Jane Two (5 page)

As I dusted off, I looked over at the only field that still held a baseball diamond where a red Firebird was idling, driving in a circle. On its roof sat Kevin, looking right at me with his left leg hanging through the open driver's window, nonchalantly steering his car with his foot and smoking while his other foot dangled over the windshield of his bright red trophy. Kevin stared at me like he had known me my whole life—like he simultaneously approved and disapproved of everything that I was. Kevin was a mystery, with his wild blond hair, wild eyes, wild manner, and wild outlook on life.

“I tell ya something, we do anything this season, we gonna need more speed in the backfield than just Tommy,” echoed Grandaddy's assistant coach, Lew Hoagie, stewed as usual, swilling a Miller out of a can wrapped in a Styrofoam koozie and smoking with the other hand near my dad's car. On Lew's army fatigues shirt lapel he still bore his Purple Heart and Bronze Star Vietnam War medals.

“Faster'n a greased pig in shit, that kid a yours, Paul. Always right behind Tommy on laps, but I be damn if he don't look a lot faster'n him during play,” bellowed Lew, even though he was right near my dad. But I knew Tommy was the fastest.

Grandaddy kept right on yelling at the boys like a drill sergeant to get the hell off the goddamn field already so the older boys could get on it to practice. Twenty-one guys stampeded off that field like Texas longhorns, but one of them inexplicably never came back for more football. I never understood why some kids would try football for a couple days and then choose not to play. These kids were aliens to me. The twenty teammates who did return, I knew—these guys always had my back, these guys were my protectors, my tribe. But right now, they scattered straight off the field, straight past their parents, straight to watch the girls' drill team practice. Jane wasn't on the drill team, so I ran over to hug my dad, who'd come right after work. Chewing the fat with Lew, Dad kept his distance since Lew practically had sour beer draining out his pores in the humidity. Lew set up with one foot on the bumper of Dad's green '72 Ford Gran Torino.

“Lew says you did great!” Dad picked me up.

Lew confirmed that I ran like hell and that the Red Devils wouldn't be undefeated for long if only more of our boys could keep up with Tommy.

I pointed at Lew's crotch.

“Mr. Hoagie, your balls are hangin' out.”

Lew didn't even look down—not that he could've seen over his paunch anyway—and I doubt he even knew that his chicken legs no longer matched his barrel chest. Lew reached down to the hem of his too-short denim cutoffs and gave a squeeze to confirm.

“So they are. Forecast must be for rain.” With that new information, Lew scanned the clouds, as his two war medals glistened in the simmering heat. My dad chuckled.

Lew glanced over his tinted cop glasses at the boys taunting the girls on the adjacent field. “Look at 'em, chasin' tail already. How come you ain't a tail chaser, Mickey?” I had no idea what Lew was talking about.

“Mickey ain't no champ, Lew!” Grandaddy had overheard Lew and yelled back across the field.

“That's enough about that, fellas,” my dad cut in and ushered me to the car.

“I know he ain't a champ, Charlie! I meant no disrespect,” Lew yelled back across the field. “But nowadays, y'cain't be too careful, what with all them
bi
sexual rock stars leadin' our young'ns astray.”

“
Bi
sexuals?! Now we gotta worry 'bout champs AND
bi
sexuals?!” yelled Grandaddy right back across the field. “Shit, I ain't even got enough time in my day to be heterosexual with m'woman, how the hell them poofters got time in they day t'be
bi
sexual? They must get nothin' done.”

“Done! I'll tell you what they get done. They get…”

“Lew! Your balls are hangin' out!” Dad interrupted deliberately to shut down their conversation in front of me.

“Look to the sky, fellers! I'm tellin you, he's gonna pee on us!” Lew yelled back.

I straddled the Gran Torino's center console. Dad had let me drive ever since I could see over the dash. He got in beside me, ordering eyes on the road as I jabbed the radio button.

“Fly the airplane, don't let it fly you,” said Dad sternly.

We got out on the road to home, but my dad always slowed down a bit when I steered, so faster drivers were held up impatiently behind me.

“Hey, Dad, what's chasin' tail?”

“Oh, it's just Lew's way of sayin' chasing girls.”

“Free Bird” came on the radio just as Dad yelled out the window at a red Firebird blazing past us in the parking lane, right up close to the Gran Torino's passenger door. “Goddamn drug uh-dikt, Kevin!” When Dad swore, it was like my Grandaddy. They called it taking a PE, Profanity Exemption—a well-placed and excusable piece of profanity used to achieve what no other nonprofane word could. Lightning struck nearby, accompanied by an instantaneous thunderclap. The flash was so severe that Kevin's bright red Firebird paled to a soft pink, and a slash of deep blue paint became visible across the left rear bumper.

“Dad, how come Mr. Hoagie wears his army medals to practice, and Grandaddy and you don't wear your medals?”

“I guess it reminds Lew he done something with his life. He's a war hero for sure, son, and he's a fine football coach. But your Grandaddy and I, we like to focus on making more new great things, not live in the past like Lew, restin' on his mighty impressive laurels.” Dad got quiet. Steam came off the hood when bloated Texas raindrops hit the car, and water spewed down the windshield as Dad told me to keep my eyes on the goddamn road or he'd take the wheel.

“Dad, how do Mr. Hoagie's balls know when it's gonna rain?”

“Not at the table, son,” said Dad, noticing Mom's look of mock horror as she sat down with us at our little white kitchen table.

I devoured my mom's charred macaroni and cheese, especially after practice. I didn't know any better and she's from Louisiana, so Cajun was her excuse. I shoveled mouthfuls, and Dad pretended to take bites of his as he ambled through the kitchen door into the garage with the excuse that he had to shut the garage door, only to leave his bowl hidden under the back bumper of his '58 British racing green MGA.

“Genie, that was delicious, darlin'. Mic, get out here!” called Dad. My eyes adjusted to the dark garage, and I stretched deep into the foot well to reach the pedals. “Now, rev it, Mic!”

Looking so pretty, Mom watched Dad under the hood tinkering with his race car engine, so she didn't notice Steve McQueen's Velveeta mustache or Dad's empty bowl. As Dad was leaning under the hood, Steve's ears perked up and he came over to whine at me. Dogs hear shit. Moments later, Mom, Dad, and I heard it, too. Tires screeched as the garage door imploded at us, splintering its center, crumpling in about a foot and a half with a sound like a shotgun blast.

“What the goddamn…?” Dad's head popped out from under the hood.

With the garage door now inoperable, Mom, Steve McQueen, and I followed Dad as he raged back through the kitchen and out the front door to the driveway to find a mop of blond hair intertwined with a sheaf of feathered brown inside a red Firebird now coupled intimately with our garage door. Oblivious, Kevin and Lilyth were making out in the front seat of Kevin's '73 Firebird SD-455. Lilyth's puckered tube top was somewhere down around her patched bell- bottoms. Speechless, Mom started to cry. Dad shook his head in disgust as he slowly surveyed the impaled Firebird. The crossbeam of the garage door was wedged into the grille, and a fan belt let out a shrieking whine. Skynyrd's “Free Bird” blared so loud on Kevin's eight-track that he and Lilyth didn't hear Dad coming. Even after Dad yanked open the door, they didn't notice him, so he popped out the eight-track, chucked it on the ground, and stood back away from the pall of marijuana smoke that poured from the car along with whatever perfume Lilyth had marinated herself in that day. Still no reaction.

Then my dad got furious.

Dad dragged Kevin out by the head, cussing over Lilyth's sudden screaming, and threw him facedown on our driveway. Though years later Lilyth claimed she tried to get Kevin to leave before Mom and Dad saw them, I don't believe she ever cared. Then everything got more intense really fast and I was sent into the house, but I sneaked into the garage through the kitchen and peered out through the fresh gap in the garage door.

Lilyth and Mom were still crying, for different reasons. Dad was circling the Firebird, where Kevin had fled back to the safety of his roof and sat with his left leg dangling through the open window, his foot on the steering wheel.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy? Look what you did to my goddamn garage door,” my dad yelled.

Kevin just looked right through my dad and then back to the garage door before replying, “But look at what your door did to my car, man. I think it was a fair fight. I never wanted them to fight, but they just kept getting closer and closer, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop them.” Kevin rambled on, “But I think it's over now, don't you? I think they'll get along great now.” Over Dad's shoulder, Kevin saw me peeking out through the gash in the garage door and winked at me. Dad's temper lost its leash. “Hey, be cool, man,” Kevin said calmly to my dad, as Dad yanked Kevin off the roof of the car and viciously open-palmed him right across the face.

Then Dad looked Kevin right in the eye, just the way he learned it from Grandaddy. “Now you listen to me, son. You do whatever you want, whenever you want, with whatever drug you want. But the minute I find you doing any of that shit with my daughter, I will walk you quietly down the hall to my bathroom and drown you right there in the goddamn bathtub. Is that clear?”

“Damn.”

“Don't you ‘DAMN' me, boy! Now you can go wait on the curb, and I'll call you a cab.” Dad turned to Lilyth to say, “Your mother and I have trusted you with a considerable amount of freedom with the Pied Piper here behind the wheel.” Meanwhile, Kevin leapt back into his sanctuary, smoked the tires backing up, and fishtailed that Firebird the hell down Bentliff Street. Swerving as the splintered two-by-four led the Firebird like a jouster's lance, Kevin accelerated and Lilyth continued to sob long after he disappeared around the corner.

As my dad's car pulled up to the field the next day for my football game, I saw Kevin's car parked just past the end zone, The Plank still stuck in his grille. Although I couldn't explain Kevin to myself, I always wanted to. He was perched on the Firebird roof again, just staring, transfixed at the bench on the opposing sideline. My dad took a PE and let out a
goddamn drug uh-dikt
as I got out of the car and headed over to my team on the sideline.

For each game, we were always to line up on the bench in numerical order according to our jersey number, and mine was the only spot that remained vacant. I was 24. I crossed the field, still looking over at Kevin, wondering what went on in his mind, and wondering what he was staring at so intently. As I arrived at my place on that bench, I finally saw what Kevin was staring at. I took my place and sat directly in his sight line. As if he was expecting me, he pulled a grin so small that I could hardly make it out, and he threw up the peace sign. I looked behind me to see if he was looking at someone or something else, and when I turned back he was pointing right at me and mouthed the word
you
. He held my gaze and after a moment threw both his arms into the air as a referee would to indicate a touchdown. Still unsure who Kevin was gesturing to, I glanced behind me, but there was no one.

“Hey, where the hell you at, boy?” I heard Coach Gasconade yell. “Had a talk with your Grandaddy Charlie, and he tell me he watch you in the neighbor's yard and that you got a hell of an open field run, and that you a lot faster'n even
you
think. That true?”

“Um, I think I'm pretty fast, sir,” I said.

“You faster'n my son, Tommy?” he asked.

“Well, no, sir, but I think everybody except him.”

“Well, this is one your Grandaddy wanted me to ask you, so why you think you ain't faster'n Tommy?” he asked, a touch of smugness in his voice.

“Because he's the fastest on the team,” I replied.

“How you know he's the fastest? 'Cause your Grandaddy don't seem to think so.”

This was the first time that I actually thought about how I'd come to this very limiting conclusion. I told Coach Gasconade that I recalled that on the first day of practice starting back when we were in the peewees at age six, Coach Gasconade had told the whole team that Tommy was the fastest, and for us all to do our best to keep up with him when we do laps or sprints. And I had. I had always kept up with Tommy. Up until that moment, it never occurred to me that Tommy might have been going as fast as he possibly could. And if he was, he was a fucking slug.

“I guess I always just did what you said, Coach, and I kept up with him. Never tried to beat him 'cause I figured he had a lot more speed in reserve than even I did. 'Cause you told me he was the fastest on the team.”

Coach Gasconade just looked at me in complete dismay, like my Grandaddy's look of disappointment, and I cringed. It seemed like something was sparking in Coach Gasconade's head, like maybe he'd overlooked something, and he pulled out his stopwatch and called Tommy to the fifty-yard line right in front of the bench. He sent Tommy down and back, and then called me to the very same line. Down and back, and then I took my same place on the bench. All the while, Kevin still kept on staring at me as I heard the coach confer with Lew, nursing his beer on the sidelines.

Coach Gasconade's tongue circled his teeth behind his clenched lips as he stared down at that stopwatch in his hands, slowly shaking his head before slowly looking up at Tommy and casting that god-awful look of disappointment upon his son.