The Summer Son (6 page)

T
HE MORNING AFTER
Dad’s fight with Marie, our crew fell back into its patterns. Dad waited for Jerry, Toby, and me outside the diner, staring at his watch as we arrived late. We dined on bacon, eggs, and for the most part, silence.

“Mitch,” he said, “I don’t want you running off like that.”

“I don’t like getting hit in the head,” I said glumly.

Dad kept his head down and stabbed at his breakfast.

“I’m responsible for you.”

Jerry slammed an empty coffee cup on the table. I flinched as the room came to a dead halt. Every eye in the place was on us.

“Then why didn’t you come get him?” Jerry said. “Shit, even Marie knew where to find him.”

Dad kept his voice low. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“It’s bullshit,” Jerry said.

Not a word passed among us as we rode to the field. For the first time, I didn’t sleep, which was just as well. The tension spilling off the men bracketing me made it clear that my head wouldn’t find comfort on either shoulder.

At work, the unspoken rancor between Dad and Jerry came out in obstinate fits. When Dad told Jerry to do something, my brother would do something else, so long as it didn’t fundamentally interfere with the operation of the rig. These were small rebellions—shoveling when Dad asked for mud, going to the cooler in the back of the pickup for a soda when Dad sought a crescent wrench. Because they were such insignificant challenges, they made the old man all the angrier, although he tried gamely (and futilely) to hide it. My brother, so like our father in so many ways, knew exactly what buttons to push.

“It’s uncomfortable to be around them,” Toby said to me when we broke for lunch. Dad took his sack and sat up in the cab of the drilling rig, and Jerry perched at the edge of the pit. Toby and I sat on the tailgate of the pickup. Most days, the four of us would congregate there, cracking jokes and enjoying a rest.

“I wish I had my motorcycle here,” I said. “I could just ride off somewhere.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to punch Jerry out,” Toby said. “Jesus, man, he’s really pissed off.”

I didn’t worry about that. The more likely scenario, I feared, was that Dad would invent a reason to go after Toby. Weakness or stupidity—and Toby sometimes seemed to have significant doses of both—were like scrapple to Dad. Tangling with someone as strong as Jerry wasn’t likely.

Two years earlier, I saw how Dad’s predation worked. A weeklong break loomed, and Dad was antsy to get back to the ranch. The thing was, Dad wasn’t like most guys. Most guys on a drilling crew, when they’re on the verge of a break, they loosen up, lighten up, and let the anticipation buoy them. Dad’s mood grew darker and more erratic as we got closer to shutdown, for reasons I couldn’t reach. Did he hate to stop working? Did he miss home that much? Was he anxious to see Marie? Did he dread it? I couldn’t hazard a guess.

At breakfast, two days before we shut down, Dad cut off all conversation. One of Dad’s hands, Al Moak, shook his head at one point, when another try at morning chatter had been choked off.

“You have something to say, Al?”

“Nope. Obviously.”

“Say it.”

Of all of the workers Dad employed in the summers I spent with him—a score of faces and names that have been pushed out of my head by more immediate concerns—Al Moak was the friendliest. Too friendly, I would say, at least for Dad’s crew. He always had a kind word and a smile, always asked how I was, never seemed too put out to gas up my motorcycle for me. He was the kind of guy you would want as a friend. His manner made him vulnerable to Dad, who hated weakness and couldn’t see the difference between that and kindness.

“Say it, Al.”

Al kept his composure, which ended up being the wrong move. I wonder still if a right move was available to him.

In the parking lot, Dad cracked a right hand across Al’s jaw, dropping him.

I shuddered as I remembered it.

“Just stay away from him,” I told Toby.

My advice to Toby, sound as it was, turned out to be unnecessary. Dad dug just two more holes after lunch and then announced that we were heading back to town. We’d done barely a half day’s work, but nobody said anything. An early shutdown by Jim Quillen amounted to a gift horse.

In town, Dad pulled off the main drag and dropped Jerry and Toby at their place.

“Jerry, I’ve got to go to Cedar City for some things tonight,” Dad said. “I’ll bring Mitch by in an hour or so. I’ll need you to look after him.”

“Why can’t he go with you?”

“I’m going to be late, for one thing, and I need to see some people about business. It’s no place for a boy.”

I bristled at their talking about me as if I weren’t there.

“I can stay at the trailer by myself.”

“No, absolutely not,” Dad said.

“It’s bullshit, dropping this on me without any warning,” Jerry said. “I have plans.”

“Life’s tough, kid. You can miss a night of rutting. I’ll see you in an hour.”

As we rode away, Jerry shot Dad the universal sign of digital defiance. Dad either didn’t see it or didn’t care.

After his bath, Dad preened at the bathroom mirror, giving himself the once-over. Standing there, his torso bare, he showed why he could be such a rough customer. Dad wasn’t imposing at first glance—he was short and had stubby, drumstick legs. But his midsection and arms looked as though they had been cut from stone, and his hands, thickly muscled from manhandling steel, hung from his wrists like small hams. Hardheaded and hard-bodied, Dad could meet any physical challenge.

He whistled as he slapped cologne on his face. The scent of Aqua Velva curled through the trailer.

“What are you doing tonight?” I asked.

“I’ve got to see a guy about some drill bits, and I’m going to get a line on some more work from a couple of friends.”

“Let me go with you. I’ll be quiet.”

“No can do.”

“Jerry doesn’t want me there. I’ll just be in the way.”

“Your brother needs to learn that the world doesn’t always work the way he wants it to. He might as well learn it tonight.”

“He’s just going to take it out on me.”

“Jesus, Mitch, just quit. You’re not going.”

At Jerry’s, Dad didn’t walk me in; he just stopped the truck and told me to get out, and then he tore out of there.

Jerry proved about as welcoming as I expected. He opened the door and summoned me inside. I sat on the couch, and Jerry walked back through the living room and into the bathroom. As Dad had done earlier, Jerry put on deodorant and cologne. I still wore my work clothes. We hadn’t been out long enough for me to get them dirty or for the dust to cling to my sweaty face.

Jerry called to me from the bathroom.

“Look, Mitch, I know this isn’t your fault, but Jesus Christ. This really screws everything up.”

“I know.”

Jerry walked out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, and then he came back into the living room pulling a velour shirt over his head.

“I don’t have a choice, so you’re coming with me tonight. Just be cool.”

“OK. Where are we going?”

“We’re going to have some burgers, then go to Beaver for a movie.”

“Just you and me?”

“No, Denise and Toby and his girlfriend will be there.”

“What movie?”

“Does it matter?”

I kicked at the carpet.

“Mitch, this will all work out if you’re cool. If you’re not, I’ll kick your ass. Do you understand?”

My brother often threatened to kick my ass without ever actually doing it. What would be the point? He was eight years older. Still, given his agitation, I figured that the best answer was the one that would please him.

“Yeah, I understand.”

Denise, Toby, and Toby’s girlfriend waited at the burger joint around the corner. Someone else came along, too.

“Mitch, this is my sister, Jennifer,” Denise said.

I smiled at the girl next to Denise. She had long brown hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and little freckles dotted her nose.

“She’s ten,” Denise said.

“Hi, Mitch,” Jennifer said.

“Hi.”

Trying to hold back the oncoming blush, I sat down across from Jennifer.

“If you want, we could leave you two alone,” Toby said, and his girlfriend threw a french fry at him. That made me think that she was cool, a thought that lasted only until she stood a few minutes later, spread her arms, and yelled, “Who chooses this music? It sucks.” Someone had put Dr. Hook’s “When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman” on the jukebox.

“I like this,” I said. One of the ways I whiled away the hours in the field was by fiddling with the pickup’s radio to intercept whatever signal could reach where we were. I knew every hit from that summer, and I was partial to this song, “Time Passages” by Al Stewart, and “Reunited” by Peaches and Herb.

“You’re just a kid. What do you know?” she said.

“More than you.”

“Mitch,” Jerry said. “I warned you.”

I clammed up.

“Give me a little Bad Company, and I’m fine,” Toby said.

“All day long, brother,” Jerry said, and they slapped a high five across the table.

We rode the thirty-five miles to Beaver in two cars. Jerry, Denise, Jennifer, and I were in Jerry’s Camaro, and Toby and his girlfriend rode in Toby’s Bronco. I sat in the backseat with Jennifer. We hadn’t exchanged more than a hello.

“Don’t you two like each other?” Denise said.

“Sure,” I said.

Jennifer didn’t say anything. I tried to talk to her.

“What grade are you in?”

“I’ll be in fifth.”

“I’ll be in sixth.”

“Where do you go to school?” she asked.

“Garfield Elementary in Olympia, Washington.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It’s a long way. I had to fly in a plane to get here.”

“I’ve never been on one.”

“It’s fun. Mostly.” I remembered my throwing-up episode, and I decided not to share that.

It took a little while for us to start talking, but once we did, we didn’t stop. She told me about her school and her friends and the things she liked to do. They sounded a lot like the things I did back in Olympia: riding bicycles and playing sports and going to church and having sleepovers with friends. I didn’t like Milford very much, and I would never trade all my friends and the places I knew in Olympia for this place—never in a million years would I do that—but I thought I could deal with Milford a little better if I had a bicycle (or a motorcycle) to ride and friends to play with.

When the alien popped out of John Hurt’s stomach during the crew’s dinner, Jennifer grabbed hold of my arm and squeezed. After the scene, her arm stayed in mine. I had never touched a girl like that, for such a long time. I tried not to get a boner, but the youthful rush was more than I could fight. I was thankful that I was sitting and no one could see it.

Plenty of other scenes scared Jennifer, too. I also felt scared, but I tried to act as though I wasn’t.

“I am never, ever, ever, ever eating spaghetti again,” Denise said as we walked back to the car.

“Oh man, that was so great,” Toby said.

“It was gross,” his girlfriend said.

“My favorite part was the end,” Jerry said.

“Yeah, when it was over,” Denise said.

“No, no, when the alien was inside the control panel of the ship. God, that was freaky. I loved it.”

“Were you scared?” I asked Jennifer.

“A little.”

“Me too.”

We got back to Milford a little after ten, and Denise said she and Jennifer had to get home. Jerry drove up to their house, and Denise leaned in and kissed him. Then she whispered something in his ear that made him smile.

It would have been too much to expect a kiss from Jennifer, though a boy could dream. Sure enough, she only waved.

“Bye, Mitch.”

“Bye, Jennifer.”

On the way back to Jerry’s, he said, “Nice girl, isn’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“Glad you came along?”

“Yeah.”

We watched TV awhile, but neither of us found it interesting. Jerry spent most of the time fiddling with a deck of cards, shuffling and shuffling, and I kept talking but not really saying anything. Jerry would swat my chatter across the space between us, and I would just let his volleys roll to the floor and die.

Around eleven, Jerry stood up and said, “Let’s head back to the trailer. He’s got to be home by now.”

When we saw the empty space in front of the Holiday Rambler, Jerry said, “Fuck” underneath his breath.

“Just drop me off,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Shit no. I’d never hear the end of that. Damn, Mitch. This really messes everything up.”

“Come in. There’s beer.” I hoped the offer might placate my restless brother.

“Yeah, yeah, OK.”

He cut the ignition.

Jerry blunted the boredom of the first hour with two Blue Ribbons from the fridge. Then he grew restless and profane.

“Fucking bullshit, man. Where is he?”

I fought my closing eyes. It was nearly midnight, far past the point at which I usually drifted out to sea.

Jerry flipped on the TV and stewed.

The banging of the outside door against the trailer jolted me from sleep. I heard Dad, too loud by half, bellowing through the screen door.

“This will be great,” he said. “My sons are here. You’ll love them.”

Dad lurched up the stairs, followed closely by a tiny blonde wearing about half as much dress as she needed to cover her body. It seemed perversely apropos. I figured her to be half Dad’s age.

Groggily, I tried to absorb the sudden change in the room’s chemistry. My brother no longer sat beside me, basting in his anger. Jerry stood up, jutting his jaw toward our father.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Where in the hell have you been? It’s fucking one a.m.”

“Brenda,” Dad said, straining to stay upright as the alcohol played tricks on his equilibrium, “the mouthy one is my son Jerry. And that guy”—he listed left as he pointed at me—“is Mitch. He’s the friendly one.”