupboard.

Dill came out of the bedroom first, wearing a pair of her dad’s old striped pajamas with the sleeves and pants rolled up.

I cornered her in the kitchen. “Jack’s still drinking.”

“I’d drink, too, if she was my date for a birthday weekend. Didn’t she think of a cake? Some candles we could put on top of the pizza? Something?”

“She gave him the T-shirt,” I said.

“That thing will fall apart in the wash,” Dill said. “She wouldn’t wear it herself. Have you noticed the clothes she’s brought along for herself this weekend?”

Right on cue, Nicki came out of the bedroom in a silk robe that looked like it was torn at the bottom, with something white and silk and torn-looking under it. Barefoot, the same rhinestone ankle bracelet. The white lace scarf she’d worn around her neck to the concert was holding back her long blond hair.

We sat around gobbling down pizza and watching MTV, but the fun was gone out of the evening for Dill, who looked like a little boy over on Dad’s couch. Nicki spread herself out on the rug, leaning back against a pillow, blowing perfect smoke rings up at the ceiling. The Long Island Tea was beginning to show on Jack. He was stretched out on the rug, too, on his back, trying to talk with his eyes closed, close to konking out.

Dad’s apartment always looked like the maid just left, and I was running around after we ate, getting the pizza carton and the paper plates ready to carry down to the incinerator.

Dill came into the kitchen and said, “All she needs is a feather boa wrapped around her neck. I feel like some eighth grader still going through my tomboy stage.”

“What the hell am I going to do about Jack when Dad gets here?”

“Leave Jack where he is. I’ll get her to bed. Let’s just start all over tomorrow. Okay?”

I kissed her. I said, “Do you want to take a walk in Central Park tomorrow morning? Early?”

“Just the two of us, please,” Dill said.

I kissed her again. I could hear Nicki in the background saying, “Jack? Wake up!” I knew she’d never wake him up if he’d passed out.

I could hear Honeymoon Suite singing their old song about a hot summer night and a new girl.

“Nicki?” Dill called in. “Bedtime. Okay?”

“Okay,” she called back. “Go ahead and use the bathroom first.”

I took everything down to the incinerator.

When I came back, Nicki was standing in the kitchen. I could hear the water running in the bathroom down the hall.

“I can’t wake Jack up,” Nicki said. She leaned against the refrigerator and watched me. “What did you like best in the concert?”

“‘Thunder Road,’ I guess. I like that bit he does at the end, on his knees, when he slides across to the saxophonist.”

“I like ‘Born in the U.S.A’ best,” Nicki said. “That part about the woman his brother loved in Saigon? About him having a picture of his brother in her arms?”

I kept smelling that perfume of hers.

She said, “I liked ‘Dancing in the Dark,’ too. I wouldn’t mind being asked to dance with him like that girl was tonight? He did the same thing on the video, asked a girl from the audience up onstage.”

“Nicki,” I said, “Jack doesn’t usually drink.”

“I don’t care if somebody drinks. Ski drank.”

“I just wanted you to know that.”

“It’s how somebody drinks.”

“That’s why he isn’t drinking well. He doesn’t drink.”

“He doesn’t drink well, and he doesn’t let me talk about things. I can’t even mention Ski’s name.”

“Jack’s jealous. You can’t blame him.”

“But I like to talk about things. I can, with you.” She had her arms folded in front of her, her head cocked to one side, eyes watching me that way, one eyebrow raised.

I heard Dill call, “Good night,” as she came out of the bathroom.

“Good night,” I called back.

“Tell Nicki the bathroom’s free.”

“She’s trying to wake Jack up to say good night,” I said.

And Nicki smiled.

“Is that what I’m doing?” she said softly.

“I just said that so she wouldn’t think …” I didn’t have a finish for it.

I heard the bedroom door shut.

“So she wouldn’t think what?” Nicki said.

“Whatever you girls think,” I mumbled.

We were inches away from each other.

“See, I’m not one of the girls,” Nicki said.

“I know you’re not.” I thought she could probably see my heart coming through my shirt.

I turned around to get a glass of water I didn’t even want, just to do something with my hands besides put them on her.

“It’s funny, because I never thought you liked me,” she said.

“I like you fine.” I could hardly hear my own words.

“I know you do, now.”

I thought I heard her say my name, but I wasn’t sure. I kept running the water.

Then she touched my shoulder.

“Hey? Erick?”

“What?”

I turned around. I felt her arms reach up to my shoulders and I just gave in. I felt silk. I felt the soft wetness of her mouth, and the warm rush of my blood.

“Hello? It’s me!” I heard Dad’s voice in the foyer. “Where is everyone?”

I let go of her.

“In the kitchen, Dad!”

Then we turned around, and Dad was standing there with the Sunday
Times
under his arm.

“Hi, Mr. Rudd! How’s Pete?” Nicki said.

“Pete’s fine!” Dad said. “How was the concert?”

I didn’t even attempt to wake up Jack. Jack was the last person I wanted to face right then, anyway.

Nicki said good night and disappeared into the bedroom.

It was past one in the morning. Dad usually went to bed around eleven.

I told him I’d sack out in the living room with Jack, figuring Dad couldn’t wait to get into his study and hit the couch.

But Dad surprised me by getting down a glass, getting out some ice cubes, and splashing some scotch over them.

“I’m going to have a drink, Erick. Come into the study with me.”

I didn’t like the tone of his voice, or the set of his shoulders, squared way back beyond the posture for Raps #1, #2, or #3. Something told me I’d been a jackass to think Dad would ever let me get away with lying about where the girls were staying that weekend. Not Dad. He just wasn’t going to chew me out in front of the others. Dad could always bide his time.

I watched him run his hands over his nearly bald head as I walked behind him into the study. I stood there while he set down his glass and said, “Shut the door.”