East of Denver (12 page)

PART TWO

CHAPTER 14

FIRST STEPS

Obviously, I didn't go right out and tell Pa about the bank robbery, but I did tell him that we were going to go to Vaughn's place for a meeting next week. At first, he didn't seem interested. I told him it was important. I explained that we were writing a play and we wanted him to be our creative consultant. I told him this several times over the next few days. Slowly, it started to work into his brain. He began saying things like “When's the conference?” or “We have something coming up, don't we?”

The night of the meeting, he put on his suit. His pants were tight. His belly was getting bigger. I couldn't tie his tie. Didn't know how. Never learned. He did it just fine. He shaved twice. He even brushed his teeth without my help.

When I brought him to Vaughn Atkins's basement, Clarissa was already there, sitting on the bed next to Vaughn. They didn't look at us. They were playing
Adventure
on Vaughn's Atari.

I remembered when Vaughn got that game for Christmas. The game cartridge came in an orange box decorated with a golden dragon weaving its way thru a green labyrinth. We were all thrilled at the time, me and him and D.J. Beckman. It was going to be the most amazing game ever. We'd fight dragons and a flying bat and enter three different castles.

The game was less amazing than the box implied. Instead of dragons, you—a small square—fought squarish chickens. Instead of a labyrinth, you wandered thru a maze that looked like it had been cut out of construction paper.

Still, once you got over the fact that the box had lied to you,
Adventure
was a brilliant excuse to sit on your ass for hours.

Vaughn put his hand in the air. “Hang on.” His square was carrying the bridge thru the blind labyrinth in the black castle.

I said, “Gettin' the dot?” You had to find the dot to get into the secret room.

“Just about.” The red dragon glided onto the screen. It made its blippy roar. Vaughn wiggled the joystick desperately.

It was no use. The dragon was too fast. It gobbled up Vaughn's square with a cheerful bleep.

Vaughn tossed the joystick onto the floor. “I had the sword, but the fucking bat.”

Dad, who had been standing silently, said, “Are we going to talk about bats all day or are we going to get something done?”

Vaughn and Clarissa looked at me dumbly. Dad wasn't supposed to assert himself like that.

I shrugged. “He's right. We're here for a meeting. Let's meet.” I turned off the TV.

Dad was comfortable. In control. He said, “What's the? What's the first thing on the?”

“Agenda,” I said.

“What are we doing?”

“We're trying to figure out how to rob a bank,” said Vaughn.

I said, “And we need to know if it would be possible to crack a safe.”

Dad looked worried. “Why are you robbing a bank?”

“We aren't really robbing a bank, Emmett,” said Clarissa. “We're writing a play about it and we'd like you to help us.”

“Whatever,” said Pa. “You want my help or not?”

I led Pa to Vaughn's mom's liquor cabinet. It was a big old thing, about chest high. Dark wood. Wrapped with a thick chain, secured by a padlock. “Can you open this?”

“What for?” He was getting riled up. Bratty. He could tell we were excited and he knew we needed him. I had to calm him down or we wouldn't get anything done. It was a balance. Let him be important without feeling indispensable.

Vaughn started to say something, but I gave him a look.

I said, “Pa, it's okay. We're trying to get in that cabinet so we can see how hard it is to open a safe so we can write a play. We can probably do it without you but it'd be easier with your help.”

“Why don't
you
do it then?”

Clarissa said, “Because none of us is any good at stuff like that.”

“Well, then.” He crossed his arms.

I said, “Can't you just try?”

He looked at the cabinet. Touched the padlock. “That thing is closed up for a reason.”

I said, “We're not going to take anything out of it. We're just going to open it up and close it again.”

Vaughn pulled a stethoscope from under his pillow. In the friendliest voice he could muster, he said, “I got one of these if you need it.”

He handed it to Pa, who looked at it as if it were a snake. He said, “It doesn't seem right.”

Clarissa got off the bed and put her hand on Dad's arm. “Emmett, you don't have to worry about it. It's not that important. It's just a play.”

“It's just a play, huh?”

“Sure. Research. For the theater.” She smiled.

“Well.” He shook his head. “I'm not that good at stuff anymore.” His confidence was gone. The suit looked silly on his fat belly. He said, “Nope. You do your thing. I'll only make you slow.”

Clarissa nodded. “That's all right, Emmett. It's just a play. You don't have to open that lock if you don't want to.” She turned to Vaughn and me. “Right, boys?”

With teeth clenched, Vaughn and I nodded. I said, “Yeah. Don't worry about it, Pa.”

The three of us played
Adventure
while Dad wandered around the basement.

Eventually, Clarissa said, “I'd sure like something to drink. Anyone else thirsty?”

You'd think, by now, that I'd be on to him, but I was still surprised when Dad said, “How about you drink some of that stuff in that big box of yours?”

He had, of course, opened the liquor cabinet.

“Bring me over there,” said Vaughn.

Clarissa said, “Where's your wheelchair?”

He hesitated and then said, “Under the bed.”

Clarissa dragged out the wheelchair and opened it up. The tires were half-flat. One of the wheels was bent, but not badly. The grip was still missing from the right handle.

She said, “Your wheelchair is a piece of shit.”

I thought it looked pretty good, considering the tumble it took.

Vaughn said, “I don't use it very often.”

Clarissa said, “How do you get to the bathroom?”

He pointed at a footstool sitting next to his bed. “I use that thing. It's got wheels. I scoot.”

Clarissa said, “But the wheelchair . . .”

“It annoys me.”

Clarissa looked at me for help. I shrugged. Given my track record with that wheelchair, I didn't feel qualified to weigh in on the subject.

She said, “You shouldn't scoot on a footstool.”

“It works fine,” said Vaughn. “I haven't shit my pants yet.”

Dad raised his voice. “Use the damned wheelchair and get over here.”

We stuffed Vaughn into the chair and rolled him to the liquor cabinet. Inside, there were dusty bottles of scotch and whiskey, a bottle of wine with a peeling yellow label. “That one's old,” said Pa.

In the very back was a small gunnysack. Vaughn pulled it out of the cabinet and poured the contents onto his lap. Coins, all sorts. Buffalo nickels and silver dollars and things I'd never seen before. One of them fell onto the floor. Pa picked it up, looked closely.

“This one's gold. ‘United States of—'”

Vaughn took the coin from Dad. “Eighteen fifty-five. Three dollars. A three-dollar coin.”

Dad said, “Queerer than a three-dollar bill.”

I said, “Did you know your mom had these?”

“She got 'em when Grandpa died.”

“I wonder what they're worth,” said Clarissa.

“A lot,” said Pa.

“We wouldn't need to rob the bank, maybe,” said Clarissa.

Vaughn started scooping the coins back into the sack. “We're not taking them. They're my grandpa's.”

Pa said, “You kids are robbing a bank?”

“Can't we just tell him?” said Clarissa.

“Tell who what?” asked Dad.

“Tell you that we're gonna rob the Keaton State Bank,” said Vaughn.

Dad said, “What would we do that for?”

I said, “Dammit.”

Vaughn said, “Because you spent a week in the hospital and you can't afford the bill. And because the son-of-a-bitch banker stole your airplane. And because Clarissa's fat and because I ain't got no legs and because Shakespeare here is half a hippocampus from being an orphan.”

Pa said, “Somebody stole my airplane?”

I said to Vaughn, “Don't get him revved up.”

“And so what? The guy needs to be revved up. We all do. We're zombies. We gotta eat some fucking brains or we'll die. Right, Emmett?”

“Damn right!” said Pa.

“I'm not fat,” said Clarissa.

“Hell no, you aren't!” said Pa.

“But I am going to rob a bank,” said Clarissa.

“Rob it!” said Dad.

“See?” said Vaughn. “Clarissa and Emmett are ready to eat brains. Are you?”

Dad was twitching, he was so happy. Vaughn was grinding his teeth. Clarissa's stomach growled.

Suddenly, I wondered if this was all a terrible idea. I said, “Eating brains is a big commitment.”

“I fell down the stairs,” said Vaughn. “Did Shakes tell you that, Clarissa? He came over the other day and talked me into getting out of the basement. We made it all the way to the top step and then the chair”—he punched the arm rest—“the chair fell apart and I fell down. You ever fall down a flight of stairs?”

Clarissa said, “Shit. Are you okay?”

“I don't think I broke anything. I felt sorry for myself. I still do. But I don't care about that because I'm going to rob a bank. I'm okay. We're all okay. We're going to eat brains. Right, Shakes?”

Clarissa, Vaughn, and Pa all looked at me like I was supposed to raise my fist in the air and shout something inspirational.

Instead, I said, “This is stupid. We should go home.” I took Dad by the elbow and tried to lead him out. His arm stiffened. When he flexed his muscles like that, he turned to stone.

He said, “I don't want to go home.”

That's it. That's how you plan a bank robbery. You sit in a muggy basement with a paralyzed asshole, an anorexic fatso, and your prematurely senile father. Let everyone talk at once and eventually, if you allow yourself to become too annoyed to fight, they'll form an idea. Nobody took notes. No need. It was simple. We'd do the job in the middle of the day. Dad and I would go to the bank with the bag of coins from Vaughn's mom's liquor cabinet and say we wanted to put them in a safe-deposit box. Clarissa would lead us down the hall and toward the vault. Neal Koenig, the bank manager, would open it up. At that moment, Vaughn, who would be in an undisclosed location, would call in a false fire alarm for an imaginary spot at the edge of the Keaton Volunteer Fire Department's jurisdiction. As news of the fire spread, the bank would be emptied of its patrons, who, as we knew from the experience at the softball game, would chase the fire truck like hounds after a rabbit. Clarissa would volunteer to watch the bank until everyone got back. Of course, Neal Koenig would lock the vault before he ran out to follow the fire engine. But that didn't matter because we had Pa.

With the bank empty, Dad would crack the safe. We'd fill up a suitcase with cash, hop in the car, pick up Vaughn, and then skedaddle the hell out of the county. No need to sneak in at night. No alarm. Simple. Easy.

It wasn't the best bank robbery plan in the world. In fact, I suspected that there might be some serious flaws. When I mentioned that it seemed like the collectible coins had more of a symbolic purpose than anything, Vaughn agreed. “If I'm not going to be there helping you guys out, I want to be represented by my grandpa's coins.” Reasonable enough.

Still, we decided to wait a week, just to make sure we had our ducks in a row. Knock out a few details. Such as what we were going to do immediately after the robbery. Go into hiding? Leave the county? Leave the country? But those things would sort themselves out.

It seemed possible.

CHAPTER 15

BATH TIME

After the meeting adjourned, Pa and I drove home. Pa brushed his teeth on his own. Twice in one day. This bank-robbery business was good therapy.

I went upstairs and read an Indiana Jones movie and then went to sleep. It wasn't long before Pa woke me up. It was still nighttime.

“There's a noise out there.”

We pulled on some clothes and went outside. The yard light was burned out. No moon. Cloudy. Couldn't see anything. The birds were asleep. It can be terrifying out there at night. Nothing but wind.

In the daytime, we both knew that land with our eyes shut. But in the dark, there were things. Coyotes, badgers, deer, raccoons, all kinds of shit. It was scary and I wanted to go back to bed, but Dad had heard something so we had to investigate. We walked around the house. Fat, clumsy beetles flew around our heads. Wind and bugs and ghosts. Then something.

I heard a noise near the base of the house. I crawled thru the grass. Scratching sound. Panting. A critter was stuck in the window well. It was too dark to see.

“Stay here.”

I ran into the house, turned on the basement light. When I came back out, Dad was gone. With the basement light on, I could clearly see the critter. Little, cute baby skunk. It was terrified. Scrambling up and down in the window well, ripping apart the screen. It couldn't climb out.

I backed up quick. When you can't smell, you don't risk skunks. Being scared like that, the thing might have already sprayed. I could be walking in a mist of stink. Since Pa couldn't smell either, we had no way of knowing. Stay away.

I shouted for Pa. No response. I put my hands on either side of my mouth and shouted again. Nothing.

Sneaky footsteps behind me. Pa liked to surprise you. He used to put his cold hands on Mom's back every time she was at the sink. It made her yell and it made him laugh.

I said, “Don't try any funny stuff, Pa. We got a skunk situation.”

He sidled up to me. “Not for long.” He was holding his .22. My grandpa shot a lot of rabbits with that rifle. Some of those rabbits made it into Pa's belly. In my generation, the gun was fired primarily at empty soup cans and horny tomcats. I shot the cans. Pa shot the cats.

I stood back. “Don't bust the window.”

My eyes had adjusted to the dark. I watched Pa's silhouette. Feet at shoulder width, he entered a standard upright firing position. He pointed the gun into the window well. The skunk's nails made scratching noises against the glass. Pa waited. The scratching stopped. I could hear the skunk breathing in short, wheezy bursts. Then a
pop!
and Dad said, “Got the bastard!”

He got it, all right, but it wasn't dead. The skunk was thrashing. Pa fired again. This time, he hit the sweet spot. The skunk exploded. Red blood, green goop. A bright yellow fountain of viscera, shit, and piss splattered against the window.

Dad leaned in close. A droplet of the yellow landed on his glasses. He was laughing like a kid. “It's the Fourth of July!”

I dragged him away. “I think we just got sprayed, Pa.”

He sniffed the air. “I don't smell nothing.”

“I know.”

This was a crisis. I had to call for help, but the phone was in the house and I didn't want to go inside for fear of stinking the place up. We couldn't drive for help because I didn't want to stink up my car. We couldn't stay outside forever. It was warm enough, but it was night and night is scary.

I made Dad sit down on the front step and tried to think. Maybe there was an old telephone in the shed. If I could find it and then plug it into the spot where the phone line ran into the house, I could make some calls from outside.

Pa stood up and said, “What the hell are we doing out here?”

He started for the front door. I said, “Stop!”

“I'm going inside.”

“You can't. There was a skunk.”

“
You're
a damn skunk.”

I pretended to hear something. “What was that?” I tried to sound worried.

He got interested. “Something out there?”

I pointed toward the well house. “I heard something.”

Pa said, “Well, go see what it is.”

“Absolutely not. What if it's a badger?”

Pa raised up the .22. “Then we'll shoot it.”

“I ain't going over there.”

Pa looked at me, disgusted. “You're a wimp.” He swaggered toward the well house.

I made an executive decision. I couldn't bother with trying to find a phone and plug it in. I had to get in the house and call for help. While Pa wandered behind the well house, I quickly stepped out of my britches and took off my shirt. If figured I'd stand less of a chance of skunking up the house if I was down to my skivvies. I ran inside, locking the door behind me, and picked up the telephone.

First, I dialed Clarissa. It rang a thousand times but she didn't answer. I hung up. Every second I remained in the house, more particles of stink were floating off my body and sticking to the walls.

It was no good calling Vaughn. His mom would answer and then she'd yell at me and then yell at him. I had to call someone. We couldn't sleep in our beds until we knew we were clean.

As I contemplated who to call next, Pa tried the front door. It may have been the first time that door had ever been locked. It was certainly the first time Pa had been locked out of his own house. He pounded on the door. He shouted, “What the hell's going on in there?”

I ignored him.

I tried D.J. Beckman. Jackass that he was, I figured he'd be up for an adventure. He answered halfway thru the first ring. “Yepper.”

I explained the situation. He laughed at me. I hung up on him.

Dad kept knocking on the door.

The phone rang. I answered. It was D.J. “Shakespeare, why you gotta be so dramatic? I'm on my way.” He hung up. I put the phone back in its cradle and hustled out the door.

When he saw me, Pa stepped back. He was still holding the .22. “What in the world are you doing out here in your undershorts?”

I said, “What are you doing with that gun?”

He looked at the rifle in his hands. “I suppose I'm going to shoot someone.”

I slipped past him, found my clothes, and got dressed.

In order to keep Pa distracted while we waited on D.J., I walked with him up to the road. I pointed out the North Star. He pointed out the blinking light of a jet zooming overhead.

Having accomplished our stargazing, we turned and headed back down the driveway toward the house. As we approached, I saw a little peak of a thumbnail moon rising just above the top of the shed. I paused and said, “Look, Pa, the moon's rising.”

We stood together and watched as that grey sliver climbed over the silhouette of the building. Once it cleared the top, Pa said, “That was neat.” Then he sighted the gun at the moon and pulled the trigger.
Pop!
The bullet zoomed over the shed and into the night.

I said, “Think you got it?”

He said, “Shoot the moon.”

We took a couple more steps toward the house. With the gentle descent down the driveway, the angle between us, the shed, and the moon changed so that the moon was once again hidden behind the shed.

Once again, I said, “Look, Pa, the moon's rising.” Once again, we watched the grey sliver climb over the top of the shed. Once again, Pa said, “That was neat,” and then shot at it.

We watched the moon rise five times.

Target practice was interrupted by the distant sound of D.J.'s car. When we looked north, we saw the headlights from a mile away. He drove fast. Soon, he was skidding to a stop in the driveway, twenty feet from where we stood. The famous two-hundred-dollar 1972 Chevy Nova. Beat up and ugly. But still cool.

He shut off the engine, leaving the headlights on, and leaned out the window. “I hear you boys are having skunk trouble.”

“Is that so?” said Pa.

“According to Shakes.” D.J. pointed toward the rifle Pa was holding. “Is that a .22? That's a nice-looking gun.”

Pa said, “I'd shoot you but I'd have to kill you.”

D.J. made har-har noises. “You're a funny man, Emmett.”

Pa said, “You wanna have a look at it? It's a pretty neat old gun.”

Pa started walking toward the car. D.J. raised the palm of his hand. “Hang on, there. I got a job to do.”

I said, “Yeah. Smell us, willya?”

“Smell for what?” said Pa.

“Shakes thinks you've been sprayed by a skunk,” said D.J. He pointed at me. “Walk toward me, real slow, Skunkspeare.”

Here's the thing with anosmia. You gotta humiliate yourself in order to make sure you don't stink. And the only reason you care if you stink is so you don't offend the smellers. Go to all this trouble and they still make fun of you. At least when people make fun of the blind, the poor bastards can't see it.

I took a step. D.J. sniffed and said, “Keep coming.”

I walked closer and closer as he waved me in. When I was standing right next to his car, he gave me a thumbs-up. “You smell like a farm rat. But there ain't no skunk on you.”

“Now do Dad.”

Before Pa was within five steps, D.J. held up his hand. “You been sprayed, Emmett.”

“Sprayed by what?”

“A damned skunk,” said D.J.

“I don't smell nothing.”

“Is it bad?” I asked.

D.J. gave me a pitiful look. “It's a skunk.”

I leaned in the Nova's window and whispered, “You wouldn't be messing with me? Taking advantage of the situation?”

He shook his head. “I don't joke about skunk stink. And if I did, I wouldn't put it on Emmett.”

I looked him in the eye. All I could see was that his pupils were dilated.

I said, “So it's tomato juice, then.”

“Don't bother with that shit,” said D.J. “Use baking soda and peroxide. My dog got sprayed once. It works good. Cheaper, too.” He opened the glove box and pulled out a bag of brownies. “Speaking of cheap.”

“No, thanks.”

“It's nothing but the green, green grass of home. It's real fresh. Might help you trust people.”

“No.”

He turned the headlights off. “After all I've done for you.”

“You haven't done that much.”

“I drove here in the middle of the night just so I could smell you two bobbleheads. I'd call that doing very much. In fact, I'd call it a charitable act.”

Dad said, “Give to charity.”

D.J. reached in the back seat and retrieved a six-pack. “Have a beer. Visit. Relax.”

I said, “I don't have time for a beer. Dad needs a bath.”

D.J. said, “Come on. He can sit outside for a minute. He's not gonna get any stinkier.” To Pa, he said, “You want a frosty beverage, Mr. Williams?”

Pa said, “I love frosties.”

D.J. pulled a can off the plastic ring and handed it to me. “Give that to your father, please.”

Pa said, “I can get it myself.” He started walking toward the car.

D.J. said, “Hold it! Not a step closer.”

Pa said, “Why the hell not?”

D.J. winked at me. “Because my car just got sprayed by a skunk. If you come too close, you'll get the stink on you.”

Pa took a few steps backward. “Hell. I wouldn't get within a hundred miles.”

I tossed the beer to Pa. He caught it in his left hand—the hand that wasn't holding the rifle—and threw it right back to me.

I said, “If you don't want it, you don't get it.” I pointed the can away from me and popped the top. It fizzed a little over my hands, but not too bad. I took a sip.

“That's better,” said D.J. He opened a beer of his own and took a theatrical drink.

I said, “All right. We're visiting.”

A quick breeze stirred thru the yard. D.J. said, “It's nice, isn't it? Being out on a beautiful night. Look at the stars.”

I didn't bother looking up. I'd seen them.

D.J. said, “You ever wonder why I'd be up at all hours, answering the phone?”

“Is Channel Twenty showing a
Dukes of Hazzard
marathon?”

My cleverness had no effect on D.J. He said, “It's because life is difficult, Shakespeare. My life. The lives of others. I know you sit at home with your old man and mope all the time, but other people's lives are equally complicated. My own included.”

Dad said, “Hope is a thing with fathers.”

D.J. raised his beer in a toast. “Emmett, you are a genius. Always have been. Always will be. You've inspired me to explore vast landscapes of invention that I otherwise would never have dared to traverse.”

Pa nodded his head in humility. “Thank you, sir.”

I said, “How's that? How's he inspired you?”

“By being himself. But mostly thru 4-H. Remember that, Emmett? You taught me how to troubleshoot a lawn mower engine. We spent all those afternoons in your shed.” D.J. grew wistful. “You showed us carburetors and taught us about timing. And you were always in the middle of your mad-scientist projects. Remember that hot-air balloon you made out of a pair of polyester britches? Always something. Ever since those days, I've wanted to be an inventor. And now I've found my place. I create new and unheard-of recipes with various pharmaceutical and herbal ingredients. One day, one of these recipes will catch on and the world will remember me. Thanks to you.”

Dad was proud.

I wanted to bring the conversation back home. “Your life is complicated, D.J. How so?”

“So many people in the world need our help, Shakespeare. Poverty. Pain. I'm not a rich man. I do what I can. Sometimes, it keeps me up nights.”

I didn't know where he was headed but I was sure wherever it was involved lots of meandering. Maybe a confession. Whatever it was, I didn't particularly care. I raised my beer and said, “To altruism.”

D.J. took a drink, wiped his lip, and looked at the can in his hand. “A malt-truism for altruism.”