The One-in-a-Million Boy (32 page)

The minutes ticked away. Quinn surrendered to what Amy liked to call “the karma of the hour,” which was supposed to make you one with the universe, unless, as now, the karma sucked out loud and you ended up being one with your own ridiculous self. Juke's outpouring of sorrow returned as something growing beneath Quinn's skin, tumid and pulsing, and there wasn't a thing he could do at the moment except sit with it.

The cop was back, his face ballooning into the window. “Mr. Porter, the owner of this car is a Miss Ona Vitkus.”

“I know that,” he said. “She's a friend.”

“She's a friend. Okay. Looks like you also had yourself a busy time last winter. I'm looking at three speeding tickets in January alone.”

“I paid those,” Quinn said. “I took the course, the driver's-ed thing.”

“It's called defensive driving, sir. And then in May you were stopped for an expired registration—”

“I sold that car. I don't even have it anymore.”

“—and speeding—”

Thirty miles over, a steep fine incurred on the night after the boy's death. He'd sold the car within two days and given the money to Belle.

“—at which point your license was suspended.”

“I paid up. I'm all squared away with the State of Maine.”

“All squared away. Okay.” The cop flicked his flashlight over Quinn's license.

“You can see for yourself it's current,” Quinn said.

“It does appear current, sir, that's correct. But sometimes appearances can be deceiving. And it doesn't explain what you're doing in a car owned by Miss Ona Vitkus.”

“I have her permission.”

“You have her permission. Okay. This registration is also expired, are you aware of that, sir?”

“What?”

“It was due in April, sir.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Would you step out of the vehicle, Mr. Porter?”

“You can ask her yourself,” Quinn said, getting out. “She lives four blocks from here.”

“Would you place your hands right there, Mr. Porter, where I can see them?”

“I've got her on speed dial,” Quinn said, spreading his palms on the roof. “Wait, scratch that, she's in bed, don't scare her.” He expected a pat-down but the cop was still examining the license. “Listen, she's a friend. I repointed her foundation.”

The cop aimed the light into the back seat. “This your stuff, Mr. Porter?”

“I'm a guitar player. I'm on my way home from a gig. Which is how I got those speeding tickets back in January.”

“On your way home from a gig. Okay.” The cop made a theatrical connection with his wristwatch. “Whereabouts?”

“Portsmouth.”

“Portsmouth. Okay. That's what, about an hour away? I was in a band once myself, waaay back. I used to play a little bass.”

Quinn thought,
Waaay back? When you were, what, six?

“My experience?” the cop said. “Gigs usually start around eight, nine o'clock, and it's ten past nine right now.”

“Scheduling mix-up. Long story.”

“Long story. Okay.”

Quinn breathed slowly. “I'm a professional musician. I pay taxes.”

“On behalf of the State of Maine, I thank you for that, sir.”

“Look, her house is right down there, Sibley Street. Just past the dealership. You can see it from here.”

“Keep your hands where they are, Mr. Porter,” he said. “I know where Sibley Street is. In fact, I personally happen to know the lady who owns this vehicle.”

After a moment, Quinn said, “You the cop who watched her house after the break-in?”

“You the grandson she didn't want to call?”

“Her friend. I'm her friend. She did call me.”

The cop shifted his flashlight beneath his arm. “Somebody should be taking care of her, sir. She's a nice lady.”

“Somebody
is
taking care of her!”

“Keep your hands where they are, sir.”

“
I'm
taking care of her!
I
am!”

“Relax, sir. You can remove your hands now.” The cop handed back the license. “Now, I could arrest you right now, bring you down to the station, and have this car towed, because you're done driving till this registration is renewed and your license is reinstated.”

“It's been reinstated for weeks.”

“Sometimes our records don't match, sir. Once in a while that happens.”

“That's what happened.”

“You can call the state tomorrow and get it all straightened out, sir. In the meantime, seeing as how we're both of the musician persuasion, and seeing as how I'd hate to make that nice old lady's life any harder than it already is, I'm going to cut you a little slack.”

The little slack turned out to be an elaborate series of phone calls—first to Rennie, who told him to fuck off, then to Alex, whose phone was off, then Gary, who had just pulled into one of his three garage bays and said he'd be glad to help.

But it was Ted—Ted and Belle—who showed up an hour later in Ted's minivan.

“Gary had some kind of crisis,” Belle said. “Their dogs got out, so he called me.” She was brisk and businesslike. “Officer Kelsey said Ted can take you home in Ona's car. We'll get it registered in the morning.”

“I'll take the bus from here,” Quinn said.

“Not with all your stuff.” She hopped back into the van, leaving the men on the street. Rolling down the window, she said, “Don't make this harder.”

He looked at her. “I saw Juke tonight. Richard Blakely. The PA.”

A barely perceptible nod. “How is he?”

“A mess. One of the worst things I've ever seen.”

“He'll survive,” she said. “People do.”

“I'm sorry, Belle. For all of it.”

“I know you are.”

“It's not fixable.”

“I know. Some things aren't.”

She reached through the window, briefly squeezed his hand. Then she drove away.

Behind the wheel of Ona's Reliant, Ted looked grim but forbearing, and as the karma of the hour melted into a puddle of unsanctified shit, Quinn regretted not having chosen arrest. He got in.

“Appreciate it,” he muttered, adjusting the seat.

“It's the least I can do after what you've done for the troop.”

“What I've done—?”

“The money was starting to pile up, so Belle had to tell me where it was coming from. She told me tonight, before we came out here.”

Good old Belle. The knowledge lurched in, fully lighted: she'd been passing the money to Ted, who wittered on about expanded field trips and the future purchase of a sixteen-seat bus. Quinn listened, his face tightening, his fortitude wobbling like a spun quarter.

Ted stuck out his hand. “On behalf of Troop 23 . . .”

“Don't thank me,” Quinn said. “Do not thank me.”

“You can send it directly,” Ted said. “Belle doesn't like being the go-between. And it's easier for the troop to keep a record.”

“Right.”

“I'll give you the address.”

He felt like the mark in one of Ona's card tricks and nearly laughed—or cried—hearing his mother's voice drifting in from the misty past:
We don't choose our own punishments.
Or maybe it wasn't his mother. Maybe it was Ona. Sounded just like her.

 

PATIENCE

1. Longest time spent standing. 17 years. Swami Maujgiri Maharaj. Country of India.
   

2. Longest time spent adrift at sea on a raft. 133 days. Second Steward Poon Lim. Country of UK.
   

3. Longest time in full-body contact with ice. 1 hour and 6 minutes and 4 seconds. Wim Hoff. Country of Netherlands.
   

4. Longest time spent waiting on a hospital gurney. 77 hours and 30 minutes. Tony Collins. Country of UK.
   

5. Longest time to spin a coin. 19.37 seconds. Scott Day. Country of UK.
   

6. Longest square-dance calling. 28 hours. Dale Muehlmeier. Country of USA.
   

7. Longest time lived with bullet in head. 87 years. So far. William Pace. Country of USA.
   

8. Most airplane flights by a cat. 79. Smarty. Owned by Peter Godfrey. Country of Egypt.
   

9. Longest post-earthquake survival by a cat. 80 days. Country of Taiwan.
   

10. Longest time spent in space. 803 days and 9 hours and 39 minutes. Sergei Krikalev. Country of Russia.
    

 

 

* * *

This is Miss Ona Vitkus. This is her life memories and shards on tape. This is Part Nine.

. . .

Because I don't feel talkative today.

. . .

I have a song stuck in my head.

. . .

“I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face.”

. . .

It's from
My Fair Lady.
Louise was wild about that movie. She could recite it.

. . .

A-c-c
. . .

. . .

Correct. In the movie, a gentleman sings it about a lady of whom he's grown fond, much to his surprise.

. . .

In fact, I was not thinking of Louise. I was thinking of you.

. . .

Because I missed you this week. Which led me to realize, in a way I had not realized for quite some time, that I live alone. And so, I don't feel talkative.

. . .

Answering questions about the Korean War would most certainly
not
improve my spirits. Your Mr. Linkman is obsessed with wars, does he realize that? You tell him all war is the same: lots of pointless killing and then broken people coming back home. Speaking of war, how are you faring with your enemy?

. . .

You know who. The one who kicks your desk and trips you in the hallways.

. . .

I know all kinds of things. I worked among young boys for two decades, remember?

. . .

Troy Packard. Right. How are you faring?

. . .

Hmm. You know, I watched a documentary about Eurasian eagle-owls last night.

. . .

You did? Wasn't it grand?

. . .

Do you remember the part about the Eurasian eagle-owl fluffing its feathers to appear larger than its normal size? To intimidate the enemy?

. . .

I don't see why a human boy couldn't do that. Stand up.

. . .

Straighten those shoulders, you tend to slump. Straighter. Now throw them back. Chest out. How do you feel?

. . .

On the contrary, you look enormous! Downright ferocious!

. . .

Stay like that for a sec. Shoulders back. Now, repeat after me: No!

. . .

Oh. All right. Mouth it, then. With a scary face.

. . .

Excellent! I'm frightened to death! Now, scarier. Ten times scarier.

. . .

There you go! How does that feel?

. . .

It took me most of a century to learn that. I'm giving you the great benefit of hindsight.

. . .

It
will
work. People like your bully run like heck from a fluffed-out Eurasian eagle-owl.

. . .

Pardon?

. . .

Why, thank you. I've grown accustomed to your face, too.

After a fitful sleep punctured by phantoms—Juke (
Forgive me
) and the young cop (
You the grandson she didn't want to call?
) and Belle (
Don't make this harder
) and Ted (
On behalf of Troop 23
)—Quinn put the boy's picture in a drawer, sliding the frame beneath a shroud of T-shirts, intending to outpace his regret. He fished a newspaper from his neighbor's recycle bin, where he found a quarter-page color photo of Resurrection Lane minus Zack, the Christian-turned-cokehead-turned-Christian-turned-atheist.

He called Brandon. Then Tyler. Then the Jays. But it was too early to pick up; cleansed souls notwithstanding, they kept musician's hours. They were sorry to miss your call. They wished you a super day. They wished you the Lord's saving grace.

He got through to Sylvie while waiting for the bus, which was late, which meant he'd have to report directly to the floor and skip the cushioning ritual of free coffee in the GUMS lobby.

“Quinn!” Sylvie said. “For God's sake! I left you fifty messages.”

“Something happened to my voice mail. The paper said Zack's gone. Is that true?”

“He was a sweetheart once upon a time, he really was. Now my thoughtful nephew's in Miami—drug capital of the Western Hemisphere—without so much as a fare-thee-well to the family. Broke my poor brother in two. That kid's been a heartache since the day he hatched and God forgive me I'm glad he's finally out of my hair.” She sighed. “Listen, can you come out here? Like, this minute?”

“I'm on my way to work, Sylvie.
W-o-r-k.
”

“Are you giving me lip? Because I'm not in the mood. I get all the lip I care to get, thank you very much, from my sainted sons—who, according to that tweety-bird
putz
of a reporter, defied their quote-unquote overheated stage mother when they told Warner Records to take a hike.”

Quinn laughed. “I heard.”

“I'm not overheated. Or a stage mother. I'm a businesswoman.”

“An overheated businesswoman.”

A throaty vocalization—it sounded like the purring of a dangerous cat—emanated from the receiver. “Oh, God, Quinn. Doug's right, I'm in over my head, I need somebody to talk to, and if I had a phone number for Mr. Jesus H. Christ himself, you can bet your leather pants I'd have dialed it long before this. But absent the great Holier-Than-Thou, I'll stick with you.”

“Sylvie? Are you growling?”

“I'm
smoking.
And for your information, you're speaking to the queen of
w-o-r-k.
I didn't inherit my nine acres from the king of fucking France.” He heard a long, nicotined exhale. “You have no idea what they put me through, nattering on about ‘artistic differences,' oh, my God, ‘artistic differences.' And now, of course, they think it's God's will that they ended up with a decent deal from Christ Incorporated.”