In Mike We Trust (12 page)

“Really? That doesn't sound too much up Garth's alley.”

“I think he was more fascinated with it than I was—not that I didn't find it fascinating. You weren't bored, were you, Garth?”

“It was pretty interesting,” Garth said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

Mike took it a step further. “Sonja, did you know they have the saw they used to take off Stonewall Jackson's arm?”

“Ugh,” she said. “I'm sorry I asked.”

Mike grinned and offered a slight shrug, then resumed eating.

After dinner, Garth retreated to his room, turned
on his computer, and opened the Wikipedia home page. Suspecting what he was about to find out, he typed
meninosis
into the search box.

Nothing.

He switched over to Google and tried the word there. Same result, except that Google asked if he'd really meant to type
men in noses
.

How surprised was he, really? He'd been a little suspicious from the start, but had believed enough in Mike, so had put those suspicions aside in order to get through the day.
Which says as much about me as it does about Mike,
he thought.

He clicked away from the site, shoved up from his desk, and turned to see Hutch sitting in the doorway to his room, tail wagging and one of his ratty tennis balls in his mouth.

“Sure,” Garth said. “I could use a little distraction.”

The sun was nearly down and the streetlights were starting to come on. He stood in the backyard and threw the ball for Hutch over and over again, replaying the day in his head.

After a while, Mike came out and stood next to him. He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels.

“You feel set for day two?”

Garth threw the ball again and, without looking over, said, “You're a pretty good liar.”

“Whoa. That's either an insult or a compliment. You're talking about the Museum of the Confederacy thing?”

“Um, that and the fact that meninosis doesn't exist?”

“It exists,” Mike said. “As a concept. As a…means.”

“That doctor knew.”

“Yeah, that was a little sticky. But other than that, the day went pretty well, don't you think? I didn't count it up, but we must have pulled in about five times one of your paychecks.”

Hutch brought the ball back. It was filthy and damp with spit. Garth tossed it again. “And how do we get the money to the charity?”

He'd raised his voice a notch with the question, and Mike shushed him and glanced back at the house. “Come on. Cut me a little slack here.”

“FedEx?”

“No.”

“PayPal?”

“No. There
is
no charity, and I think you've figured that out by now.”

“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Well, if I'd told you that right off the bat, would
you have gone along?”

Garth didn't answer—in part because he wasn't entirely sure the answer would be no.

“Let me remind you of the reason we're doing this,” Mike said. “You and your college fund. If we do this for a little while and get it into the bank, it'll only be easier on your mom when it comes time to write out the tuition checks.”

“It's illegal.”

“Not really. When you get into the technicalities of it, no one who gave us money asked for solid proof, no one asked for a receipt, everyone who gave did so of their own free will.”

Hutch was worn out, at last. With the ball in his mouth, he walked a slow circle and then lay down in the middle of the yard, panting. Garth turned and looked at Mike for the first time since he'd come outside. “Right.”

“Okay, okay,” Mike said, shrugging his shoulders, “
technically
it's illegal, but it's a victimless crime. Think about it. When people give money, they get a warm fuzzy feeling, like they've done their good deed for the day. They feel better about themselves.”

“That old man gave you fifty bucks!” Garth hissed.

“People only give what they can comfortably afford,
so the amount is always relative. That man's going to go to bed tonight feeling fifty dollars better about himself. See what I mean? Everybody wins.”

“Why did he say he knew about the disease if it doesn't even exist?”

“Because he's a know-it-all. And the best kind of know-it-all is a generous one. Listen, you're not going to get all ethical on me, are you? We're not picking anyone's pockets; they're
giving
us the money. We're helping out your mom, and
your
future.”

“I know. I get it. I just don't like the idea of being a ‘cause.'”

“We've all got needs.” Mike leaned sideways, nudging Garth with his elbow. “And admit it: you got into it after a while, didn't you? Felt a little rush?”

Of course, Mike was right; Garth
had
enjoyed watching money fill the bowl, and after a while he'd even enjoyed the attention he was getting.

His brain slide-showed from the “charity” business to oily Mr. Peterson and the rodent parade. He weighed one against the other.

No contest, if you took ethics out of the equation.

Correction: no contest if you took
guilt
out of the equation.

Addendum: no contest…if you were never caught.

“What about Mom?”

“Like we talked about before, this has got to be our secret,” Mike told him. “That's the only way it'll work. You get that, right? She'd be totally against the idea.”

Garth agreed. In fact, his mom would be mortified if she found out what they were doing, even if—or because—it was all for their benefit.

“I hate to put it so bluntly, but we'll just have to invent a daily roster of fake activities for a little while. And we can't give her the money piecemeal because she'd ask where it was coming from. We'll have to…amass it…and then give it to her all at once. We'll say we bought a lottery ticket and got lucky.”

Garth played out the scenario in his head. “It's a whole nother lie,” he said.

“I know. I really do. But sometimes you have to lie to a person in order to help them.”

“Which is why you lied to
me
?”

“Exactly. Does that make sense?”

It did and it didn't. He clapped his hands together to rouse Hutch, and the dog lumbered toward them.

“Desperate times,” Mike said, “desperate measures.”

 

The next day they worked Colonial Heights, two different locations, and filled the fishbowl two more times.
Garth felt embarrassed one minute, justified the next. Late in the day, he caught himself vying for a person's attention before Mike could, and felt proud when he succeeded.

During the drive home, Mike said, “You did a good job today, by the way.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I'm going to have to come up with something else, though. I can only say the word
meninosis
so many times and keep a straight face, you know?”

Actually,
Garth thought,
you could probably say it a billion times, if it brought in a dollar every time you said it.

And so could I.

Meninosis, meninosis, meninosis.

Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.

That evening, Mike made up another story about where they'd been (this one involving the Edgar Allan Poe Museum and the Confederate White House), and rattled it off over dinner, peppering in details he'd no doubt gotten out of a guidebook.

Garth retreated to his room as soon as the meal was over, feeling exhausted but exhilarated. And, yes, guilty about having gone along with the lies to his mom.

And yet,
he reminded himself as he sat down at his desk,
she's the one who's asked me to live a lie.

He stared at the HMS
Victory
, its plastic hull, its starchy trapezoids of cloth that would comprise the sails, once the ship was completed.

Don't be an idiot. One lie has nothing to do with the other, and one doesn't justify the other.

Does it?

As if answering this question, an odd buzzing sound emerged from the
Victory
's hull. The entire ship vibrated—but just slightly. He leaned forward and peered into the opening where two of the deck panels had yet to be glued into place.

A cell phone lay inside.

He saw the caller's number flashing on the little screen. It was
their
number.

Carefully, he extracted the phone, opened it, and said, “Hello?”

“Just a friendly reminder,” Mike said. “You have a call to make, right?”

T
wo days later, at Bone Sweet Bone, Garth told Lisa about finally getting up his nerve to make the call and how Adam was coming over that Thursday to watch the movie. He thought she was going to be happy for him, and she was—for about two seconds. Then he made the mistake of telling her how Mike had prompted him to finally make the call.

“Wait—I don't get it,” Lisa said. She was trying to coax Earl, a twelve-year-old whippet, to chase after the squeak toy she'd just bounced across the floor.

“You don't get what?”

“Have I not been encouraging you for months to do something about this?”

“About Adam? I just met him a week ago.”

“About peeking your head out of the closet. About calling ROSMY. I'm the one who invited Adam to the river, remember?”

“You know about the situation with my mom—”

“Yes, I know about it because I'm your best friend. That's why I was trying to help you.” She gave Earl a gentle tap from behind, but he leaned backward into her hand, his head bowed. “You need exercise,” she told the dog. “Stop being so stubborn.” She turned back to Garth, who was cleaning Earl's cage. “I've been saying over and over that it wouldn't be the end of the world if you at least made a few gay friends, and maybe even asked one out—and you haven't budged an inch. What special powers of persuasion does ‘Mike' have?”

Good question,
Garth thought. Was it because Mike was older? Family? Maybe it was because all this encouragement was coming from a guy who was a near-visual replica of his dad. Or maybe it was simply: because he was a
guy
.

Lisa was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“Why do you always say his name like it has air quotes around it?”

She huffed. “Sometimes he doesn't feel so much like a person as like some…force…that's taken you over. I don't know. What have you two been up to, anyway?”

“We've been touring the Museum of the Confederacy,” he said, sailing Mike's lie and hoping it would float. “He was, you know, curious after we talked about it.”

“Huh.” She didn't sound convinced. “And what else?”

“Why does it matter
who
persuaded me to call Adam, anyway? Maybe all Mike did was stick the phone in front of me at the right moment. Maybe I persuaded
myself
. Is that a possibility?”

She walked over and picked up the squeak toy, then carried it back to where Earl was cowering. “I'd just like a little credit, is all.”

“Okay,” he said. “Everyone gets credit. Everyone gets a gold star. Happy?”

She crouched down beside the whippet. Showed him the toy. Tossed it again. The dog didn't move.

“I'm playing fetch with myself,” she said—to Garth or the dog. Or both.

Thursday dragged by. Finally, it was evening, and after they'd eaten dinner (pizza—Mike's treat) and his mom had left for her concierge job, Garth set about getting ready. He showered, brushed his teeth, combed and recombed his curly hair, then pulled out a bottle of hair gel he rarely used and mussed it through the mop. The results were ridiculous; his hair looked plastic. After rinsing the gel out in the sink, he applied a smaller amount and tried to shape it—with the help of the hair dryer—into something that looked at least nonfreakish. As a result, he went from plastic to poodle. Then
back to plastic. Finally, he shampooed all over again and surrendered to his usual mop.

The jeans were an obvious choice: he owned only one pair that sufficiently masked how skinny his legs were (even though Adam had already seen his legs). As for the rest of the outfit, he laid out across his bed a Penguin polo shirt (repro), a
Star Wars
T-shirt (vintage, from the Salvation Army), and two other T-shirts that were plain but had bright, solid colors. Not enough options, he thought. He added a short-sleeve button-down, then stared at the selection for at least five minutes. Finally, he went into the living room, where Mike was watching television.

“You going topless tonight? That'll definitely send a message.”

“Very funny. Can I use your phone again?”

Mike reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts, and held the phone out toward him.

“Thanks.”

“I'm proud of you for finally getting your nerve up, by the way. You're not nervous now, are you?”

“Why should I be nervous?” Garth asked, his voice betraying both defensiveness and a slight tremble. He carried the phone back to his room and dialed Lisa's number.

“Hey,” he said when she answered, “quick question—”

“Whose phone are you calling from?”

“Mike's. So what shirt do you think I should wear?” He rattled off the selection to her. Because his wardrobe wasn't exactly expansive, she knew all of his clothes by heart.

“This is why you called me?” Lisa asked. “For fashion advice?”

“Yeah.”

“The
Star Wars
shirt. Definitely.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

Barefoot, he stood against the doorjamb and placed his finger against the wood, level with the top of his head, then checked it against the mark he'd made a month ago. He did this every few days, always frustrated, always discouraged. He tried not to extend his spine (which would have been cheating), but tried not to slouch, either. The finger landed on the same mark he'd made nearly six months ago.

Trying not to think about the apparently permanent stagnation in his growth, he examined himself in the mirror that hung on the inside of his closet door. Okay, so his hair looked like crap and his body sort of resembled a toothpick dipped in pancake batter. But things could be worse, right? His gaze drifted further into the mirror and he saw behind him the
flotilla of ships and boats.

Plastic models.

Toys.

He was fifteen, and his room could have belonged to a seven-year-old.

Don't freak out,
he told himself.
The two of you aren't even going to be in your room. It's going to be you, Mike, and Adam sitting around the living room watching a DVD. With Mike there, that's all it can be. A movie date, end of story. Calm down.

Stop channeling your mom.

The doorbell rang.

“Want me to get that?” Mike called from the living room.

“No—I'll get it!” Garth hollered. But by the time he'd taken one last glance at his hair in the mirror, tucked and untucked his shirt, and emerged, Mike had already answered the door and Adam was standing in the living room.

“Hey,” Garth said.

Adam smiled and gave a little wave.

“Big movie night,” Mike said. “Oh—I picked something up for us at the store.” He walked into the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone.

“So,” Adam said, “having a good week?”

I'm having one of the strangest weeks of my life, thanks
for asking.
“Yeah. I've been showing Mike some of the local…attractions, I guess you'd say. The Museum of the Confederacy, stuff like that.” How easily the lie came now. But never mind. Adam looked fantastic. His loose white T-shirt somehow still managed to accent his chest and show off his arms, which were speckled with fine blond hair.
He's so out of my league
, Garth thought. Though if Lisa were here, she'd probably point out that he didn't
have
a league.

“Garth, can you come in here a minute?” Mike called from the next room.

“Have a seat,” Garth told Adam. “I'll be right back.”

When he got to the kitchen, Mike was standing at the counter holding a box of popcorn. “Um…where's the microwave?”

Garth raised his eyebrows.

“Don't tell me.”

“It broke a while back, and we haven't really gotten around to getting a new one.”

“Okay, time to improvise.” He tossed the box to Garth, dug under the counter, and brought out a large pot and a lid. “Tear one of those open for me, would you?”

“What are you going to do?” Garth asked, opening a package.

Mike dumped the buttered, unpopped kernels into the pot.

“I don't think this stuff works that way.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Mike turned the burner on and put the lid in place. “The trick is low, low, low heat, and you can't blink or it'll burn to a crisp. Hey, Adam,” he called out, “are you a Coke man, a Sprite man, or a Dr Pepper man?”

“Coke's fine.” Adam called back.

Garth winced. “I don't think we have any—”

But Mike nodded toward the fridge and said, “I took care of it.”

When he opened the door, Garth found several liters of soda sitting on the shelf. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

A minute later, he was carrying two large cups into the living room.

Adam was sitting on the couch.

Garth sat down next to him—careful not to sit too close—and handed him his drink.

“Thanks. I hope this film lives up to the endorsement I gave it.”

“I'm sure it'll be great.”

After a few seconds, they heard the pings of the first kernels hitting the pot lid. “The trick is to keep shaking it!” Mike called out, as if the three of them were
having a discussion about his popcorn technique. The television was muted, its glass face filled with helicopter footage of a highway police chase.

“Oh, I hate these shows,” Adam said. “The guy trying to get away
always
wipes out after crashing into about a dozen other cars.”

“I know. Reality TV must be a director's nightmare.”

“No, I mean, what about all those innocent bystanders who got hit and ended up in the hospital, or worse?”

“Oh—right.” Garth fumbled for something to say. “And then they show it ten times in a row, at ten different speeds.”

“Slower and slower and slower. And, finally, I'm, like, why am I watching this?”

Garth thought about offering to change the channel, but he didn't want to call attention to the fact that they had no cable. Had Adam noticed?

Mike appeared, his own soda in one hand and a large bowl of popcorn in the other. “Who says you need a microwave to make microwave popcorn?” he asked proudly.

Yep,
Garth thought.
That's us. No cable, no microwave. Oh, and if you care to look up, you'll see a water stain the shape of Texas.

Then he remembered that Mike had painted over the stain. The ceiling paint—now covering the primer—nearly matched the surrounding white.

“Smells great,” Adam said.

Mike set the bowl down on the coffee table. He scooped up a handful of popcorn, dropped into the armchair, and said, “Is it showtime?”

They weren't ten seconds into the credits—just past the opening scene where a boy is harassed by his classmates and coach on the soccer field—when Mike bolted out of his chair.

“What's wrong?” Garth asked.

He dug his phone out of his pocket and squinted at it. “I have to take this, but keep the movie going; I won't be long.” He started off down the hall. “Hello? Lenny! How are you doing?”

“Who's Lenny?” Adam asked.

Garth shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Mike closed the door to his room, muting his voice. When he reemerged a minute later, he had his shoes on and was holding his car keys.

Garth hit Pause. “What's up?”

“I have to go meet someone.”

“What are you talking about? You don't know anyone here except us.”

“Weird coincidence, but this guy I know from
Nevada is in Richmond, and he wants to get together so we can go over some business stuff.”

“Business stuff,” Garth repeated.

“Yeah. Listen, you guys watch the movie without me, okay? Sorry to bolt like this but, you know, business is business.”

He was already headed for the door.

“So where are you meeting this Lenny?” Garth asked, realizing he sounded more like a parent than a nephew. Mike, he suspected, had had this sudden departure planned from the get-go.

“That same restaurant where I took you and your mom. Really, I'll be late if I don't get going, so…enjoy the movie, okay? Nice seeing you again.” He waved in Adam's direction as he opened the door.

“You, too,” Adam said.

Then Mike was gone.

Garth looked at the television screen—a frozen image of a boy climbing a fence—and then glanced cautiously at Adam. “I didn't know he was going to do that.”

Adam shrugged.

“I really thought it was going to be, you know, the three of us hanging out,” Garth said.

“It doesn't matter. Let's just watch the film.”

The movie was as good as Adam had promised
and Garth eventually stopped worrying and let himself get caught up in it. He even forgot about preparing some intelligent remark for when they talked about it afterward—until suddenly the movie was over.

“Well?” Adam asked.

Garth hit the Stop button on the remote. The screen went back to another reality show—this one about a pack of ex-childhood stars shouting at one another. He lowered the volume and said, “It was great. Really great.”

“How about that depressing apartment complex where they all lived? It permeated everything, didn't it? A great example of setting functioning as character. And what about that ending? The actress who plays the mom is awesome.”

“Yeah,” Garth said. “The mom was great.”

“So what was your favorite part?”

“Oh. The kiss scene in the woods, I guess.”

“Yes! Fantastic shot, right? The way the camera pulls back so that the forest grows around them—like a metaphor for the world they're up against?”

Actually, Garth had just liked the fact that those two cute guys were making out with their bodies pressed together. “Yeah, the symbolism was…great.”

“And the music is perfect, don't you think? It's kind of ironic when you consider the name of the group.”