Taming the Star Runner (7 page)

“Goddamn.” He half sobbed, shuddering, sickened, amazed. He didn't throw the shovel, screaming, although the thought flashed across his mind. He carried the head to the trash burner and shook it off.

Casey was standing in the doorway.

“That was a water moccasin. They're poisonous, did you know that?”

“I knew it was a snake.” Travis shrugged off the creeps. She was looking at him like he was a person, not a nephew, a hired hand.

“Pretty brave,” she said.

The excitement of the fight was ebbing, leaving him chilled and nauseated. But he went back into the barn to finish the stalls.

Brave
. It wasn't a word Casey used lightly.

He was on his way through the house to the shower when the phone rang. He picked it up on the third ring, not sure if Ken was home or not, and was surprised to hear Mom's voice. He'd just talked to her, and Stan was a real miser about long-distance calls.

“Honey,” she said finally, after all the how-are-yous and how's-everyones, “Stan wants to read your book.”

“I'll send him a copy.” Travis grinned, picturing the way he'd autograph it.

“No, I mean, he wants to read it now, before it's published.” Her voice faded and picked up. “He wants to make sure there's nothing in it about him.”

For a moment Travis froze. Then he said quite calmly, “Well, he can't. I don't need his okay on my book. It's got nothing to do with him.”

“Travis, hon, don't be upset, but you know you can't sign a contract until you're eighteen, I'll have to sign for you—”

“And you won't until Stan reads it, right?”

The phone hammered against his head and Travis had to grip it with both hands. “Well, he won't read it! I'll burn it first! I should have killed him when I had the chance!”

He could still hear Mom nattering away but couldn't make out a single word.

His fingers itched for the fire poker. “Goddamn it! Goddamn it!”

He yanked the phone off the wall and slammed it across the room.

It barely missed Teresa, who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.

It barely missed Christopher.

​He couldn't stop pacing around in his room, because when he did he could feel his heart pounding so violently it scared him. He'd heard of kids his age having heart attacks…

He didn't want to die now, not until he had one more crack at Stan—goddamn him! Motorboat had picked up on the vibes and was racing around the room too. Travis envied the way he could climb the curtains, jump up the walls, rip the stuffing out of the chair when he paused to sharpen his claws—Travis would have liked to be doing those same things.

Travis could hear, distantly, Teresa and Ken arguing. At one time he would have given anything to get an earful of a fight between those two to see what the deal really was: but now—

“You're not leaving him here with
him
, you're leaving him here with
me
,” Ken said.

Travis heard that one, along with Christopher's crying. The whole damn house was a storm center, just because of that beer-bellied jerk hundreds of miles from here. He'd get even. You bet he'd get even. If he had to hitchhike back, steal a gun, buy an axe—

After what could have been minutes, or hours, Travis came out. It had been quiet awhile, Teresa was gone. He wanted to tell Ken what Stan was pulling. Maybe there was something legal he could do about it. Boy, he bet Ken would be mad—

And Ken did listen to him with that preoccupied silence that was a sure sign of fury. He listened to Travis's railings against Stan, his outrage at Mom's betrayal, his threats. They were dealing with somebody dangerous, now, man. He had nothing to lose! He'd burn that book if he had to, burn it page by page before he asked Stan's approval. Ken would talk to Mom, right? Ken would help him—

“I'll help you pack and drive you to the airport, that's what's going to happen.”

Travis had a sudden flash: Ken's anger didn't have much to do with Stan. He sat down and stared across the coffee table at his uncle.

“Do you think I'll let you stay here and mess up my chances with Christopher? Teresa's going to fight me for custody and she'll use the fact that I'm obviously living with a dangerous delinquent. Except after today I'm not going to be. Get packed.”

Travis felt sick. There was nowhere for him. Mom would choose Stan, Ken would choose Christopher, anytime he started feeling safe, someone would jerk the ground out from under him. To his own horror and surprise he burst into tears.

“I thought you liked me.” He sobbed, knowing he sounded like a baby, a girl, a moron, and tried to straighten up, get it together, but he was just too goddamn tired.

He'd thought he had been pretty brave through all this mess, had half hoped someone was going to pin a medal on him; but the truth was, everyone was too busy elsewhere.

“Oh, geez,” he heard Ken mutter.

Travis got to his feet and managed to say, “I'll get ready.”

He didn't know where Ken had put his suitcase, so he just started piling stuff on his bed. He wondered if he could live at home for a little while, at least till he bashed Stan again, before he was sent to the reformatory. But maybe Stan would get him first this time.

He couldn't stop crying. All the crying he hadn't done before was stored up, waiting for a chance like this, he hadn't even known he was carrying it around. But he knew it now.

I sold my book.

That wasn't any comfort now. It'd never get published, not till years from now when he was eighteen. Or maybe—he could admit it now—there was a possibility he'd break down, let Stan read it, get his goddamn approval … Travis thought of trying to go on living after a humiliation like that. His spirit broken, not special anymore, nothing of his own…

I'll rot in jail first, he thought. I'll kill myself, and I won't burn it. It'll get published.

Then he thought of what it was going to be like, never seeing Casey again. And Ken. He really
had
thought Ken liked him…

“Look.” Ken had opened the door, or maybe Travis had forgotten to shut it. “At least tell me why you threw the phone at Christopher.” Travis wiped his face with his old Led Zeppelin T-shirt. It was too small for him now, anyway.

“I didn't. I didn't see them. I was just so mad … I wasn't aiming at Christopher.”

“Teresa said they'd been standing there a few minutes, you were ranting and raving over the phone, then you threw it at them. You mean you didn't see them all that time?”

“No, I was talking to Mom.”

Ken stood there quietly. Travis hated the sound of his own sniffles, and blew his nose into the shirt. “Why would I throw a phone at Christopher, anyway?” He gulped.

“Well, Teresa thinks you're on drugs.”

“I'm not on drugs. I don't even
like
drugs.”

Which was basically true, although the one time he'd tried cocaine, he'd liked it so much it scared him. He'd seen people get to where all they thought about was that stuff and how to get it. Picturing himself throwing everything away like that scared him enough to never do it again.

“And you swear you didn't see them?”

“I was talking.”

“Some people might find it hard to believe you can't talk and see at the same time,” Ken said.

Travis held his breath. Maybe … maybe…

“But I've been around you long enough to believe it. You just look so normal it's easier to believe you're drugged instead of eccentric.”

Eccentric. Travis connected that word with little old ladies living with hundreds of uncaged birds, or some professor with his lunch money pinned to his suit…

“I'll talk to Teresa. Maybe we can give it another try. You just don't know how dirty a fight can get when it's about your kid.”

That's right, Travis thought bitterly, I wouldn't know.

But he said, “Thanks.”

Ken said, “Listen, one more thing. You do like drinking.”

“Well, yeah, but I can usually hold it pretty good. I can usually put everybody under the table.”

“That's one of the earliest signs of alcoholism. I don't know if anyone's told you,” Ken said slowly, “but you're genetically programmed to be an alcoholic. Our dad—your grandfather—died in a veterans' hospital of cirrhosis. And now you've joined a profession that seems to encourage it, if I remember my English lit courses. I'd watch it if I were you.”

So. His grandfather had been an alcoholic, huh? Ken was right, all the big-name writers seemed to be boozers…

“How about my dad?”

“No, Tim was—actually Tim was capable of knocking back a few, in the right mood, who knows what … You know that saying Live fast, die young, and have a good-looking corpse? Cirrhosis is not all that fast, and what you leave's not pretty.”

Great. Just when you were onto a good story, it turns into a lecture.

“Achilles says: What sometimes sounds like a lecture, is sometimes just the truth.”

Travis jumped with surprise.

“I'm telling you, kid, it doesn't seem like that long ago, I was there.”

Ken paused. “I'll talk to Teresa,” he repeated.

The tears still wouldn't quit coming, although he wasn't sobbing anymore. Travis wadded the shirt around for a clean spot. “Tell her I'll piss in a bottle for her anytime.”

He hadn't meant to be funny, but Ken took it that way, and chuckled all the way down the hall.

Travis started sticking his stuff back in the drawers. He finally paused with his T-shirt, deciding between the trash can and the dirty-clothes hamper. He finally put it in with the dirty clothes. He'd hang on to it a little bit longer. He could still stay, and this time it didn't have anything to do with Tim.

It was the hangover, he decided later. And the damn snake. He'd stayed in the shower so long the hot water ran out, and felt a little better. He wouldn't have been such a big baby if he hadn't been so hung over and tired. He hurt, too, with his sore ribs, and a backache from shoveling, you had to consider that.

He lay flat on his back. Motorboat lay on his chest, his paws tucked under him, staring at Travis with half-shut eyes, rumbling with a loud purr. Cats had such weird eyes…

Ken knocked on the door, then said, “Telephone.”

Travis had heard the phone, but figured it was probably Teresa making sure Ken hadn't been murdered by the frenzied drug fiend.

“I don't want to talk,” Travis yelled.

Ken opened the door. “What?”

“Tell her Stan's not reading the book. Tell her—”

“It's Ms. Carmichael, you dope.”

“Oh.” He scrambled up, dumping Motorboat to the floor.

“Travis?” He recognized the voice on the phone.

“Yeah.”

“I'm going to be in Denver next week for a convention, and I'd like to stop by on the way back. I'm really on a tight schedule, this is a hectic time of year for us, but could you meet me at the airport for lunch next Sunday? I'll have a few hours between planes.”

“Yeah, I think.” He looked at Ken. “Could you drive me to the airport Sunday?”

Ken nodded and Travis said, “Yeah, I can make it.”

“Splendid. My flight is American 203 from Denver, and it's scheduled to arrive at one o'clock, so perhaps it will. Can you meet me at the gate?”

“Yeah.” Travis wrote the flight down on the memo pad.

“What will you be wearing?”

“What?”

“How will I know you?”

“Uh, black T-shirt, brown leather jacket.”

“You must dress like your characters.”

She had it backward, his characters dressed like he did, but he said, “Yeah.”

“Well, I won't be wearing a red rose, but I will be wearing a bright red dress. Very Santa Fe western, you won't be able to miss me. And, Travis, you might bring along a copy of your manuscript.”

Red Santa Fe dress but no rose, Travis thought frantically. Maybe Ken would know what she was talking about.

“I don't have one”—he'd just realized what she'd said.

There was a pause. “Who does?”

“You do.”

“We have the only copy?”

“Yeah.”

“You sent the original through the mail without making a copy?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” There was another pause. “Well, I'll have the office make us a few copies. See you next week. Bye, now.”

“Yeah.”

He hung up the phone, dazed. She was the first person he'd ever heard use the word
splendid
. He wondered what she was going to look like. He had absolutely no idea what a publisher was supposed to look like. His characters. She knew how his characters dressed … He was going to meet a publisher!

“Kid,” Ken said, “you have the most incredible way with words, on the phone.”

Travis realized now that his every other word had been
yeah
.

His face burned. Then he shrugged.

“Well, she's not publishing my phone conversations.” He tried to seem careless, but it was hard not to jump up and down and turn somersaults.

“Can't blame her for that,” Ken said. “You hungry? Let's go get pizza.”

“I'm starvin', man,” Travis said.

“I don't see why I can't meet her by myself. I wrote it by myself, I figured out where to send it by myself, I mailed it by myself—”

“I've told you—you can have lunch with her without us. I'm just going to shake her hand, let her know you're not rattling around the universe like a loose pea, and go.”

“Aw, she knows I got an uncle.” Travis was nervous, and as usual, nervous got him irritated. He wanted to turn around and yell, “Shut up!” at Christopher, who was playing with an airplane in his car seat, complete with airplane noises.

It was bad enough that Ken was going to deliver him to Ms. Carmichael like it was his first day of kindergarten; Christopher was going to be there too.

Ms. Carmichael, meet the nursery class, he thought bitterly.

As if he'd been reading Travis's mind, Ken said, “Have you been avoiding Christopher lately? I thought you guys got along okay.”

Travis winced. He'd hoped Ken hadn't noticed. “Well, I don't want to get him mad at me, and sometimes I can't help it.”

“He gets mad at me, too, and I manage to live through it.”

“Yeah, but he could get me kicked out.” Travis thought Ken might as well hear the truth. He'd felt bad, because Chris couldn't figure out what was going on, but that phone-throwing episode had put a serious scare into Travis.

Ken was quiet so long Travis thought the subject was closed.

“I'm not saying you can't get kicked out.” His voice was startlingly loud all of a sudden. “But Christopher can't do it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Great.” Travis was relieved. “You know, I didn't know little kids were like real people before. Like the horses, they're like real animals.”

Ken said dryly, “Live and learn.” And Travis didn't know if he was talking to himself or not.

“What airline?” Ken asked.

“Western. No—the dress is western. American.”

“I hope you've got the flight right.”

Travis hoped so too. He'd been doing so many screwy things since Ms. Carmichael's call, he couldn't swear to it.

“Daddy, you don't have a beard,” Christopher said.

“No, I don't,” Ken answered absently.

“David has a beard.”

“Who's David?”

“Mama's friend.”

Travis glanced sideways at Ken, and saw his jaw twitch. Geez, he thought, half in sympathy, half irritated, if he still cares about her, why doesn't he patch it up? It always bugged him to see adults being stupid. And they always act like they know everything…

“What's Santa Fe western?” he asked suddenly.

“It's this artsy-fartsy cowboy stuff—East Coast western.”

That didn't help him much. Red. Well, at least he knew what red was.

“Travis doesn't have a beard,” Christopher said.

He did recognize her right away. Fairly tall, forty at least, wearing a bright red cowboyish dress, dark blue boots, carrying a dark blue briefcase-looking bag. Ms. Carmichael had long, wild, wiry black hair, pulled back at one side with a piece of turquoise, and large black eyes. She was the most glamorous person Travis had ever seen. This was style!

As she looked around the crowd he stepped out and waved at her.

“Travis?” She put out her hand, and after a second he shook it.

“Yeah,” he said, then he could have bitten his tongue off.
That
word again.

“Nell Carmichael.”

“This is my uncle,” Travis added.

“Ken Harris.” Ken shook her hand too. “And this is Christopher.”

Christopher said, “I have to pee.”

“Oh, dear,” said Ms. Carmichael. “I do too. Let's go find a john.”

Travis wished he could die, quickly and painlessly, right then and there, but Ken laughed and they walked down the hall together.

In the john he combed his hair carefully, for the hundredth time that day. Maybe he should have worn his olive-green long-john shirt. Maybe black was too … old? Tough?

“Do I look okay?” he asked Ken, who was trying to hold the water on, and trying to hold Christopher up to wash his hands, at the same time.

“You look fine.”

Travis was dying to know what Ken thought of Ms. Carmichael, but they trooped back out to wait for her in silence.

Ken and Christopher left them at the restaurant entrance, much to the relief of Travis, who was expecting Chris to announce he wanted to do poo, too.

But after they were gone, he felt tongue-tied. He didn't know any small talk, and was scared he'd have to do some before they got to talking about the book.

“Your uncle is a very attractive man.”

Travis shrugged. Ken probably did look good for as old as he was, but he didn't have any clothes style. Suits to work, jeans on weekends. Today he'd put on his corduroy blazer, and he was nothing to be ashamed of.

Travis looked at the menu, relieved to see hamburgers, wishing he could order a bourbon instead of a Coke. He'd probably end up knocking the damn Coke over…

“And Christopher is a darling. Do you visit them often?”

“Naw, this is the first time.” He didn't know how to explain
that
, so he shut up again. The waiter came and took their order.

“So,” he said. “You gonna buy the book?”

Ms. Carmichael looked slightly startled at his directness, and he squirmed a little. There was probably some complicated bunch of rules to business lunches, and he didn't know them. But he'd stick with what he
did
know, and he wasn't going to sit here and chat about Ken, Chris, and the nice weather we're having.

After a moment she said, “Travis, who do you think would like to read your book?”

“Teenagers. Kids like me.” He was sure they would because
he'd
read it and loved it.

“I agree. We have an extensive young-adult line, books we market directly to young people.”

“Yeah, I know.” Travis paused while the waiter set his hamburger in front of him. “That's why I sent it to you guys.”

“Oh, so you're aware of marketing?”

Travis wasn't sure what that meant, so he didn't say anything. He'd just thought if you had a book about teenagers, you'd try a publisher who did books about teenagers. They sat in silence a minute while she poked at her salad and he put ketchup on his burger.

“Do you hang out in bookstores a lot? Do your friends?”

“Well, I do, but most of my friends don't.”

“How do they get introduced to books?”

“I don't know—school, I guess. We have to do book reports. The library. Sometimes if we see a movie and there's a book … You ever see
Rambo
?”

“Travis, you mentioned schools. Schools are a very large part of the young-adult market. Teachers and librarians are some of our best salespeople. I think word of mouth will be fantastic on your book, but we'll have to get it to the kids initially.”

Travis could barely sit still, he was getting so excited. She was talking about
his
book, like it really was a book, a book out there,
selling
!

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, frankly, no teacher or librarian wants to lose his job. And recommending your book, as it is now, could cost someone his job.”

It dawned on Travis what she was getting around to: “You want me to clean up the language? Hell, I'll clean up the language. No sweat.”

“You don't have a problem with that?”

She was so relieved, Travis realized she didn't know he would have promised anything to get her to publish it. Almost.

“Naw, I can fix it. Everybody's going to know what they're saying, anyway.”

“That point aside, we still have a few problems—no major girl characters, for instance, and the majority of book buyers your age are girls.”

Travis's eyebrows met over his nose. “I'll clean up the language some, but I ain't going to turn it into a romance. Let the guys read it—there's nothing for guys to read anyway, if you're not into sci-fi.”

She might as well get clear on this now. “I don't know what girls do, so I don't write about them. And that junk they like to read makes me barf.”

“What do you like to read?”

“Some nonfiction, like biographies. Stephen King. Hemingway. I think I'm going to like Fitzgerald sometime, but not now.”

“Not now?”

“Well, I tried to read one of his books once, the one where everybody is hanging out on the beach sippin' sherry, but I didn't get it. I figured if I read it now I wouldn't like it, so I'll give it another try when I get older.”

“What makes you think you'll like it at all?”

Travis stopped, trying to define it. “I like the way his sentences feel,” he said finally. “Smooth and cool like Laddie pencils.”

“Are you a mystery fan?”

“No,” Travis said flatly. “I hate it when the only reason to read something is to know what happens next.”

“But that
is
a good reason to read something.”

“Yeah. But it shouldn't be the only one.”

It was amazing, to be talking about reading. He never talked about reading with anyone. And it was such a major part of his life. Sometime, he thought, someday, he'd get Ms. Carmichael to split a bottle of bourbon with him and they'd sit up all night and talk about books…

She was talking about
his
book right now, and he focused back on the conversation.

“…more style than you know what to do with. It's so full of energy, so sincere, you'll be able to get away with the melodramatics. But not twice, Travis. The critics won't be indulgent twice. You'll have to use some discipline on the next one.”

Critics. Markets. Styles. This was really book talk! He tried to stay intent on her every word, but his mind was racing so fast it was hard to hear.

Grammar. His grammar could really stand some improvement, although stylistically it was right for the dialogue. His spelling was, well, imaginative. But the narrative flowed, there was a strong sense of place, and his characters—well, his characters were wonderfully realized human beings, everyone would come away from this book convinced that these people really existed. He'd have to cut some description, he really didn't have to describe everyone again in each chapter—

“Are any of these characters based on real people?”

“No,” Travis said slowly. “Not exactly … but like, they're real to me. You know Dusty?”

“The one that gets killed in the car crash.”

“Yeah. Well, he's made up, totally, but sometimes I think about him, sometimes he even shows up in my dreams, like a real person. It's weird. I just forget he's not real.”

“Shouldn't there be at least one sympathetic adult, though? Surely you know
some
sympathetic adults…” She paused. “Or any adults, for that matter.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “But this is about kids. What have adults got to do with it?”

Finally, the waiter brought the check. Travis felt a little funny about letting her buy lunch, but Ken, who knew about business lunches, said she should. To cover his awkwardness he spoke up. “So. You can fix up the spelling, huh?”

She smiled up at him and slipped her credit card back into her billfold. “You know, when we first met, I couldn't believe you had written that book. Your speaking style is so different from the way you write.”

“I got two languages.” He realized he meant “vocabularies.” “One in my head and one in my mouth.”

“Interesting. Save it for interviews. Think you'll be able to do interviews?”

“Oh, yeah. I'll figure it out.”

“You should photograph beautifully—”

“Ms. Carmichael?”

“Yes.”

“Will my mom have to sign the contract, since I'm not eighteen?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No. No problem.”

They paused in the airport hallway to shake hands again; she was going to her next flight, he was going to meet Ken at the baggage claim.

“Are you working on anything now?”

Travis shook his head.

“Start something new, right now, get it going before this one comes out. First-novel block is a very real phenomenon. You know,” she said carefully, “this is going to change your life.”

Travis shrugged. “It was changing anyway.”