Where the Kissing Never Stops (4 page)

“I called Peggy,” he said. “Everything’s set for Friday.”

“How’s Peggy?”

He shrugged. “The same, I guess. Actually she sounded good, anxious to hear some reggae.”

“She likes you; she always has.”

“Get serious,” he said, punching on the stereo. But before he could take his Jimmy Cliff CD out of its jewel case, on came some sleazy drum track:
boom boom bah boom.

He looked at me quizzically. “Your mother’s homework?”

“God, turn that thing off.”

When Sully’s music came on, I tried to get into it, but I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

“Let ’em float,” he said, showing me.

Sully was very good — light and supple, completely effortless.

“How’s this?” I asked.

“I think you should move your feet a little; it looks like you’re about to do a standing broad jump.”

“Any better?” I said.

“You’ve got to move your arms, too. Now you’re just shuffling around the floor like a janitor.”

“Do you think girls really care if a guy can dance or not?”

“They seem to; at least some do.”

“Do you think Rachel does?”

“Who knows?”

I seemed to be able to move my feet or my arms, but not both at the same time, like poor old Frankenstein. When I got the hands and arms right, I just stood rooted to the floor like a tree in the wind. Once I started to move my feet, though, I froze from the waist up.

“What happened?” asked Sully. “Really. You and Debbie used to dance.”

“Rachel seems a lot different from Debbie.”

“Rachel talks. Debbie had a smaller vocabulary than Mr. Amoeba in the Science Series.”

“She talked about getting married.”

“You said if you ever did, I’d be your best man. Then she up and moved on us.”

“In her first letter she said she loved me and would write every day.”

“Which was also the last letter, as I remember.”

“Tell me about it.”

“That love stuff is hard to figure. My dad says love is just a glandular misapprehension.”

“Your dad should stick to surgery.”

Sully kicked at the green carpet. The music throbbed in the background. Jimmy Cliff sang about love, how he’d lost it or found it or bought it or sold it or wanted it.

Love is funny stuff. Sully loved his father, but he was also scared of him, too scared to do anything but walk right where he walked, like the whole world was a minefield. Mom said she loved me, but worked in a strip joint anyway. And Debbie, who said it a hundred times a day, wrote that one lousy letter.

For the next few days I stuck to my schedule: going to the library after school, waiting until I was sure the house was deserted, then eating dinner alone, washing my two dishes, studying, or watching TV until it was time to hide in my bedroom.

The night of the concert, though, I had to be home, and my mom came into my room holding a long envelope. She was dressed in jeans and a new Western shirt with pearl buttons and fringe across the front.

“Howdy, pardner,” she said, obviously inspired by her get-up. “I came to warn you about desperadoes and claim jumpers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, watching her in the mirror, where I was inspecting blemishes.

“Forty acres of land just outside of town.” She thrust a long envelope at me. “There’s a map in here and some lawyer’s mumbo-jumbo, but what it boils down to is your dad left you a college education.” She was smiling, obviously elated.

I took the slender white parcel. “So what do I do, sell it?”

“That’s the general idea.” She surveyed me. “You look nice, by the way.”

“What’s it worth?”

“That was a compliment; compliments are free.”

“You know what I mean.”

She shrugged. “I’ve heard everything from seventeen to seventy thousand, so it’s somewhere in between. I just know that if we’re careful, it’ll take you through all four years.”

I turned the envelope over. “And it’s all mine?”

“You need my signature,” she said, “in case you’re thinking about buying a Corvette.”

When I didn’t smile back, she said, “Still mad, huh?” And when I wouldn’t answer but just stared down at my shoes, polished three times, she added, “Well, you just keep making your face bleed. I’ll call you when Sully comes.”

“Your mom looks great,” said Peggy, who sat between Sully and me in the front seat. “She asked me if I could do her hair. She said she’s got this new job and wants to look good. What’s the new job, anyway?”

“She works in a hospital,” I said as Sully blurted out, “Bartender.”

“Bartender in a hospital, huh? Does that make it okay to nurse your drinks?” She waited for somebody to laugh. “I can keep a secret, you know. If you really don’t want me to say anything, I won’t. I’d do anything for you guys, you know that.”

“Hairdressers’ gossip,” I said.

“Who would I tell, anyway? The people who come into the barber college live in rented rooms and read the
Weekly World News.
All we talk about is the alien’s baby, the guy with the hiccups for twenty years, and was that a picture of Jesus on the Holy Volvo or not.”

“You’ll tell.”

“I won’t.”

“She won’t,” said Sully.

“She’s a hooker,” said Peggy.

“Who is?”

“Your mom. That’s the secret.”

“Get serious.”

“Does she have cancer? Everybody in the
Enquirer
has cancer. Elizabeth Taylor’s bird had it.”

“Why would my mom want to have her hair done if she had cancer?”

“What, then?”

Mumble mumble.

“I can’t hear you.”

“She’s a stripper.”

“So?”

“That’s it. Isn’t that enough?”

“My mom was a topless dancer for a while in the sixties. My roommate just before this one worked in the strip joints in Rantoul, Illinois. I know about five guys who want me to try it.”

“You’re too skinny,” Sully said.

“I’ve got great legs. Anyway, what’s the problem, Walker?”

“Just don’t tell Rachel, okay?”

“What, is her father a priest or something?”

Sully — who had been creeping along a wide, curved street — pulled over to the curb.

“Just say you won’t.”

Peggy took my hand — clammy with nerves — and said sincerely, “You know I’d never do anything you don’t want me to. You know that.”

The door to Rachel’s apartment was half open, and when I knocked, her father looked up from his phone conversation and motioned for me to come in. It was the same gesture I’ll bet he’d used on a thousand waiters.

Their place was nice, with burgundy carpets, rose walls, and tall windows, but it looked like they had just moved in: Bekins cartons, open suitcases, a trunk, containers of cold takeout food.

“Business,” he said, hanging up the phone and striding toward me. He was very outdoorsy — Wellingtons, twill pants, a shooting jacket with patches on the elbows. He even smelled like the outdoors — probably some cologne named Big Wind.

He didn’t waste time with small talk, either.

“What does your father do?”

“He passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry.” He indicated the enormous photographs of his wife, half-hidden by fresh flowers. “I know what it’s like to lose someone. How about your mother?”

“No, she’s alive. I just talked to —”

“I guess I meant what does she do.”

“Do?”

“Yes, your mother.” He leaned forward, smiling encouragingly, like I was a quiz show contestant. “Her job,” he urged.

“Oh, well.” I looked around wildly. Behind him a TV murmured. Giddy housewives square-danced with enormous cans of toilet bowl cleaner.

“She dances,” I began, but that was too close to the truth. Suddenly the screen filled with someone lovingly polishing her antiques. “On tables,” I blurted.

He repeated slowly: “She dances on tables.”

“Waits,” I cried. “Waits on them. In a dance hall. Place. A dance place. A nice one. Restaurant.” I was just shouting out words and phrases. It was worse than charades.

“Oh, she’s a waitress!” He seemed relieved to have solved the puzzle.

“Yes, sir.” No one was more relieved than I was.

“What about you, Walter?”

“Walker.”

Patiently he repeated the question. “What do you want to do with your life? Later on, I mean.” He looked right at me and grinned, but only half his mouth moved. “After the concert.”

“I haven’t really decided, sir.”

“Well, you’re a big, good-looking boy. You could do anything.”

Except tell the truth about you-know-what.

“Ever think about land?” he continued. “There’s a ton of money in land. Buying it, selling it, developing it, trading it.” As he talked, he rubbed his hands together in a greedy, yum-yum motion.

“You know,” I said, “it’s kind of a coincidence, but I do own some land. About forty acres out there somewhere.”

“Good for you. I’ll buy it.”

“You don’t even know where it is.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“I’ll still buy it.” I half expected him to take out his checkbook and a roll of bills big as a carpet remnant.

“I think I’d like to use the bathroom.” Anything to change the subject.

“Ah,” he said, looking over my shoulder and opening his arms like a ringmaster. “Here she is now.”

“God, Daddy,” Rachel said, flustered but pleased.

“Isn’t she gorgeous, Walter?”

“Yes, sir.” A cardigan (too big) hung open to reveal a thick V-neck (also too big). Beneath that was a hint of something else. She certainly had the layered look down pat.

“Poor old Dad eats dinner alone tonight, I guess,” Mr. Gardner said, hanging his head and making a big droopy-pooch pout.

“You’ll be fine. Just push the button on the microwave; I marked it with a little happy-face.” She brushed at his spotless jacket. “Promise me you’ll chew; you know what the doctor said. And don’t talk on the phone until you’re done.”

He nodded, turning to me. “She’s a stern taskmaster,” he said happily.

“There’s a little surprise in the freezer for your dessert. And then some messages; I put them on your desk.”

Suddenly he was all business again. “Who from? Kramer, I hope.”

She shook her index finger at him. “Eat first. Look at your food like I showed you; it’s your friend. Then Rice Dream. Then messages. Promise?”

“I love Rice Dream,” he said, and I wondered if he was going to clap his hands.

“But after, okay?”

He nodded sheepishly. “And you two don’t be late.” Suddenly he was all dad again: the ogre at the door. No worse than most fathers, but quite a change from the kid who couldn’t wait for dessert.

“Nice outfit,” said Peggy with so much enthusiasm that Rachel, settling into the back seat, looked at me doubtfully.

“Want to smoke?” Sully asked, leaning toward us with a joint.

I wasn’t interested in drugs at all, only food. Still, every now and then I’d hear about somebody who got
so
high or drank
so
many beers, and I’d sort of wish I had a more dramatic vice. Nobody would ever say, “Wow, that Walker. He ate
so
many fries and
so
much cake.”

Still, I didn’t want Rachel to think I was a prude, so I held the smelly little thing to my lips and made a puckery face. Rachel did the same, grimacing like it was a real roach, legs still waving.

Then she leaned back and arranged her clothes. Then she smiled. I smiled back. She smiled. I smiled back. We were like ships at sea, sending silent messages with our teeth.

Finally I broke the silence. “Your dad seemed nice.”

“He is. He sure acts like a big baby sometimes, though.”

“You mean about…”

“Eating alone, yeah. Ever since Mom died, he needs all this extra attention.”

She wasn’t complaining, though. Not really. I could tell she liked it.

“He wants his shirts done a special way and he hates to eat alone, and he likes for me to screen his calls and go see clients with him and all kinds of stuff.”

Rachel ran out of breath making her list. She sat back in the seat like just talking about her duties was exhausting. Her hand had fallen right beside mine, which was paralyzed.

I thought about giving her a consoling pat, but I didn’t want her to think I was starting to grope her during the first fifteen minutes of our date.

“Why doesn’t your dad just get a secretary to do all that stuff?” Peggy asked.

“He says he’s too busy to find one. See, he wants to build this enormous mall and call it the Garden of Gardner.” She pointed out the window. “Right around here somewhere.”

“Bradleyville already has a mall over on the other side of town.”

“But this isn’t just a mall, you guys.” She scooted forward. About a hundred yards of material piled up in her lap, but for a second I could see one smooth knee. “This is his dream. Bigger than anything anybody ever imagined.”

“Right here?” We were barely on the outskirts of town. Not ten yards away grew corn, soybeans, and spring wheat. I could smell the rich earth.

“I think so. He needs a ton of land. It’s all going to be perfect, see, and completely self-sustaining. A person could be born there and grow up there and die there. He’d never have to leave the Garden.”