All American Boy (3 page)

“He was a bad boy, Walter,” she says finally. “Such a bad one. He got into so much trouble as a boy. You remember, don't you? You were a good boy, Walter, but he was bad.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Oh, but you
were
good, Walter. You—”

“You know what I did, Mother!” Her son is raising his voice now. “Stop saying I was a good boy!”

I dug a grave in the backyard. That's where he is. I'm sure that's where he is
.

“You all wanted to make me out to be a good boy, but I wasn't.” Walter is looking at her with hard, glassy eyes. “You know what I did, even if you won't talk about it.”

“It was Kyle who was bad, Walter. Don't you remember when he stole that money from Father Carson? Oh, how ashamed poor Bernadette was. And then he got into that fistfight with his teacher. Remember, Walter? How embarrassing it was for the family?”

Walter laughs. “
That's
what embarrassed the family, Mother? Nothing else?”

Beside the poplar trees
.

“A bad boy, Walter. That's what Kyle was. A very bad boy.”

Already at ten Kyle was bad. Sitting beside his parents as Walter received his certificate from Sister Angela, Kyle had squirmed and made noises with his hands. “Farting noises,” he'd called them, and though Bernadette had shushed him, it was to no avail. Sister went on singing Walter's praises, commending his perfect attendance and straight As, but Kyle would not be silenced. Regina felt a spitball land in her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bernadette take the boy by the arm out of the room to spank him, but Kyle managed to wriggle out of her grip and run away, disrupting the whole ceremony.

Such a bad boy.

If only he had never come back.

“I'm sure your father will be very proud,” Regina told Walter that day, shutting out Kyle's cries from her ears. She told her son to hold up his certificate so that she could take a photograph and send it to Robert on the aircraft carrier. Somewhere down here in the basement she still has the photos from that day, probably in one of those moldy boxes stacked against the far wall. But it doesn't matter where they are: she can see them clearly in her mind. Walter was wearing his Boy Scout uniform that day, and he was beaming, a big ear-to-ear grin, holding up the school certificate that proclaimed him a straight-A student. Regina had snapped a dozen photographs, sending them all to Robert. And when he got them, she was certain, her husband had passed them around to all of his men, boasting, “This is my son. My son Walter, the future admiral.”

“Walter's a faggot! Walter's a faggot!”

Kyle was shouting from the back of the hall. His mother had finally caught him and was spanking him, but it made no difference. Still he shouted, still he tried to ruin Walter's moment.

“Mom,” Walter is saying. “Come upstairs.”

She stands but doesn't follow. The basement smells damp and musty. It's been years since she's been through all these boxes. So many of them are Robert's things. She has no idea what he might have been holding onto. After he left the service there were things he told her never to look at, never to open or ask questions about. So she never did. Boxes stamped USN have mildewed down here ever since he died.

“You ought to have your father's things,” she tells her son.

“I don't want his things.”

“Then
your
things, Walter. I still have all your things here. All your toys, your comic books, your school papers—”

“I have everything I need, Mom.”

“But look, Walter. Do you remember?”

She bends down and retrieves from the cobwebs a plastic model of Frankenstein's monster. She holds it out to Walter, who takes it from her and looks down at it in his hands.

“I had them all,” he says. “Frankenstein, the Wolfman, the Phantom of the Opera.” He lifts his eyes to look over at Regina. “I glued them all together and then painted them.”

“Oh, yes, Walter. How you loved your models.”

“Dad said it was like playing with dolls.”

Regina just makes a little sound in her throat.

“Don't you remember, Mom? How he said it was a sissy hobby? If I wanted to build models, why not of ships? Or airplanes?”

“You had a Dracula model, too. It must be here somewhere—”

“He brought me home a kit for an aircraft carrier. Do you remember that, Mom? When I never built it, he got so pissed he went into my room and broke my Wolfman model into bits, right in front of my eyes.”

She finds the Dracula model and hands it over to Walter. He doesn't take it. He just stands there looking at her.

“You never said anything,” her son tells her. “He did what he wanted. You never said a word.”

“You were a good boy, Walter,” she says. “You were a very good boy.”

And he was. Straight As from first grade until ninth. Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Eagle Scout. Everyone said Walter Day would go far in life. That he'd make his parents proud.

Not like Kyle Day. Oh, no, not like him at all. Kyle Day shamed his parents. That's what sent poor Albert, Robert's brother, to an early grave, and why poor Bernadette, Albert's wife, took to drink. It was all Kyle's fault. He was a bad, bad boy.

That's why I did what I did
, Regina tells herself. He was bad. To the core.

I buried him in the backyard. That's where he is. Out by the poplar trees
.

“His car is still in the garage,” Walter says, after they've gone upstairs.

“Yes,” Regina agrees. “It's still there.”

Her son sighs. “Wherever he went, somebody else was apparently driving.” Walter gazes out at the car through the door between the kitchen and the garage. “Looks like the car meant a lot to him, the way it's been rebuilt and all.”

“Oh, yes, it did,” Regina says, looking at the car darkly. “He was always out there, working on it, polishing it.”

It's a shined-up, repainted 1979 red and gold Trans Am. The interior is all-new black leather. Regina remembers when he had it installed, how he was out there all day, cursing, spitting, drinking beer.

“Odd that he'd leave it behind,” Walter says.

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

He's looking at her. “Why was he living here?”

“He had no where else after your Aunt Bernadette died.”

“How long was he here?”

“This last time, maybe three weeks. But he'd been using this as his base for the past few years.”

Walter sighs, walking into the living room. He passes by her jigsaw puzzle, moves a few pieces around with his fingers, then gives up. He sits down on the couch. Regina is watching him carefully. There had been blood on the couch. Can he smell it? Does he notice anything? Regina had washed the cushions as best as she could, then turned them over to hide any lingering stains.

She sits in a chair opposite her son. “How long can you stay, Walter?”

“Just a day or so.”

“Are you sure you won't stay here?”

“No, thank you.”

“You'll stay with—her?”

He nods. “Yes. I'll stay with Miss Aletha. I called her this morning.”

She isn't really a her
, Regina thinks.
She used to be called Howard Greer and the men always used to pick on him
.

“Before you go, Walter,” Regina asks, sitting forward in her chair, “maybe I could ask you to do another favor for me.”

He narrows his eyes at her. Once again he reminds her of Robert. “What's that?” he asks, not quite generously.

“I want to get some soil. I want to build a rock garden.”

“Mom, it's October.”

“Yes, well, I want the soil ready for the spring. I want you to just make a little mound of earth, out in back by the poplar trees.”

The grave is shallow. Anyone can find it. Dogs will dig him up
…

“Mom, these favors—”

“Please, Walter.”

He leans back into the cushions on the couch. “Have you been getting confused like this a lot? Have you seen your doctor?”

“I told you. Doctor Fitzgerald died—”

“Then you need to see another doctor.”

“All that's wrong with me is a little arthritis.”

“You told me you thought you were losing your mind.”

“I said that?”

He stands, seeming angry with her. She follows him with her eyes. Oh, but he is the exact likeness of Robert. He even walks the same way.

“Will you get the soil for me, Walter? Please?”

Did she ever love him? Of course she did. What a silly question. He was her son. A bright-eyed boy with so much imagination. He was like Rocky in that way. Oh, Walter would have loved his aunt, and Rocky would have loved him. Before Mama died, Rocky would put on little shows in the parlor, giving Regina songs to sing and parts to play. It's clear where Walter got his imagination. When he was a boy, he would make up stories and act them out in the backyard. He'd watch that vampire soap opera on television when he'd get home from school and then afterward run around the yard with a blanket, using it as a cape, biting imaginary girls on the neck. Sometimes Grace Daley would call from next door and say she'd been watching him talk to himself, suggesting that maybe he ought to see a psychiatrist. “Oh, he just has an active imagination,” Regina would tell her. “He's just like my sister.”

In fact, Bernadette had often wished Kyle was as creative as Walter. “All Kyle's interested in is fighting and soldiers,” Bernadette had confided to her. “He scares me, Regina. He really does.”

Give me the money, you crazy old cunt
.

“He was a bad boy,” Regina murmurs. “A very bad boy.”

Kyle had had a girlfriend. Her name was Luz. Just a girl of eighteen, far too young for Kyle. After all, Kyle was Walter's age; they would have been in the same class at school if Kyle hadn't been held back in third grade, to Bernadette's undying shame. Kyle was more than
thirty
when he started seeing Luz, and Regina was simply horrified. He would bring the girl to Regina's house and he'd kiss her right here on this couch. Oh, but it was horrible to watch. From the hallway Regina would spy on them kissing and she'd cry. She'd just cry and cry and cry. Luz was a good girl. Regina knew that from the start—and it was because of Luz that Regina did what she did.

Luz Maria Carmelita Sanchez Vargas was her name. Almond eyes, black hair, beauty mark. She'd won a beauty contest at school in Puerto Rico, and Regina could see why. They became friends, Luz and Regina, with the girl seeming to like the older woman as much as Regina liked her. They'd sit together at the kitchen table while Kyle was out, Luz helping Regina with her puzzles. She was very good at them. And they'd talk, and drink orange tea, and laugh. It had been so long since Regina had laughed.

And, oh! How the police have hounded poor Luz. “They have been asking me all sorts of questions,” Luz told her yesterday, near tears. “They said I had to know
something
. But I don't, Mrs. Day!
You
believe me, don't you?”

“Yes, of course, dear.”

Every day since Kyle was reported missing, Luz has visited Regina. They don't talk much about him. They talk about other things, like the weather, and school, and how proud Luz had been to win that beauty contest. Luz makes Regina smile, and she's started helping her around the house, too. One day, the girl had spotted Regina wheeling her little cart of groceries and saw how difficult it was for Regina to lift the bags from it.

“Let me help you,” Luz insisted.

“Oh, thank you, dear. Arthritis, you know.”

Now, every week, Luz takes her grocery shopping and helps her clean around the house, vacuuming, dusting, scouring the sink. Regina watches the girl work as if mesmerized.

“Here,” Regina said yesterday, when the girl had finished vacuuming. “Let me give you something.” She opened her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

“Oh, no,” Luz objected. “Please, no.”

“But can't I give you
any
thing for your help, Luz?”

“No, no, no, Mrs. Day,” Luz said. “I like helping you.”

“Bless you, dear,” Regina said, and snapped shut her black patent-leather purse. On its surface, Regina saw the reflection of her face.

“Mother.”

Her eyes flutter back to her son.

“I think you need to see a doctor,” he's saying.

Yes, there's compassion in his voice. Regina is sure of it.

“It's difficult for me to get around,” she protests. It's true. She'd never learned to drive. Rocky died in a car crash. Regina can't imagine ever being behind the wheel of a car.

Walter sighs. “Make an appointment and I'll take you tomorrow.”

She blinks.

“Will you do it?”

“All right, Walter.”

He turns to leave.

“But the soil, Walter—”

He looks back at her.

“Will you get the soil?”

“Why am I doing
any
of this?” he suddenly shouts. “Why the fuck did I come back here?”

Regina takes a step backward, startled by his outburst. Yes, like Robert. So much like Robert.

“Because I needed your help, Walter,” she says in a tiny voice. “You came because I needed your help.”

“No, Mother. That's
not
why I came. Do you know why I finally agreed to come back to Brown's Mill? Any clue?”

She says nothing.

“Because I want to find Zandy.”

Regina makes that sound in her throat again.

“You know who I mean, Mother.” He says the name deliberately. “
Alexander Reefy
.”

She looks away.

“
He's
the reason I came back here, Mother. Not you. I want to find Zandy and apologize to him for sending him to jail.”

Once, she'd been a girl who thought maybe, just maybe, she might become a famous singer. She and Rocky both. What did the Andrews Sisters have on the Gunderson Sisters? Regina and Rocky were both pretty enough and talented enough. “Voices as sweet as birdsong,” the
Brown's Mill Reminder
had declared after their gig at the VFW hall. So they ran off to the city to become famous. Eventually, Aunt Selma sent Uncle Axel to reclaim them in his old Ford pickup truck, but for a while, there had been the stage, and the microphone, and all those servicemen applauding, hooting, whistling with their pinkies between their teeth.