Gentlehands (4 page)

“WHERE’VE YOU BEEN, BUDDY?” MY FATHER SAID
.

“Kick asked me to work overtime.”

“That’s where you were until now?” My father looked at his watch. It was six o’clock.

“About four I took a swim,” I said.

“I see.”

“It was too late for clamming by then.”

“I suppose it was,” my father said.

Then my mother called out to us, “Come and get it!”

“I better wash up fast,” I said.

“On the double,” my father agreed.

I collided with Streaker as he was leaving the john. “Hey, Streaker,” I said, running my hand through his hair. “How’s it going?”

“I just combed my hair
—don’t!
”

“You combed your hair, but you didn’t flush,” I said.

“
You
flush,” he said.

“Streaker, you get back in here and flush!” I said.

“Oh let him alone,” my mother called in.

“He never flushes!” I said. But I was really angry because I knew Streaker was hurt that I didn’t take him clamming, and it made me feel guilty. I knew he hadn’t flushed purposely. What I thought about while I washed up was: What if I’d really
had
to work overtime? What if it hadn’t been a lie? What if I’d come home beat from a double shift of work and my brat brother decided he’d just get into a snit and not flush, not say anything about how hard I’d worked, nothing! It wasn’t
my
idea to have a brother; it was their idea. They were trying for a girl and they got another boy, and because it was a boy, I was supposed to take over and help raise him! What was fair about that?

We always ate in the kitchen. About the only time we didn’t eat in the kitchen was Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner, when we ate in the dining room. The rest of the time there was this empty room with a lace tablecloth on the table and four chairs set around it, and a silver bowl in the middle filled with wax fruit. That made a lot of sense, too, and for some reason that night it teed me off. I guess I was just in a foul mood, anticipating everyone else’s. But when I walked into the kitchen and sat down at my place, things seemed normal. My mother was
humming and serving up spaghetti with clam sauce. My father was breaking the toe off a big loaf of Italian bread. Streaker was sounding off about the fact he liked “sketti” and meatballs better than “sketti” and clams.

“Where’d you go for your swim?” my father said after we all began eating.

“I went out to Skye’s.”

“You didn’t have your suit with you,” my mother said. “You didn’t go swimming without your suit, I hope.”

“They had a suit for me,” I said.

“Who’s ‘they’?” my father said.

“Her family,” I said. “They call the place Beauregard.”

“This is delicious sauce,” my father said.

“It doesn’t have too much garlic?” my mother asked.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“I like sketti with meatballs better,” Streaker said. “But I hate sparrow grass.”

“Well we’re not having asparagus,” said my mother.

“We’re having it sometime,” Streaker said, “because I saw it.”

“We’re having it tomorrow,” said my mother.

“I’m not having it because I hate it!” Streaker said.

“I’ll eat yours then, I love it,” I said.

“You’re stupid!” Streaker said.

“Don’t call me stupid, Streaker,” I said. “I don’t like it.”

“Don’t call me stupid, I don’t like it,” Streaker said. “You’re stupid.”

“Eat your dinner, Streaker,” my father said.

“What do you mean they had a suit for you?” my mother said.

“They have just about anything you want at Beauregard,” I said. “Their pool house is bigger than this place.”

“Well la-di-da,” said my mother.

“They have a marble staircase,” I said; “and this butler named Peacock.”

“La-de-da-de-da,” said my mother.

“They have a heated pool and a six-car garage.”

“Ver-
ry
fan-cy,” said my mother.

“There’s a Rolls in the garage,” I said.

“What’s a Rolls?” my mother asked.

“A Rolls-Royce,” my father said. “It’s a car.”

“Oh a Rolls-Royce. Why didn’t you say so? Even
I
know what that is,” my mother said.

“They have these little dogs called Papillons, which means butterfly in French.”

“Pass the salt,” my father said.

“One’s named Ophelia. One’s named Janice. One’s named January.”

“January’s a month, stupid!” Streaker said. “January comes before February.”

“Mrs. Pennington was knitting something by the pool and I thought they were sweaters for the dogs, but she was knitting golf-club covers,” I said. “That’s a new one on me, golf-club covers.”

“They looked like sweaters?” my mother said.

“They looked like little dogs’ sweaters, but they were golf-club covers.”

“There’s not too much garlic in this,” my father said. “It’s great!”

“I’m glad you like it,” my mother said.

“It’s delicious!” my father said.

“Everything has monograms at Beauregard,” I said. “There’s a
P
on everything. Everything’s blue and white.”

“I like a
lot
of color!” my mother said.

“The
P
is for Pennington, of course,” I said.

“What does Mr. Pennington do?” my mother asked.

“He has oil wells, I guess.”

“Oh oil wells,” my mother said. “How nice for him.”

“They go to Europe and all that stuff. Ogden Pennington, Junior, that’s Skye’s brother—he’s traveling in Europe this summer.”

“Pass the butter,” my father said.

“They play backgammon and croquet. They play Monopoly, too, but Mrs. Pennington says she doesn’t like to play unless she gets Boardwalk and
Park Place right at the beginning.”

“Streaker, tuck your napkin under your chin, you’re going to spill sauce down the front of you,” my mother said.

“I told Mrs. Pennington I liked to get North Carolina and the greens, and she couldn’t believe it. She said she’s going to try it.”

“Well good for her,” my mother said.

“She’s into astrology and stuff and she said Gemini was—what’d she say again?” I tried to remember. “She said we communicate, something like that.”

“You’re certainly communicating tonight,” said my mother.

“She said we communicate and we’re amusing, or something.”

“Well good for you,” my mother said.

“You know how you’ve got just one picture out on the living-room table?” I said.

“Yeah?” my mother said.

“They have hundreds of them on this table in the pool house. They’re all in silver and gold frames. I guess they don’t just shove them in albums the way we do. They just frame them and put them out.”

“In the
pool house
?” my mother said.

“It’s not like a pool house, really; it’s bigger than this place.”

“So you said,” my father said.

“It really is, and they’ve got these thick carpets and paintings. You’d never think it was just someplace you changed into your bathing suit.”

“Do you want more spaghetti, Bill?” my mother asked.

“I’ve had enough, thanks,” said my father.

“Buddy?”

“I’ve had enough, too,” I said.

“
Thanks
,” my father said.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

“I’ve had enough, thanks, Mom,” Streaker said “Can I watch T.V.?”

“Finish what’s left on your plate and you can,” my mother said.

“I hate clams!” Streaker said. “I hate what’s left on my plate!”

“You hate everything!” I said. “You’re turning into a pain in the ass, Streaker!”

“You shut up, stupid!” Streaker said.

“Don’t ever say ‘ass’ in my presence again,” said my mother.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “How come he gets away with calling me stupid every other word out of his mouth?”

“Because you
are
!” Streaker said.

“Don’t call Buddy stupid,” my mother said.

My father pushed his chair back. “Buddy, I want to explain something to you about the yard when you’re through.”

“I’m through now,” I said.

“Buddy, you hardly ate,” my mother said.

“May we be excused?” my father said.

“Can I watch T.V.?” Streaker said.

“Okay, okay,” my mother said. “Don’t mind me, I’m going to finish my dinner.”

My father and I went out the side door and walked back toward the toolshed.

“We’ve got a mole digging up the lawn, see the holes?” my father said.

“Why did we ever plant this kind of grass?” I said. “It comes up like hay.” I was thinking of the soft, long green lawn at Beauregard.

“This grass is okay,” my father said.

“If you like hay for grass,” I said. “You ought to see the grass at Beauregard.”

“Buddy,” my father said, “turn around a second.”

“What is it?” I turned around and faced him.

What it was was a punch to my neck, so hard I fell down from the weight of it. I just sat there looking up at his eyes, which were blazing. His face was the color of a ripe tomato. His hands were balled into white knuckles.

“Get up!” he said.

I got up and he socked me again. I reeled back, but caught my balance and stayed on my feet. My heart was slamming against my ribs and I stared at him while he just stood there watching
my face with this look of revulsion in his eyes.

“You’re very full of yourself, aren’t you, Buddy?”

“What’s got into you?” I said. I began backing away, but he kept coming toward me, slowly.

“I’ll hit you back!” I warned him.

“If you do, I’ll mop up the place with you!” he said. He was actually hissing the words at me like an angry snake: “You—just—stand
—still
.”

I did.

He let his hands drop to his sides, but the fingers were still knotted into hard balls. “Golf-club covers and pool houses!” he snarled. “Thick carpets and everything monogrammed with
P
!”

“It’s not my fault they’re rich,” I said. “And what’s wrong with being rich?”

“A Rolls in the garage!” he said.

“So what?” I said.

“Little dogs that mean butterfly in French!” he said.

“Okay, I’m a little impressed,” I said. “I’ve never met people like that. I’m a little impressed.”

“You’re too impressed!” he said.

“I know that,” I said. “Okay.”

“You’re so impressed you lied, Buddy. I went by Sweet Mouth at two fifteen. Your bike was there but you weren’t!”

“Okay,” I said. “I lied.”

“
Why?
” my father demanded.

“She came by to get me at two,” I said.

“And you jumped, just like one of her trained dogs!”

I didn’t say anything.

“The hell with Streaker, your bike, your mother, me—you had to hightail it over to Beaublahblah!”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said.

“So am I!” he said.

Then he said, “You’re to spend every single night right here for the next two weeks! Is that clear, Buddy?”

“It’s clear,” I said.

“I brought your bike home on the back of my car,” he said. It was a ten-speed Peugeot that he’d given me for my birthday. My old bike was a three-speed Sabre, and my father’d agreed to buy me the Peugeot if I’d promise to take good care of it. One hundred and eighty dollars is a hell of a lot of money for a bike, he’d said.

But I wasn’t paying much attention to that. I wasn’t even paying attention to the fact that that was the first time he’d ever belted me and really meant it. I was too busy remembering that I’d promised Skye I’d see her Sunday night.

OUR FAMILY ISN’T VERY RELIGIOUS, BUT MY MOTHER
goes to Mass nearly every Sunday morning.

My father had worked all night; he was asleep in their bedroom. Streaker was still in his pajamas, eating a bowl of cereal in the living room, watching
Josie and the Pussycats in Outer Space
. I’d played Yahtzee with him after the blowup in the yard with my father, until it was his bedtime, letting him win five games out of nine.

Sunday was the only day I didn’t work, so I was hanging around in my shorts, waiting for it to be eleven o’clock, the time I figured it’d be okay to call Skye.

“Can we go to the bay?” Streaker asked me. He had a milk mustache and a wet cornflake on his pajama top.

“We might,” I said. It was one of those beautiful summer mornings in June. Down at the bay there were already kids swimming out to the raft,
and sailboats dotting the horizon.

I looked at my watch. It was ten forty-eight.

“What do you mean we might?” Streaker said.

“I’m not making any promises I can’t keep this time,” I said.

“We don’t have to wait until Mom comes home,” he said. “She said I could go if you took me.”

“I know that,” I said. “I have to make a phone call first.”

“Then can we go?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“When are you going to make your phone call?”

“In a few minutes.”

“Why don’t you make your phone call now?”

“Streaker,” I said, “do you mind letting me do things my way?”

“If you shout you’re going to wake up Dad, and then Dad will be teed off and we won’t be able to go to the bay.”

“Don’t talk with a mouth full,” I said. “Do you think I want to look at all that garbage you haven’t swallowed yet?”

I looked at my watch again and decided I’d try Skye even though it wasn’t quite eleven yet.

I went into the kitchen and used the wall phone.

“Miss Skye will call you back,” Peacock told
me. “She’s finishing her breakfast.”

I gave him the number and paced around the kitchen waiting. I wanted to answer the phone on the first ring, so it wouldn’t disturb my father. I’d heard him complaining to my mother early that morning that he’d had a hell of a night with DWI’s all over Montauk Highway. That meant people driving while intoxicated. Saturday nights in summer there was a lot of that, and a lot of accidents because of it. I could never understand anyone getting behind the wheel of a car drunk. I’d probably do a lot of dumb things in my day, I always told myself, but that wouldn’t be one of them.

Streaker came out to the kitchen and got out the stool and stood on it while he rinsed out his cereal bowl. Then he pulled out the dishwasher and stuck the bowl inside.

“Shall I put on my bathing suit?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “If we don’t go to the bay, you can run under the sprinkler in the yard.”

“I’m not going to run under the dumb sprinkler,” he said.

“Do what you want to do,” I said, and the phone rang.

“
Bonjour, chéri
,” Skye said.

“
Bonjour
,” I said.

“
Come va?
” she said.

“No speakety Spanish,” I said.

“That was Italian!” She laughed.

“Spaghetti,” I said, “ravioli, pizza.”

“Fettucini,” she said. “Did you think about me last night?”

“
Un petit peu
,” I said.

Streaker was standing under me, scratching his belly and looking up at me with his face wrinkled up.

“Just a little bit?” Skye said. “Oh I’m going to commit defenestration on myself.”

“Whatever that is,” I said.

“That means I’m going to throw myself out the window,” she said. “It’s one of my Uncle Louie’s words. We played words-of-twelve-letters-or-over last night at dinner, and Uncle Louie knows millions of them and he said I was an infra-caninophile, which I bet you don’t even know the meaning of.”

“I don’t.”

“I didn’t either. It means underdog lover. Uncle Louie says all Americans are infracaninophiles, and I’m a living example. Well I’d hate to be a dead example, I said, if I’m going to be any kind of an example of anything, I’m glad I’m a living example.”

“About tonight,” I said.

“Come over right now and we’ll talk about tonight,” she said.

“Right now?”

“We’re going to have
dimanche déjeuner
on the beach at one, and we could swim before and I could give you your present. Would you like that, Buddy?”

“What present?” I said.

“Come and find out,” she said. “Hurry!”

There was a click.

I hung up, too.

Then I picked Streaker up and whispered in his ear, “Hey, I’ve got a secret.”

“Tell me at the bay,” he said.

“Part of the secret is we’re not going to the bay,” I said, and then I put my hand over his mouth and said, “Shhhhhh. Now listen. This secret is about tonight.”

“What is it?” he said.

I picked the cornflake off his pajama top. “Tonight we’re going to have a magic mystery hunt right here in this house. We’re going to hunt for a secret box containing tiny little secret things.”

Streaker was pouting. “What tiny little secret things? I’d rather go to the bay.”

“Not when you see the tiny little secret things,” I said. I didn’t know what the tiny little secret things would be, but I’d come up with something!

He squirmed in my arms and I put him down. “Streaker,” I said, “try to understand something.”

“What?” He was rubbing his eyes with his tiny
fists the way he did just before he started bawling.

“Streaker, I’m in trouble,” I said.

“What trouble?” He put his fists down and looked at me wide-eyed.

“I can’t explain it now,” I said, “but you have to help me.”

“How?”

“You have to let me go now and not make a fuss. I have to get myself out of trouble. I’m counting on you, Streaker.”

“Will Daddy have to arrest you if you don’t get out of trouble?”

“It isn’t that kind of trouble,” I said. “It’s worse.”

“Worse than against the law?” he said.

“Don’t ask any more questions,” I said. “Just help me out, will you?”

“I guess so,” Streaker said.

“Just keep what I’ve said a secret between us, okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Don’t tell Mom and don’t tell Dad.”

“Okay.”

“I have to go and straighten it out, and when I come home we’ll have a magic mystery hunt. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

He followed me back to our bedroom while I changed into a pair of white pants and a striped
T-shirt. I made sure the shirt wasn’t Orlon but plain 100% cotton, and then I slipped into a pair of sneaks. I didn’t need a sweater.

While I dressed, I said to Streaker, “When I was your age I didn’t have a brother, and I had to do everything by myself. How’d you like that?”

“I wouldn’t like it,” Streaker said. “Where do you have to go now?”

I put my finger to my lips. “Shhhhh, Streaker, we can’t talk about it anymore. Just let me get out of here and take care of it.”

“What’ll I tell Mom?” he said.

“Just tell her I’ll be back for supper.”

“You’re not going to have dinner here?”

“I can’t,” I said. “Just tell her I had to go out and it was okay with you. Got that?”

“You were going to eat my sparrow grass so I didn’t have to,” he said.

“Streaker, you’re not helping me. Don’t you think I’d eat sparrow grass if I could? I love sparrow grass!”

“Okay, Buddy,” he said.

“That’s my boy,” I said, and I kissed him, and he wiped my kiss away, grinning with embarrassment.

“I’ll turn the sprinkler on for you,” I said.

Then I stuck two dimes in his piggy bank because I felt like a real rat.