The Book of Joe (9 page)

I frown at him as I pull over, the police car coming to a stop about ten yards behind me. “It's Mouse,” Wayne says.

“What?” I lean over him to rummage through the glove compartment for my registration.

“From high school. Mouse Muser.”

“No way.” I peer through my side-view mirror as the cop approaches the car.

“Afraid so.”

Dave Muser, the starting point guard for the Cougars during my tenure at Bush Falls High, was nicknamed Mouse because of his small stature and the frenetic manner in which he scurried around the court, distributing the ball among his teammates. In most cases, finding out that you've been pulled over by an old classmate might be a relief, but obviously this isn't most cases. Mouse, along with Sean Tallon, had been instrumental in terrorizing Sammy Haber back in high school, and in my novel I portrayed him as a truly grotesque character, even shorter and uglier than he was, more of a mascot than a friend to Sean and his henchmen. Mouse's father was the sheriff back then, and apparently Mouse has gone into the family business.

I roll down my window. Because of his diminutive height, Mouse's face is only slightly above eye level, and a cursory glance reveals that he's changed very little in seventeen years. With its primitive, jutting forehead, squinting eyes, and acne-scarred cheeks, Mouse's face suggests that sometime in his past, his progenitors might have been given to swimming a little more than they should in the family gene pool. “Well, well,” he says with a nasty grin. “Look who we have here.”

“Hey, Mouse,” I say. “How've you been?”

“No one calls me that anymore.”

“I'm sorry, um . . . Dave.”

“It's Deputy Sheriff Muser, as far as you're concerned,” he says, and there is no mistaking the naked hostility in his voice. “You have any idea how fast you were going?”

“Not really.”

“Hey, Mouse,” Wayne calls from the passenger seat. “How's it going?”

Mouse looks past me and grimaces when he sees Wayne. “Hey there, Wayne,” he says, clearly uncomfortable. “I didn't see you.” Wayne's coming out was a first for a former Cougar, and his ex-teammates had vociferously denounced and shunned him, no doubt fearful of casting doubt upon their own proclivities through association.

“Do you think maybe you could cut us a break, just this once?” Wayne says. “A last courtesy for an old teammate?”

“If you'd been driving, I'd have considered it,” Mouse says with a smirk. “What with your illness and all.” He pronounces the word
illness
like it's in quotes, as if it's nothing more than a silly euphemism. “But this guy,” he continues, pointing disgustedly at me, “has got no breaks coming from me, or anyone else in this town.” He straightens up and turns back to me. “License and registration, please.”

He strolls back to his car to run me through his computer, no doubt hoping the car will turn out to be stolen and my license a phony. “Mouse became a cop,” Wayne says, smiling.

“I know that now,” I say.

Ahead of us, an oncoming Lincoln Town Car slows to a crawl. As it passes us, the driver's tinted window comes down, and I find myself looking into the coal black eyes of Coach Dugan. He stares at me as he passes, his face expressionless, and I hate myself for the icy fear that nestles in my belly when our eyes lock, the tremor in my hands as they grip the lifeless steering wheel. Although he achieved evil of exaggerated proportions in my novel, I've forgotten how powerful his presence can be in reality.

Mouse waves eagerly to the coach as he drives by, then comes back to my window and hands me two summonses. “That first one's for speeding. The second is for the broken taillight.”

“I don't have a broken taillight,” I object, still shaken from my fleeting glimpse of Dugan.

“Sure you do.”

I step out of the car and we walk to the back of the Mercedes, where Mouse steps forward and casually kicks in my left taillight with the heel of his boot. He grins up at me like an evil troll.

Through my open car window, I can hear Wayne laughing his ass off.

twelve

1986

School started, and Wayne and Sammy's relationship went underground, which was fine with me, since that made it easier to pretend it didn't exist. I still hung out with both of them, but they scrupulously avoided being seen together without my nullifying presence. After a while, through a regimented lack of scrutiny, I was able to convince myself that nothing else was happening between them after school, that the events of the past summer had been a fleeting madness, unable to survive the glaring, fluorescent reality of the high school hallways. I internalized this new, airbrushed version of reality with a minimum of effort, because the truth was that I had better things to think about. After three years of languishing in a social wasteland, I had scored my first real girlfriend.

In the unrestrained pageant of tits and ass that paraded through the halls of Bush Falls High on a daily basis, Carly Diamond's quiet prettiness generally flew below radar. Subtlety is lost on teenaged boys, who are instantly riveted by smooth, slim legs and tight, round bottoms under short skirts, lively breasts straining against the fabric of form-fitting shirts, long, shining hair, and glistening skin. Carly's lithe frame was concealed in loose-fitting blouses and baggy jeans, her thick chestnut hair cut short and close. Her high cheekbones, flawless ivory skin, and impossibly round hazel eyes with specks of yellow glinting in their irises were there for all to see, but there was an overall sense of things being held in check, of beauty controlled and refined by a keen intelligence. Naturally, she was completely overlooked by most of the boys in our class. But not by me, which may very well have been the greatest achievement of my high school career. I had no singular skill to distinguish me from the huddled masses, was lacking that strategic extracurricular specialty to list on my college application; my unique accomplishment was simply having the anomalous wisdom and foresight to register Carly's more mature beauty, to sense the passion and smoldering sensuality behind her quiet grace and easy smile.

It began simply enough, with Carly sitting next to me in homeroom that year. We became morning buddies, casual friends who started every school day together. And soon I began looking for her throughout the day, living for the special smiles she flashed at me when we passed in the hallways, feeling strangely possessive. I began studying her face when she wasn't looking, entranced by the simple perfection of her features, the flawless surface of her silken skin seemingly without pores. More than once she caught me looking at her, and her knowing smile encouraged me. I began walking her home after school, our arms lightly brushing as we walked, and eventually I summoned up the courage to take her hand in mine. It didn't take long for hand-holding to escalate into short, careful kisses and then much longer, deeper, open-mouthed kisses that ended only when we needed to come up for air, our inexperienced tongues hungrily tasting each other. By mid-October we were virtually inseparable, fused together in a perfect symbiosis of rampant hormones and deep passion, which can feed harmoniously on each other for that rare period of time between childhood and adulthood, before they reach cross-purposes and begin mercilessly devouring each other.

Nineteen eighty-six was a fine time to be a teenager in love. Unemployment was down, the stock market was up, and people were generally optimistic. We listened to happy European synth pop: Depeche Mode, Erasure, A-Ha. The boys tucked the bottoms of their stonewashed Gap jeans into their high-top Nikes, gelled and cut wedges into their hair, and tried in vain to incorporate the moonwalk into their limited dance repertoires. The girls teased their hair high with mousse, wore iridescent skirts with matching eye shadow, fishnet shirts off one shoulder, and anything they saw in Madonna's videos. Things were so peaceful, they had to send Rambo back to Vietnam to look for action. We had no Internet or grunge bands to dilute our innocence with irony, no glorified slackers or independent films to make darkness appealing. Happiness was still considered socially acceptable.

Carly and I took long walks every day after school, stopped for pizza or ice cream on Stratfield Road, danced at parties on Friday night, and went to the movies on Saturday. We logged countless hours on the phone every night, lying in our respective beds, relishing the private universe that was expanding daily around us. Sometimes at night we lay on our backs in her yard, our fingertips touching as we watched for shooting stars. We fooled around in my father's Pontiac parked down by the Bush River Falls, the source of the town's name as well as its universal make-out spot, our impassioned kissing and petting progressing in tantalizing baby steps, each new plateau a delightfully sensual revelation making us feel that much more grown-up and that much more connected. As we lay together shirtless in the backseat of the car, the windows fogged, the leather upholstery sticking like cellophane to our sweating bodies, our groins conjoined, pressing and grinding through our jeans, kissing and tonguing each other with unrelenting urgency, it was easy to believe that what we had was all we'd ever need.

Things weren't going nearly as well for Sammy, who had inevitably caught the eye of the predatory duo of Sean Tallon and Dave “Mouse” Muser. Sean, with his patrician jaw, platinum crew cut, and dark, narrow eyes that glinted with just the faintest hint of malice, was a notorious bully who remained largely undisciplined either because of his status as a starting forward for the Cougars or because his father was rumored to work in some capacity for Frankie the Shoe, a local gangster of some repute. With Mouse's status as starting point guard and son of the town sheriff, the two were virtually untouchable, roaming the halls of Bush Falls High with a rowdy elitism, like young nobility granted diplomatic immunity from the rules of conduct that governed the rest of our plebeian asses. Sean was clearly the leader, while Mouse, a fireplug with the face of Australopithecus and a wit that relied heavily on bodily fluids, hovered manically in the background, the remora swimming behind the shark, snacking on the floating debris from its carnage. Sammy, with his colorful wardrobe and penchant for singing aloud as he walked the halls, might as well have had a bull's-eye tattooed to his forehead.

Sean in particular had a finely honed sadistic streak when it came to his weaker peers, and he zeroed in on Sammy almost immediately. Less than a week after school had started, Sean and Mouse found Sammy in the boys' room, fine-tuning his pompadour. “Look how pretty,” Mouse said. “Pretty as a picture,” Sean agreed. “Let's hang him up.” They pulled on the rear waistband of Sammy's underwear, tearing the elastic from the cotton and yanking it up over his head as he struggled in vain. Wedgies were a routine rite of initiation for entering freshmen, and one in which Sean conscientiously partook almost daily in the first month of a new semester, but having it done to you as a senior was particularly humiliating. They left Sammy hanging by his belt and underwear waistband on the back hook of a bathroom stall door, where he remained, tears of pained frustration dripping down his face, until he was discovered and cut down by some freshmen who mistook him for one of their own.

“Why do you think it is,” he said morosely when I came across him in the cafeteria later that day, “that no matter where I go, guys like that seem to find me?” I frowned sympathetically, feeling guilty, as if my not having been able to prevent this inevitability reflected a secret collusion with Tallon and his crew or, at best, an endorsement of the inherent system that put Sammy at such risk.

“You've met our resident assholes,” I told him. “They go after every new kid. It's a territorial thing, like dogs pissing in their yards. They did their thing and it's over. I would just stay out of their way.”

Sammy looked up at me, tears forming behind his glasses. “I've spent my entire life avoiding the Sean Tallons of this world,” he said bitterly. “And somehow they always seem to find me. It seems to be my destiny.”

“That's bullshit,” I said.

Sammy remained unconvinced. “We'll see,” he muttered.

A few days later in a crowded bathroom, Sean pulled Sammy away from the urinal in mid-piss, causing him to urinate all over his shoes and pants. “If you want to see my dick that badly, just ask,” Sammy reportedly shouted at his attacker. “It will save you the trouble and me the cleaning up.” Sean was utterly unaccustomed to this sort of slur on his unimpeachable character, and Sammy got a punch in the face and his head dunked in the toilet for his trouble. Indeed, most of Sean's attacks on Sammy did seem to depend on undressing him to some degree, but it would be years before I recognized this as possibly significant.

That afternoon, Wayne and I cut history and sneaked up onto the roof for a smoke. It was drizzling lightly, a misty spray that licked at our faces as we lit up. “You heard about Sammy?” I said.

Wayne nodded, frowning as he blew the smoke out through his nose.

“You can say something to them,” I said. “They'll listen to you.”

“It'll just make things worse,” he said.

“That's a cop-out,” I said, getting annoyed. “If they were hassling me, you'd put a stop to it.”

“It's not the same,” Wayne said defensively. He sighed miserably, staring out at the thunderheads amassing on the horizon. “He brings it upon himself,” he said softly. “Why does he have to act like such a . . . fag.” The word rose in the air before us, baring its fangs like a dragon, challenging us to brave its snot-encrusted flames and enter its lair.

“He is who he is,” I said. “Just because you defend a guy, that doesn't make you—”

“Doesn't make me what?” Wayne said, daring me.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You think I'm a homo, Joe?” he said, glowering at me. “You think I'm gay?”

I considered the question carefully. “I don't know what to think.”

“Well, I'm not,” he said hotly.

“Fine.”

“What do you mean, fine?”

“I mean fine.”

He stared at me intently for a minute, then nodded slowly and took a long drag on his cigarette. “Fine,” he said.

As far as I could tell, after that Sammy and Wayne stopped speaking altogether.

         

A few weeks later, Sean and Mouse grabbed Sammy between periods and pulled him into the yearbook office, where they pulled down his pants and attempted to photocopy his naked ass for posterity. Sammy put up a fight, and they ended up breaking the glass plate as they forced him to sit on the machine. His cuts required sixteen stitches, and it was two weeks before he was able to sit comfortably again.

The principal of Bush Falls High was Ed Lyncroft, a portly, doddering, ridiculous little man who desperately craved approval from students and faculty alike. On those occasions when he addressed large segments of the student body, he did so in a stammering, self-effacing manner, as if to say he was in on the colossal joke that was him. His well-documented excessive use of a cloying brand of aftershave and his penchant for peppermint candies did nothing to negate the conventional wisdom that he was a raging alcoholic who laced his ever-present coffee mug with generous amounts of whiskey.

Lyncroft's spineless demeanor rendered him fairly useless as a disciplinarian and made it easy for someone like Dugan to manipulate him. So it was after a quick consultation with Dugan that Lyncroft suspended Sean and Mouse for two days and demanded a written apology to Sammy from each before they could return to school. Dugan also made sure it was understood that despite their suspension, Sean and Mouse would still be allowed to attend basketball practice after school. After all, the season was under way, and why should everyone else on the team be made to suffer?

When I knocked on Sammy's door that evening, Lucy opened it, looking uncharacteristically glum, her eyes slightly red from crying. When she saw that it was me, though, she smiled brightly, and I shivered with secret delight. “Hi, Mrs. Haber. I came over to see how Sammy's doing,” I said, which was only partially true. Mostly, it was an excuse to see Lucy, whom I hadn't seen since the school year began.

“Please, Joe,” she said wearily. “I've told you a thousand times to call me Lucy.”

I did, and it felt subversively intimate.

“It's sweet of you to come see him,” she said. “But I don't think he's really up for a visit right now.”

“Is he in a lot of pain?”

She looked at me, a deep hurt etched across her face. “He's humiliated,” she said simply. “What those boys did to him . . .” Her eyes filled with tears again, and she turned away from me. “I need a smoke.” I followed her into the kitchen, where she sat down and shook a cigarette out of a package lying on the round pine table. “That boy has never bothered a living soul,” she said, absently curling her lower lip as she projected a stream of smoke upward. “And yet wherever he goes, something about him seems to inspire this cruelty.” She paused to take another drag on her cigarette and then rested her head on her palm. I was both alarmed and terribly excited to discover that she was crying. She looked up at me standing idiotically beside her, reached out to grab my hand, and pulled me into the seat next to her. “You have to help him, Joe,” she said, her eyes beseeching me. “You have to look out for him. There's just no one else to do it.” I nodded mutely, feeling a powerful stirring in my loins. I was on a first-name basis with a beautiful older woman who was now holding on to me as she cried. What further intimacies lay ahead?

“I'll try,” I said to her, squeezing her hand. She leaned forward to hug me, and I brought up my hand awkwardly to her shoulder. Her smells were a combination of lilac shampoo, a soft perfume with a citrus scent, and the cigarette still burning in the hand behind my left ear. As she spoke, her lips inadvertently brushing my ear, I tried to inhale her entire essence. “Be my hero, Joe,” she whispered to me. “Take care of my boy.”