Motorcycle Roadkill Page 8

  Josh leans his head slightly toward Grant, as if to listen closer. There's a brief pause, then bang. It's such a sudden and chaotic blur of motion that it's hard to understand what I'm seeing. Like a bomb going off, Josh's forehead slams into Grant's nose. Before Grant can even flinch, Josh's fingers dig into his throat. He pounces. Over the noise of the crowd, the band music, and the ringing in my ear, the sound of Grant's head slamming against the wall is heard.

  Grant sways for a brief moment with the Saints singing in his ear. As if a switch has been flipped, the lights go out. His knees buckle and—with Josh still on top of him—he crumples to the ground. Josh looks like he's wrestling a raincoat, as his left hand digs into Grant's jersey. His right—clenched into a fist—pounds against his jaw.

  There's a collective stupor among the goons, who appear just as stunned as I am. No one—especially not me—thought that anyone—let alone Josh—would ever take a shot at Grant on his own turf. It's... unreal, like I'm hallucinating or something.

  Scoot wades into the fray, but he doesn't appear like he's trying to be a bad ass about it. His hands raise in an easy-there expression. “It's over, man,” he says, as he throws his arms around Josh.

  Josh pushes back, writhing and wriggling to get free. They're a tangle of limbs, as they roll off of Grant. Scoot glances up at me with an expression that seems to say: “hey, he's your friend. Can't you do something?” But there truly isn't. For one thing, I'm off my rocker from the little dragon I drank, but I'm not even sure who Josh is right now.

  Scoot adjusts his grip on him, as a voice booms out: "Disperse, gentlemen, disperse." It's a local Thife, doing his best to reprise the role of T.J. Hooker, as played by William Shatner. Scoot turns toward the deputy as if to say “it's all him.” The deputy leans in, grabs hold of Josh's wrist with one hand and fetches his handcuffs with the other.

  As the hand cuff clicks around Josh's wrist, I turn toward the bleachers. For the first time, I'm aware that the music has stopped. The crowd is silent and everyone's watching.

  Josh lets out a yelp. The deputy has his hands cuffed behind his back. His shoulders press against the wall, as he draws his knees to his chest.

  “Are ya gonna give us anymore trouble?” The deputy asks.

  He remains silent, staring at the ground, as if he can see into the future.

  "Josh? Ya hear me?"

  He shakes his head and lets out a shout. “Just get me out of here.”

  “Caleb...” It takes a full thirty seconds for her voice to register with me. My head feels like a blimp, as I sway, staggering around to meet her.

  "Hey Jezzeee." My face is numb and my tongue feels like it's an inch thick. Lindsey appears before me in triple-vision---arms crossed and jaw clenched.

  She glances at Josh, who's sitting on the ground, sobbing, with his hands cuffed behind his back. She shakes her head and shifts her gaze to meet mine.

  "You're drunk," she says, unable to hide the disgust in her voice.

  "Jist a lil' dragon in me, Lenzy"

  "Just another drunken asshole. I thought you were different."

  "Sorreee...."

  "Yeah? Me too." She turns and hurries toward the gates.

  "LENZEEE!!!" I stumble after her, but only make it a few steps. I lose my balance, pitch forward, and find myself on my hands and knees. When I lift my head, she's gone.

  Chapter 14

  Saturday, September 11

  My head feels like it's in a metal bucket and the slightest sound is amplified ten times. A door closes and I feel it in my head. It hurts to think, let alone move. Still, the events of last night keep going round and round in my mind. Me and Josh: drinking behind the bleachers. An image of Grant and Josh pouncing on him. Deputies with handcuffs. Lindsey storming away. The red lights of an ambulance. Grant on a stretcher. I'm alone amidst a sea of sad faces.

  There's a knock at the front door. Maybe it's the police, wanting to know what happened last night. But there's nothing more to tell.

  Dad answers the door. I hear him the way you hear Charlie Brown's mom—not complete words—just a tonal presence. A strange voice interjects, one I don't recognize. La-dub-da-dub-da-da. And-da, dub-da-da. Again, no words, just a tonal presence. There's an agreement between them, a meeting. The door closes. It's time to get up.

  My feet make a loud thud as they hit the floor and I find my way into a pair of jeans and a T-Shirt. Here it goes. I open the door and it hits me: the smell of French Toast. “Come on down, Caleb. Get something to eat.”

  Dad paces the floor, wearing his best suit—navy with pinstripes. He bears resemblance to a Wall Street lawyer. His binder sets on the table—the one he uses when he has to put a sermon together on the fly. An unexpected funeral perhaps.

  “Your tie,” Mom calls. She hovers at the stove, with the silver spatula and the French toast.

  “Oh?” He raises his eyebrow.

  “You should wear the blue one.”

  “Alright then. The blue one it is.” He loosens and slips out of the gray monstrosity that's wrapped around his neck.

  “You're spiffy for a Saturday morning” is all I can think to say.

  He scoops the binder from the table and shuffles into the living room, without acknowledging me.

  "We're meeting with the Carries this morning." Mom scrapes a piece of French toast from the griddle and places it on a Cornell plate. “Your friend's little stunt opened up a riff with the townsfolk.”

  “It's okay to lose a football game, Mom.”

  “Not because someone pounded your star quarterback's head into a wall.” She doesn't mince words, but she's a bit liberal with her use of the word 'star'. She hands me a plate of French Toast and takes a sip from her coffee.

  "What's that have to do with us?"

  "We gotta make a determination on whether this kid's a negative influence on you."

  My fork clangs loudly against my plate. “This sucks! He has to interview my friends now!”

  “Only the ones who get arrested.”

  “Hey, Grant started it. It was just a stupid fight. And Grant had it coming!”

  My head pounds, as the spatula clangs loudly in the sink. Mom spins around with her hands on her hips. “That's about enough! Just listen to yourself? He 'had it coming'? What kind of talk is that?”

  “You don't understand! Grant is.... ughhh....” It's hard to explain just how rotten he is.

  “The Grant boy seems like a decent enough young man.”

  “Well, yeah, he's an asshole.” It just kind of slips out, as my hand covers my mouth. Dad must be wrapped up in his little binder, because he'd rupture a hemorrhoid if he heard the A-word.

  "See? This is just what we were afraid of... You've never talked that way before."

  "I can't believe this!" A wheezy gasping sound ekes from my lungs. There's a tightness in my chest and I'm suddenly a little dizzy.

  “Did you take your medicine?” Mom asks.

  A nod.

  Tires roll into the gravel lot. Mom peeps out the window—her eyes falling upoin a gray Cadillac.

  “What's Mr. Kennon doing here?” Mom asks to no one in particular.

  The driver's door opens and Mr. Kennon emerges from the car, glancing around the lot as he stands. He closes the door behind him, then slowly scans the parking a lot again, as if someone could be hiding in the bushes. With his eyes trained on the street, he steps to the rear of the car and clasps the handle. He pauses, looks around again, then opens the door.

  In the living room, the phone rings once...twice... three times. “Calvary Hill Church. Reverend Calloway speaking.”

  There's a half minute of 'uh-huh' and 'yes' before he speaks again. “No, I wasn't expecting any bank wires... No... Well, how much is it?..... Fifty thousand dollars!” Dad's chair rolls across the tile. “No, it has to be a mistake... Who's it from? No, I've never heard of them. Carrie Community Foundation? Well, uh... just leave it sit for now. I'll look into it and get back to you first thing Monday.”


  There's a knock at the kitchen door. “That's them,” Mom says. I glance back at the Cadillac. Kennon's leaned against the hood, keeping his eye trained on the house.

  “You must be Josh,” Mom says, as she opens the door. Josh stands there, wearing khaki pants and a white Polo shirt.

  “Good morning,” Marilyn calls, as she comes to the door behind Josh. She wears a light blue dress and sunglasses.

  "You must be Caleb." Marilyn practically sings, as she sees me.

  Mom opens the screen door and Marilyn waltzes in with her arms outstretched. Her arms wrap around me, like tentacles, as she hugs me. “Uh, hi,” I mutter, trying to get by with a pat on her back, but she holds—rocking me back and forth, like I'm her long lost cousin.

  “Oh! It's so good to finally meet you!” She releases the hug, but keeps her hands on my shoulders. "Oh, I'm Marilyn...I'm Josh's mom. You must be 'wondering who's this strange hippie hugging on me?'" She's strange, but she's not exactly a hippie. There's an eloquence about her.

  "Of course. Josh has told me all about you," is all I can think to say. But all I really know is that she paints horse portraits. .

  “Good morning.” Dad hurries into the kitchen when he hears her voice—and I mean hurries.

  She glides toward my dad with her hand extended. “Mrs. Carrie? You wouldn't be with Carrie Community Foundation by any chance?” I notice his tone at once. There's nothing extra special about it. Perhaps a little softer, a little crisp. He always talks this way with people who can write checks. And by checks, I mean the ones that matter, not the nickel and dime ones.

  “Well, yes. That's a little venture that I run on the side.”

  “Perhaps, I can have a moment alone with you, Misses Carrie.”

  “Dad...” I call out. He's crossing a major line, with me, with Josh, with everyone.

  “Of course,” Marilyn says. Dad nods toward the living room and she follows behind him.

  Mom glances toward Josh, who's slumped against the wall and holding his head in both hands, then back to me. "So, what happened last night?”

  “Cougars lost,” Josh says flatly.

  “No, I mean with the Grant boy.”

  “Oh, it was a... misunderstanding.”

  "Fair enough. Caleb's father wants to have a talk with you, when he's through with your mom.”

  “When did you get out?” I ask.

  “Oh, I was never actually in... jail. Mom sorted everything out by the time I got there.”

  “Well, alright then,” Dad's voice reaches a pleasant crescendo, as he strolls back into the kitchen with Marilyn a few steps behind him. “Let's get started.”

  “With what?” I ask, as I get up to take my plate to the sink.

  “Talking things through,” Dad says. “Actually, Caleb, why don't you step out. Give us some privacy.”

  I set my plate in the sink and head toward the living room.

  “Do you drink coffee?” Mom voice carries from the kitchen—house isn't soundproof.

  “Of course! I run a coffee shop over on Main Street. Coffee's my main business. I'll take black.”

  Mom sets a white saucer and a cup on the table. Dad gestures for Marilyn to take a seat. “Caleb's new here. We all are, actually. And after we found out about what happened at the game last night, we just wanted to make sure, he's not running with the wrong crowd.”

  “He's a good kid.... Josh. He's got a good heart. And to be honest with you, he's kept pretty much to himself since his brother died.”

  “Oh....” Mom's voice wavers with sadness. She nearly weeps. “You've lost one. I'm so sorry.”

  “We're very sorry to hear that,” Dad adds.

  Her voice becomes hoarse. “Thank you. It's been... hard. Unbelievably hard.”

  “Is there a father?” Mom asks.

  “Out of the picture.” Her voice glides between a singing tone and a shout.

  Josh chimes in: “he's just down the road!”

  “Well, he's out of my picture.” Marilyn raises her voice.

  Josh gets up and walks halfway across the living room. “But it's not like he's in another country!”

  “Josh really does mean well, bless his heart.”

  "I believe you.” There's the sound of swilling coffee. A cup clinking against a saucer. “But, as a mother, you understand my concern."

  "Of course I do. But I really think it's good that they hang out. Caleb's the first person Josh has really been able to open up to... And Caleb has to feel all alone here.” She's right on that part. I do feel all alone here.

  “He'll adjust,” Mom says. “It's just new to him.”

  My eyes wander out the front window. Before I know it, Dad's voice is a soft murmur in the background, going on and on his usual drivel.

  More than anything, I want to get outta here for a while. Out of this house. Out of this confined little box that I'm in. The sun's out and it's not a bad morning for a walk.

  Quietly, I slip out the front door.

  Chapter 15

  Strolling down Main Street, I absentmindedly stumble off the curb. My balance shifts and it's like my body's ahead of my feet. Staggering forward, my arms flail about, trying not to fall, but it's inevitable. The pavement greets me with a nasty bitch-smack. A gray Pontiac vrooms toward me and screeches on the brakes at the last moment. The driver gives me a what-the-hell and sits on his horn, as if he's got someplace important to be in this godforsaken town.

  “I'm okay. Thanks for asking."

  The driver glares at me, revving his engine, as I regain my footing and shuffle toward the curb. More than anything I want to flip this guy the bird for being so rude, but if he doesn't know who I am already, it won't take him long to find out. A long and agitated conversation with the 'rents would ensue about how it's so unbecoming of me to make obscene gestures at motorists.

  Tires squeal behind me and the Pontiac's engine screams. At the curb, I glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of a scrawny guy with scraggly red hair. The Pontiac fishtails, as the driver guns it. With a jolt, the car lurches forward.

  My eyes return to the sidewalk, as the Pontiac quiets in the background. No squealing tires. No crunching metal. Too bad.

  My eyes are glued to my feet, because apparently I can't even walk and think at the same time. I don't notice when hobble in front of Broad Strokes. Truth is: I'm still a little blown away about everything. What Grant did to Jimmy. What Josh did to Grant. Throw on top of it that Lindsey's plenty pissed at me.

  By now, it's plain to see that Lindsey doesn't like me, or at least not in the kind of way that inspires a country song. No, she likes me the other non-special kind of way, the kind of liking that's not even interesting enough to make it into the Bible. I'm like a distant relative that she'd meet at a family reunion, where it's good to see them, but they somehow don't make it on the Christmas card list.

  “Hi, Caleb.” A voice rouses me from my daydream.

  "Oh! Jesus!" just kind of slips out of my mouth, but not in the Holy Roller kind of way.

  It's like she's a genie or something and she can read my thoughts. Think about her and there she is. Lindsey stares at me through a broken window. Crouched down, she sweeps shards of glass into a pile. A sheet of cardboard leans against the table beside her. I'm guessing that she's gonna use it to cover the window.

  “Uh....” My eyes bug out, as I gawk at the broken window. “Holy hell!”

  “Good to see you too,” she laughs and continues sweeping.

  “What happened?”

  "Does it really need explaining?" She looks up at me, as she reaches for a dustpan. There's a peculiar glint in her eyes that I haven't really seen in anyone before. She almost seems to laugh at me, but there's something else in her gaze as well—something I can't quite place.

  "Who did this?"

  "Well, the note on the brick rhymes with Brother Trucker, so I'm guessing they're teamsters."

  "Huh?"

  "Forget it." She makes one of those b
ird-flew-over-your-head gestures. "You should come on inside."

  "What for?"

  "So we can talk."

  "I thought you didn't like drunk assholes."

  "You're just another drunk asshole..."

  "And I'm no different. That's what you said."

  "I never said I didn't like them. Besides, you're not drunk now, but seeing how you fell off the sidewalk, I'd never know it."

  All at once, my cheeks feel like they're on fire. There's this strange mixture of bashfulness and shame swimming around inside of me. Bashful—I guess—because it's Lindsey. Shame, because she has a knack of spotting me at the worst possible moments. "So? You like me?"

  "Maybe. Do you like me?"

  "Jesus! What is this? Middle school? You need me to circle 'yes' or 'no'?"

  She smiles. "Ya know, you're awfully high-strung? No, wait... Have you started your period yet?"

  My laugh sounds like a car on bad gas. "No... I haven't... started my period...yet."

  "That's good, because I can't handle the both of us raggin' at the same time." She glances at the clock. "Come on inside, Caleb. Josh was asking about you this morning."

  "Really? What about?"

  "Come in, if ya wanna talk with me. I'm getting ready to put this cardboard over the hole."

  Silent but pliant, my feet bumble toward the door.

  Inside Broad Strokes, Bach's Cello Suites play across the sound system. She watches me as I come through the door, nods, and makes this face like she knows all about me. But really she has no idea. She can't possibly know what's going on with me.

  A table with a chair pulled out waits for me across the shop. It's a table in the corner, beneath a life-sized poster of Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  “What's wrong?” she asks, noticing how I rubbed at my eyes.

  "My parents are interrogating Josh."

  "I'm sure they're just looking out... Mine would do the same thing."

  "Really?"

  Her face becomes a sympathetic smile. "They gotta have a dozen questions, especially with Josh acting as crazy."

  "I guess he is a bit of a nut." A trickle of sweat drips from my forehead. Not wanting to look like a total slob, I quickly wipe it away. "Uh... did you know Josh had a brother?"