The Monsters of Templeton (19 page)

"Oh, Jesus," I said. "Peter, no offense, but I thought this was a pity date, on your part. I'm not in any state to want to be pawed at tonight, okay?"

"Pawed at?" said Peter, smiling painfully. His mustache twitched like a living thing. "Surely I'm far more suave than that."

I must have looked doubtful because Peter reared back, offended. And then, just as he was about to open his mouth and say something, just as I was cringing in preparation, a voice said "Who, Peter?" in my ear. "He gets all the ladies, just you wait and see." My heart rose in gratitude then fell again when I turned and saw Ezekiel Felcher in a wrinkled dress shirt and khakis. He even smelled like the trope of the guy who stayed home--Old Spice. Strong.

"Felcher," I said. "Ezekiel. Lovely to see you out tonight."

"Lovely," he said, "to see the lovely Willie Upton. I see you're here to repay me my beer."

Peter was watching, and he winked at me before I could respond. "Drink's on me, tonight," he said, over the roar of the jukebox. "You'll be all right with this guy if I go get us some, Willie? You'll tell me if he tries anything he shouldn't?"

"I'll be fine," I said. "Thanks." He turned around and went dancing toward the bar, swinging his girlish hips.

"That was nice of you, Ezekiel," I said when we were alone. "This is so weird, but for some reason I always thought Peter Lieder was gay."

"You're kidding," he said. "Pete? No way. I wasn't joking. He really does get all the girls. In a town this size, if a guy buys a girl flowers and makes her breakfast and calls her throughout the day to tell her he was thinking of her, he gets the reputation for being a good guy. When a guy has the reputation for being a good guy, he becomes a popular date. Even the girls who made fun of Pete when he was so huge, even they love him."

"And you?" I said.

"He's okay, I guess. We're buddies," he said, taking a sip of his beer.

"I meant, what is your reputation like?" I said.

"Oh," he said. "I made some big mistakes early and so nobody thinks I'm a good guy. Mel and all. My little boys, you know. But I do pretty well. I still have my mojo. You'll see," and he said this with his old knee-shattering smile.

No I won't, I thought, but he was already leading me through the crowd to a table, and on the way I was stopped by some girls I recognized vaguely. Susanna? Hillary? Erica? Joanne? Some of them said hi, looking in an irritated way somewhere past my left ear; some threw their arms around my neck and jabbered, but I couldn't catch what they were saying, so I only grinned and nodded and let Felcher pull me through.

When we were settled in the curved booth in the corner of the room, he lifted his shirt and prodded the little bundt cake around his belly button. "See this?" he said. "This is going to be gone in one month. I'm running in the mornings. Up to about four miles today. Not bad, right?" And he smiled shyly in my direction.

"Great. But why?" I said. "What's come over you?"

He looked at me slyly and said, "You."

"What?" I said with alarm. "Don't do anything because of me."

"No," he said. "I mean, you came back and looked so good it put me to shame. I thought, heck, that Willie Upton has her shit together. You know? She almost has a PhD, for God's sakes, and she looks even better than she did in high school, with her chic hairdo, and I thought, Zeke, in comparison to Queenie over there, you're mud. And I don't like feeling like mud, you know. Not in comparison to anybody."

"Ha," I said. "Funny you think I have my shit together."

Felcher leaned toward me, and those green eyes of his sparkled with some of their old charm. "Is that why you're home? Tell me about it. Just sit back and relax and tell old Dr. Felcher what's wrong, honey."

It was the honey that got me, as unexpected endearments always did. I felt an overwhelming pressure behind my eyes, and had to look down at my hands in order to keep everything from spilling. And in that moment of pause, Peter Lieder returned, and set down a tray full of shots.

"Zeke and I," said Peter, sliding into the bench beside me. "We're going to teach you how to drink like a Templetonian, aren't we, Zeke?"

"That is correct," said Felcher, and something curious then passed between the two boys, something charged that I didn't really want to understand. I took a shot and knocked it back without even wincing.

"One," I said, glad that Peter hadn't noticed my distress. "I am a Templetonian. I am, in fact, the Templetonian." I took another little glass and shot it and said, "And two: I already know how to drink." It was only after the second that I realized it was whiskey.

Felcher gave a little whistle under his breath and said, "Damn."

"Game's on, then," said Peter. "Cowboy Faces. Everyone knows the rules?"

"Take a shot and pretend it didn't hurt. Make your face as stoic as possible," said Zeke and put one back so deadpan that it looked as if he had drunk water.

"Agreed," said Peter, and he took a shot, and his nostrils flared and there was a little tension around his chin, and Felcher and I agreed Peter had no points for that round, as his Cowboy Face was pretty horrendous.

Somewhere on the fifth shot or so, Felcher put his hand on my bare knee and I let him keep it there. My knee was cold, I reasoned, and he was just warming it up. Somewhere around the seventh shot, Peter Lieder saw the hand on my knee and gave us both a curious look. "Gotta go potty," he said, then weaved his way through the crowd.

Alone now with Felcher, my head swimming with alcohol, I looked up into the bar and saw that life was not as bad as I had feared. Bobbie Jean LaMarck was dancing beside the jukebox to some male-hating country music song, Felcher was telling some story about duck hunting in my ear, and I had forgotten momentarily about my own problems. I was feeling sleepy and sweet. When Peter came back to the table, he did so with a small, plump girl on his arm, clearly a tourist. She wore a backward baseball cap and had thick bars of mascara on her cheeks from blinking before it had dried. "Guys," Peter said. "Meet Heather. Such a cutie, isn't she?"

"Adorable," said Felcher, dryly. "How old are you, sweetheart?"

She twinkled. "Eighteen?" she said, looking at Peter for confirmation.

"Hear that? Eighteen. Great age, great," said Peter. "We're going for a little walk down to the lake. I was telling her all about Glimmey and everything. The monster. She was so interested."

"It's sooo cool? A monster! Wow! Plus?" said the girl. "It's so romantic tonight? With all the flowers? And the moon?"

"Bye, honey," I said. "Be careful. A suave one, our Peter-Lieder-Pudding-and-Pie."

"Sure thing?" she said, and she giggled and followed Peter Lieder out the door and into the night. Felcher and I watched from inside the bar as, on the sidewalk, Peter took off his yellow sweater and tucked it over her shoulders. She beamed up at him.

"Damn," I said to Felcher. "Peter Lieder really does get the girls."

"Told you so," he said, and then buried his nose on my shoulder. "You smell so good, Willie Upton," he said. "What perfume you use? Makes me want to eat you up."

"Soap," I said. I pulled my knee from under his hand. "I'm going home."

"What?" he said. "Already? It's only eleven thirty."

"Oh, well. I'm drunk enough to find you attractive."

"Ouch," he said, looking blurry and hurt.

"Sorry," I said.

He gave me his most charming grin and said, "Does that mean I get to come home with you?"

"No way," I said.

"Why not," he said, and a little whine had crept into his voice.

"Because," I said, "you're not married to someone with whom you've had two kids, Felcher. Sorry. No offense. We'll just be good friends."

"Can't I walk you home at least?"

"Nope," I said. "It's two blocks. And guess what? I don't want to be seen leaving with you. Sorry if that's harsh."

He seemed to shrink a little in his seat and turned away from me. "Such a meanie, Queenie. Always were," he said. And then I went out, calling out good-bye to a group of girls who, I imagined, watched me wryly, seeing me leave alone when I could have been with that stud Zeke Felcher.

The night had cooled, and goose bumps came out on my arms. Across the street, the Pitt Hotel was filled with another set of Friday-night clientele, the town's old boozers, men who had come to this mecca of baseball and never learned how to leave. I hoped to God that the man who was my father wasn't one of the sad old men in there, his belly straining against his shirt, his nose red and glossy with grease. The remaining news trucks from Glimmey's appearance were lined along Main Street in front of the gourmet sandwich shop and the art gallery. The flag at the crossroads of Main and Pioneer flapped against its pole, clang-clanging, and at the foot of Pioneer the lake spread dark and beautiful. I wanted to go out in the oily dark and feel the whiskery light of the stars on the surface beside me; I wanted to tread water back to the time when I was the little high school know-it-all, eager to go out into the wider world, sure of my ability to conquer it. But passing Farkle Park, I turned my ankle on the curb and cursed and bent down to take one espadrille off. Hobbling this way home made me feel like Quasimodo, though, so I took the other one off, too, and swung them in my hands.

"Anyone attacks me," I said aloud, "I got some nunchucks." I imagined the face of Primus Dwyer on the lightpole at the corner of Pioneer and Lake, and swung my nunchuck-espadrilles at him, so loose in my muscles now that I only connected once. The shoe smacked against the pole at the precise altitude of a man's gonads.

That's when Ezekiel Felcher stepped in front of me and took the shoes from my hands.

I saw him wobble a bit before me. "You snuck up behind me," I said. "You. I told you to stay back there. At the whatever. Drinking place."

"Oh, honey," he said. "Looks like you do need some help getting home." He took my arm rather gently and put it over his strong shoulders.

"Don't oh honey me," I said, though I leaned against him. "Makes me want to cry. My house is like right there. I can see it. Right there. Lights right there. I can make it all by myself."

"Well," he said, "you still have to cross a road. Don't want to see you getting smushed by a car at the last minute."

"Okay," I said. "But nobody saw you. You know, leave after me. Right? At the bar?"

He sighed and said, "No, Willie, nobody saw me leave. I went out the back door because I respected your wishes. Embarrassing as it would be to be seen leaving with me."

"Hell, yes," I said. "You're a total whore. No offense. But what you did in high school? So mean. Kiss and tell. Ruined reputations. Everybody always crying, and still you got girls to go out with you. Don't know how, Felch. I never wanted to go out with you."

He frowned a little and said, "Is that why you refused to dance with me at the homecoming dance, Queenie? Hurt my feelings a lot, you know." By now, we had crossed the street, and the driveway was still warm on my feet from the light of the day.

"Yup," I said. "Though I had a crush on you, big-time. Everybody did. I's one of the only ones never did anything about it. Smart. Back then, at least. Not now. Nohow. I'm a dumb fuck now. My mom even says so. And she's never been the brightest bulb on the block. In the pack. Whatever."

We were in the garage by then. It was cool, and the familiar smell of home came rising up, the straw and dust, the bitter orange. I felt relaxed, but so very tired. The stretch between the mudroom door and my room seemed enormous, a marathon.

"I," said Felcher, "always had a crush on you. And I don't think you ever could be dumb, Queenie."

And then his big man's body was leaning against mine, pressing my body into the door. And his breath was near my face, then his face was near my face, then his lips near my lips and he was kissing me. My lips were numb, but even so, it was true what they said: Felch was a killer kisser. Lips soft and full. Tongue just forceful enough. I closed my eyes because everything was swimming before me and in the dark of my eyelids, I forgot where I was; Templeton fell away, Averell Cottage fell away, the long, strange day fell away, and there I was nowhere but inside my skin, and I was warming up, warming perceptibly under his hands and his mouth, hands down the length of my bare thighs, the door hard on my back, and in the solitude of the moment, the dreamlike strangeness of it, I forgot that Ezekiel Felcher even existed and a thought flashed through my mind of Primus Dwyer, and it was as if he were there before me, as if I had imagined him in Ezekiel's place, and I felt the hands slide up now into my underwear, and they were Primus's, and I felt the weight of the belly and it was Primus's, and I felt my skirt rise up and my underwear slide down and heard the merry jingle of the belt buckle falling against the concrete, and they were all, somehow, Primus's. They were his arms now boosting me up against the door, his hips my legs went around. It was his silky erection sliding across my thigh now--but--no--it was not his--and my hand fumbled back and turned the doorknob, and we crashed down onto the hard linoleum of the mudroom. I looked up into Felcher's face.

"No," I said, and pulled myself away.

"Oh, God," he said. "I'm so sorry." He turned, and hesitated, and, his back to me, said, "I'm such an asshole, Willie, such a total asshole. Comes over me and I always think with the wrong head."