Quinn (20 page)

“It's got a future if I take a couple of courses to learn about the new machines. They're starting with the computers now. You gotta look ahead and protect yourself. The unions can only do so much.”

“Do you like it?”

“I don't mind it.”

“I'm crazy about machines.”

“I remember.”

“You must be, too. Presses are really interesting.”

Johnny shrugged.

“You going to do it the rest of your life?” she asked. Johnny's hand was smaller than Will's, and his grip was a little too tight. She tried to wriggle her fingers.

“Why not?”

“Well, isn't there something you really want to do?”

“Sure. I want to make a bundle and retire at forty-five.”

“Yes, but
then
what would you do?”

He gave her a puzzled look and ushered her inside The Dugout without answering. The bar was noisy and crowded, but a booth soon emptied near the door. Quinn studied the handsome face across the table. Johnny had thick jet hair, blue eyes, an easy smile. He had always been surrounded by admiring girl friends.

“How come we never went out?” Quinn asked him.

“You were always too busy with Flanagan.”

“Not all the time, I wasn't.”

“I asked you out once.”

“You did?” She was surprised.

“See? You were so stuck on him you don't even remember. I heard you'd broke up, so I figured I'd make my move.”

She shook her head. She believed him, and it bothered her to think she could have forgotten such a thing.

He ordered hamburgers and a pitcher of beer, and as they ate she asked, “Did you ever really want anything? I mean so much that it screwed everything else up?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he replied, “Well, yeah, I wanted a white Corvette. I guess I still do, but I wouldn't steal to get it.”

“I was thinking more about, I don't know, goals.”

Johnny looked away, his eyes searching the bar restlessly. “I don't think so, no. Hey, there's Maureen and Jack Conley. Let's get them over here.”

Before Quinn could protest, he had beckoned to them. The four sat reminiscing for an hour and a half—about old times, about the destinies of their classmates; who had kids; who was married; who had a good job. The feeling that she had experienced at the party surfaced again. These were lifelong friends, and yet she was a stranger here now. The others' voices seemed far away. Nothing touched her. She was no longer real. Not without Will. Not without Ann and Jake the way they used to be. She could not get rid of the image of her parents kissing, nor the sound of her father's hoarse sobs, nor the scent of Will Ingraham's body.

“Johnny!” They stared at her. She must have interrupted someone in midsentence. Or perhaps she had shouted. “Take me home, okay?”

“You all right?”

“Uh, no. I think I'm sick. Sorry. Virus or something.” Johnny bid a reluctant good night to the Conleys and walked Quinn to his car. They did not hold hands. Johnny was proud of his new, bright blue Chevy, proud that it was almost paid for, and annoyed that Quinn hadn't even remarked about it. She'd changed, that was for sure. She used to be such a good sport, funny, always up to something. And some body on her, too. That hadn't changed, at least. Must be college that did it. He thanked his lucky stars he hadn't bothered with it if it could take the piss and vinegar out of a live wire like Quinn Mallory.

She listened to the tires squeal as he drove away, and thought, well, so much for that.

Sunday morning John asked her in a neutral voice if she would be coming to mass with him. She declined politely. After he left, Quinn made up a tray for her mother. Her inclination was to load it until it sagged under the weight of pancakes, cereal, pastries, and fruit, food to pad Ann's too prominent cheekbones. But she resisted and kept it simple, just two slices of toast, juice, and a cup of tea. Otherwise the leftovers would be too discouraging for them both.

Ann was propped up in bed reading the Sunday
Globe,
with her glasses perched on the end of her nose. When Quinn appeared, she whipped them off.

“Vanity, vanity,” Quinn said, setting down the tray. “You look nice in glasses. How come you're always hiding them?”

“Oh, it's silly. I keep thinking I just got them and have to adjust.” She laughed. “It must be ten years now. How lovely, dear. This is really very nice. Come sit.”

Quinn sat on the end of the bed, cross-legged as always, sipping her coffee. Ann munched deliberately at her toast.

“How do you feel?” Quinn asked.

“All right. Fine.”

“No. I don't want the bullshit. I want to know really.”

Ann regarded her daughter over the rim of her teacup.

“I need to get ready,” Quinn said. “If I have to. Do I have to?”

“I'm not getting any better.”

“Today you're not, or this week? Or ever?”

“Darling—”

“Please, Mom. It's the not knowing I can't take. It's no protection being in the dark. You just trip yourself up.”

“Well, Quinn, sometimes I'm not so sure who I'm trying to protect.” Ann's eyes filled with tears. “I think you give me too much credit.”

“I feel like I can't talk to you anymore about anything. Not with this big question hanging here.” She traced a giant question mark in the air above their heads.

“All right.” Ann paused, then stretched out her hand to touch Quinn's foot. “I think God's made up His mind about me.”

Quinn dropped her eyes. In a moment the tears that had collected at the tip of her nose splashed onto the bedspread. “How long?” she asked in a choked voice.

“I don't know. It gets a little better, then a lot worse. I've had estimates anywhere from six months to a few years.”

“Estimates,” Quinn echoed.

“I'm sorry, darling.”

Quinn looked up fiercely. “Don't apologize.” She swiped at the tears with the back of her hand, the way she had done as a child. “What does Dr. Gunther say?”

“He's not guessing.”

Quinn was silent.

“I don't know how to help you live with this,” Ann said.

Quinn blew her nose. “You're going to have to put up with a lot of tender loving care, that's for damn sure. I'm not going to leave you alone. You'll throw up at the very sight of me.”

Ann touched Quinn's toes one by one, her fingers remembering the old game:
This little pig went to market.
“I can't imagine having a child who could give me more pleasure.” The next thing she knew, Quinn was in her arms, sobbing.

“Oh, Mommy, I love you. Please don't leave me. Please.”

The cups had spilled onto the bed, coffee and tea soaking all the way through to the mattress. But Ann just held her daughter's trembling body and let her grieve.

Despite the formal disbanding of the Big Brother program, an earnest sophomore named Steve Sawyer had volunteered to replace Will for Harvey Jackson. At four o'clock in the afternoon on a brilliant early April Thursday, Will and Steve stood in the doorway of Harvey's building. Will was despondent. He stared at the graffiti—a new artist had been hard at work. Primary blue paint to match the primary blue spring sky.
Cops suck.
Someone else had smeared the “cops” with white paint and substituted “Pigs.”

“Pretty grim,” Steve said, looking around.

Will nodded. Was graffiti a symptom of the decade, he wondered, or was the impulse for public inscription a timeless one? He thought of the stone walls surrounding medieval English towns. Perhaps in centuries past there had been scribblings on those rough surfaces, too.
Alison doon it up-swa-dune.

“How long is he going to be?” Steve asked. Reluctantly, Will shook himself into the present. He seemed to be dwelling in past history a lot these days. Steve rapped his knuckles against the doorjamb in a nervous drumbeat.

Finally they heard footsteps descending the stairway inside, not the usual eager clatter but measured, dutiful, soldier steps. Will chastised himself for delaying today's confrontation.
Here, kid. Here's your new surrogate Dad. You like?

“Harvey Jackson, Steve Sawyer,” Will said.

Harvey stuck out his hand, but kept his eyes on the floor. Steve sent Will a look of dismay.

“Come on, let's go shoot some pool,” Will said. In trying to figure out how to win Harvey over, he had sat in Steve's room last night, asking questions and delving into Steve's motivations for volunteering. There was something reminiscent of Stanley Markowitz in Steve Sawyer, a clean-cut version. Like Stan he was gentle, dark, rounded at the edges. Steve gave an initial impression of reserve; his room, however, was anything but quiet. Rock'n'roll pounded throughout Will's visit, and there were posters taped from ceiling to floor: Ike and Tina Turner, Chuck Berry, Little Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles.

It came out that Steve was proficient at billiards. Harvey appreciated competence, so Will's decision was to spend the afternoon beside a green felt table. Unfortunately, the only game close enough to Harvey's apartment was in the bowling alley of the first disastrous outing with Quinn. Will hoped Harvey would associate the place with his present regard for her rather than his initial sullen resistance.

Will was not looking forward to being there himself. He remembered too well Quinn's rueful grin after her ball had crashed to the floor and wobbled into the gutter. He remembered her triumph when she had accomplished a strike. Small body, compact energy, easily mastering the necessary motions. Jesus. He closed his eyes against the memories, but they clung inside his lids, images in merciless rerun.

“How's school?” he heard Steve ask Harvey. The bus was coming, thank God. How long had they been standing at the curb in silence?

“Okay,” Harvey answered in monotone.

Damn her, Will thought. She was not going to screw this up, too. He vowed to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Will did most of the talking. First he spoke to Harvey, then he spoke to Steve, taking it slow. He had thought about the seats, and engineered it so that Harvey sat between them in the back row. There would be Will's familiar body on one side and Steve's on the other. Let Harvey get used to Steve's size and bulk.

Steve showed Harvey how to choose a stick and chalk the tip, while Will talked to the attendant, bribing him with five dollars extra to let them remain uninterrupted past the allotted half hour, just in case it worked.

Steve broke first. The balls careened around the table, and the green solid ticked into a corner pocket. Harvey tried to look bored. Steve showed him how to rest the cue against the fleshy part beside his thumb. He drew the unwieldy stick back and plunged it into the felt. It missed the ball altogether.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

“My turn,” Will said. His ball struck two others, neither of which landed in a pocket. Steve chalked his cue as he circled the table, checking out possibilities. Will prayed for a truly impressive shot. He wasn't disappointed. The ball bounced off the side, clicked gently against the solid red, and spun it neatly into the center pocket. Will glanced at Harvey. The boy's black eyes said
I know what you're doing. So he's good. Big deal.
Will sighed.

Finally, Steve missed. There were only three balls left on the table, with the cue ball positioned so that it was in a direct line with the striped blue. What's more, the shot was within easy reach of Harvey's ten-year-old arms. When Harvey bent over the table, Steve winked at Will.

The cue ball struck the blue striped, and it plunked into the pocket, clean and swift.

“Way to go!” Steve said.

Harvey smiled, not exactly at Steve, but in his general direction. Steve put his hand on Harvey's shoulder. Instantly the boy froze and moved away. Steve realized his mistake at once and winced. Will watched the exchange. Steve was a sensitive guy, he decided. It was going to be okay. He felt a sudden bleak loneliness.
Come on, Harve. Put up more of a fight. I'm losing you, too.

They ate in the coffee shop attached to the bowling alley. Steve sat across from Will in the seat Quinn had occupied. Under the table she had wrapped her stocking feet around his ankles, crawling up his leg with her toes until every piece of erectile tissue in his body stood at attention. When Harvey had wanted another Coke, Will had asked Quinn in a croaking voice if she would fetch it.

“I'll treat you to a hot fudge sundae,” Steve said.

Harvey glanced suspiciously at Will. It was his favorite treat. “I'm not hungry,” he said.

“Get one for yourself, Steve,” Will suggested. “If you don't eat it all, somebody will.”

Harvey's eyes narrowed.
I will not.

Harvey had nearly finished his Coke. Will nursed a cup of coffee, and the only thing melting was Steve's gooey sundae. Nobody was saying anything. Will began to despair. He was exhausted. The jukebox blared: “I wanna hold your hand.” Your gland, Quinn always piped. Will had never known a girl who was so comfortable with profanity. Ironic that she was Catholic, though perhaps that was why. He'd give it some thought. No, he would
not
give it some thought.

He slipped out of the booth. “Going to the john,” he explained. Steve and Harvey looked at him in mutual panic.

On his way back from the bathroom Will dropped a quarter in the jukebox and pressed K-4 three times:
Fingertips.
Neither Harvey nor Steve saw him do it. When he got back to the table, they were sitting as before, silent and miserable.

As soon as the music started, Will began to fret. “Explain something to me, Harve. What do you see in this stuff?”

“That's Little Stevie
Wonder,
man,” Harvey protested.

“I heard he's working on a new album,” Steve said. “The best one ever.”

Harvey stopped fiddling with his straw.

“Don't tell me you're a fan,” Will said to Steve, remembering the posters and the thumping cacophony of Steve's room. The record began again: “Jesus, what are they trying to do to me?”

“I've got every disk he ever cut,” Steve said with a touch of reverence.

This was too much for Harvey. “Yeah?” he said, looking directly at Steve for the first time.

Steve nodded. “People keep saying he's finished, but I don't think so.”

“Right,” Harvey said. “He's a real genius, man, and he's only a kid.” Suddenly he caught himself and clamped his mouth shut tight.

Steve waited a moment, then said quietly, “He's coming to Springfield for Memorial Day.”

“You're shittin' me,” Harvey said, glancing at Will for confirmation. Will shrugged. What did he know about such things?

“I've got tickets.”

“Wow,” Harvey whispered.

“You want to go?”

Harvey couldn't believe it. Steve smiled at the astonished face, and Will felt his throat tighten.
'Bye, Harve.

“Yeah, man,” Harvey breathed finally. “I wanna go.”

“Good.” Steve was matter-of-fact. “I was looking for somebody with real appreciation.”

Harvey eyed the soupy remains of Steve's hot fudge sundae. “You gonna eat that?”

Steve shook his head and slid it over. The boy dug in.

Fingertips
began its cycle on the jukebox again. When Will groaned, Harvey laughed out loud.