Thursday's Child (5 page)

The bat was a real classic, made to Babe Ruth's own specifications.

He ran his hands along the smooth ash. It felt cool to the touch. After a moment, Robert hefted the bat and gave it a trial swing. Felt good. So then he swung it again. The third swing crashed into the trophy case, smashing the glass. Robert turned around and swung again, this time hitting the portable television.

Dimly, he realized that he was crying. Maureen would probably think that was a very good thing. He raised the bat again.

4

Beau didn't even want to be at the damned party.

Unfortunately, in this case, Saul hadn't given him any choice in the matter. Maybe they had lately reached a sort of trucelike state, occasionally even holding a pleasant conversation, but it hadn't taken Beau very long to find out just how far he could go in his rebellions against the old man's wishes. Sometimes, the easiest thing to do was just give in. So here he was. And not only was he appearing at the party, but he was actually wearing the new sports jacket and slacks that had been purchased for the occasion.

Saul, it seemed, gave one party a year, and this was it. A huge red-and-yellow-striped tent had been erected in the backyard and truckloads of catered food were hauled in. Now what seemed like half the population of Los Angeles (the rich and attractive half, of course) was milling around on the lawn, eating, drinking, and, most importantly, being seen. Beau didn't know who most of the guests were, although he did recognize a few kids from school, probably hauled along by parents. On his behalf, no doubt. They shouldn't have bothered. He was pleased that nobody even spoke to him as he walked through the crowd, eating handmade potato chips and drinking Coke secretly spiked with rum.

At one point in his solitary tour of the backyard, he encountered his grandfather, the host, looking expansive and pleased with himself. “Having a good time?” Saul asked him.

Beau finished chewing a chip and then swallowed. “Do you know,” he said, “that this is the four-month anniversary of my parents' being killed?”

Saul just looked at him.

Beau didn't know why he'd said that. But once said, it would have been too embarrassing to apologize or anything. So he smiled brightly and walked away.

Fed up with the crowd and the noise, he headed for the farthest perimeter of the vast yard, back where the orange and lemon trees grew. He found a grassy spot that was so shaded it was almost dark and sat on the ground.

Here it was easy to close his eyes and think about the past.

Because his thoughts were so far away, in another time and a much different place, it took Beau several moments to realize that he was no longer alone. He opened his eyes.

A girl in a white dress was standing a few feet away, watching him. “Hi, Beau,” she said. “You look kind of lonely out here all by yourself.”

“I'm okay.” It took him a couple more seconds to recognize her. “You're Kimberly, right?”

She favored him with a brilliantly white smile. “
Right
. Algebra class.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Can I sit here with you?”

Beau just nodded. She looked like all the girls at school—tanned, blond, and casually perfect. Beau felt sweaty and clumsy whenever they looked at him, which wasn't that often, of course. He supposed that his reaction was just hormones, but with so many other things on his mind lately, who had time to think about sex?

Anyway, his actual experience in that area had been limited to solitary jacking off, and even that seemed like too much trouble these days. It probably didn't say much about the quality of his social skills that an occasional wet dream was as close as he could get to an interpersonal relationship.

Kimberly sat down too close to him; apparently the concept of Personal Space, something that his parents had always stressed, was not an idea that she was familiar with. He couldn't help inhaling the cloying scent of her perfume. She gave an expert toss of her head and the golden curls tumbled cheerfully. “You're a real mysterious figure at school, you know?”

“Me?” He wiped at his sweaty face with the sleeve of his new jacket. “Why would anybody think I'm mysterious?”

“Well, you know,” she said, smoothing the front of her light cotton dress, “the way you lived all that time in the jungle or whatever. Like Tarzan, sort of.”

“It wasn't like that,” he said sharply. “I wasn't in fucking Africa swinging from the trees.”

“Okay,” she agreed willingly. “But it was something like that, right?”

He didn't bother to argue anymore; what the hell did he care what they thought about him anyway? He sipped some of the spiked Coke.

“Well, anyway,” she said, “I think you're real cute … in a sort of … interesting way.”

He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

She wriggled even closer. “Can I ask you something really, like, personal?”

Her breath was hot against his cheek. “What?” he said warily.

“Have you ever, you know, done it?”

“Done it?” He wished fervently that she would just go away and leave him alone.

But she didn't. Instead, she lifted a hand and touched his hair. “Don't you think I'm pretty? Most boys do.”

“You're pretty, yeah.” His voice sounded funny to him. He cleared his throat.

Beau wasn't quite sure who kissed whom first, but all of a sudden they were both stretched out on the grass. There was a roaring in his ears. She fumbled with his belt as he, absurdly, worried about grass stains.

When his hand touched the wet warmth between her thighs, the feeling was like an electric shock through his system. The next jolt came when he felt her hand wrap around his growing erection.

A memory shot through him: Jonathan and Rachel and he had always lived in the same small wooden house. A little house with thin walls. The sounds of his parents making love had been a familiar and comfortable part of his childhood. When he was old enough to think about it seriously, he wondered why, at their age, they still bothered. But they did, and what was even more surprising to him, they still seemed to enjoy it.

Even the night before they died, he recalled suddenly, they'd been at it.

Beau tried to put together the sounds he recalled so clearly—the sighs and laughter and muffled cries—with what was happening here and now to him. Two figures, one sweaty and awkward, the other seemingly cool and only minimally involved, scooted around on the grass silently. The music from the party could be faintly heard, but otherwise they might have been all alone in the world.

Wasn't this supposed to be fun?

He was inside of her for only a few seconds when it was all over; apparently hormones knew what to do even without much cooperation. As he rolled away from her stilled form, Beau found himself hoping that his parents had enjoyed themselves a whole lot more than this on that last night. He zipped his trousers and sat up.

She finished straightening her clothes—nobody had actually removed anything for the occasion—and sat up, reaching for her purse. After a brief search, she found and took out a compact and some lip gloss.

Beau cleared his throat again.

It was then that he heard the giggle. She heard it, too, and looked up with a frown. “Is somebody over there?” Beau asked.

An obvious admission of guilt crossed her face.

Beau reached blindly for his Coke and took a big gulp. “Who's there?”

The only response was a hurried rustling and then it was quiet again.

“Would you please tell me what the hell is going on?” he asked, trying desperately to take control of the situation. Whatever the situation was.

She sighed, looked away, then sighed again. “Have you ever heard of the Bleu Belles?”

He tried to think.
Blue Bells?
What the hell did that have to do with what had just happened here? Finally, he vaguely remembered seeing signs posted around the school about various activities—none of which interested him at all—sponsored by something called the Bleu Belles. “I guess. That's some club at school, right?”

She snapped the compact closed and looked mildly shocked. “Not just
some
club. It's
the
club. Every girl at school is just dying to get in. But they're very selective.”

Beau was getting tired of listening to her. He was tired of
her
. “So what?” he said sharply. “What's the stupid club got to do with me?”

Kimberly was looking at the ground, not at him, as she twisted blades of grass between her fingers. “See, the thing is, it's not easy to get in. Even when you're invited, there's still the initiation. They make you do things. One girl, last year, she had to drive the headmaster's car out of the parking lot and leave it at least ten miles from school.”

Beau just nodded.

“So anyway, I was finally invited into the club. And you, well, like I said, you're sort of different. And we were all pretty curious about you. So …” She looked up finally and shrugged. “See?”

Yeah, he saw okay. “So this was your initiation.”

“Right.” She gave him another smile. “Well, nobody got hurt or anything.”

Beau just looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “God, you're really a dumb bitch, aren't you?”

Now she was indignant. “Well, you don't have to get so mad. It was all just a joke.”

“Sure. Very fucking funny. And I guess somebody had to watch, just to be sure that you went through with it.”

“Uh-huh.” Her face turned red for the first time. “Just the club president and vice-president. And they swore themselves to secrecy.” She touched his arm urgently. “You won't tell anybody else, will you?”

He moved away from her. “That's not very likely, is it?”

“Okay, thanks.” She jumped up, gave a tug to her dress, and left.

Beau swallowed the very last of his Coke and then wished he hadn't, because his stomach rebelled instantly. For a few seconds, he thought it was all going to come up again.

When nothing happened, though, he got up and walked back to the party. Nobody seemed to have noticed his absence. After a quick search of the yard, he was relieved to realize that Kimberly and her friends were nowhere in sight. Apparently, with their mission accomplished, they had taken off for more exciting places.

He didn't even want to think about having to see any of them when summer school started.

Beau stopped by the buffet table and made himself a sandwich, hoping that some food would settle his stomach. He layered thinly-sliced ham on dark rye bread and slathered it with spicy brown mustard. He had just taken his first bite when someone poked him in the spine.

“You're Saul's grandson, am I right?”

Still chewing, he turned. The man standing there was just past middle age, plump, wearing a white Mexican wedding shirt and several gold chains. Beau nodded, but didn't say anything. He took another bite of the sandwich.

“Great man, your grandfather.” The stranger stuck out his hand. “Hank Levy. I'm a producer.”

Beau kept eating, ignoring the outstretched hand. “That's nice,” he said.

Levy finally took his hand back. “Actually, I'm real glad to finally meet you. I've heard the story, of course, what happened to your folks and all, and I think it would make an awesome film. A powerful story. Politics, romance, death. The people eat that stuff up, you know?” His round face turned solemn. “It goes without saying, of course, that you'd like their story to be told with respect. With
care.
”

Beau didn't reply.

Levy, undeterred, plunged on. “I really think it would make an awesome film.”

“You want to know what I think?” Beau said finally.

“Of course. Your input would be terrific.”

Beau finished the sandwich. He wiped his mouth carefully on one of the little paper napkins that bore the well-known symbol of Saul's company. He stepped closer to Levy and kept his voice low. “I think,” he said, “that you're an asshole.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Beau was halfway up the stairs when he encountered Saul coming down. “Where are you going?”

“To my room,” Beau said softly. “I really don't want to be at this party anymore.”

“Not even if I asked you to stay, to talk with people?”

“You talk to them,” Beau said. “I'm tired.” He pushed past Saul and moved on, not stopping this time until he was in his room.

He stood there for a moment, looking around at everything. None of it seemed to belong to him, to be a part of his life. Then, moving quickly, he stripped off the new clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. He dressed again, this time in his own ragged jeans and a clean white T-shirt. When he was finished, he shoved another change of clothes into his knapsack, added a couple of books, and then a framed photograph of his parents.

For a long moment, he paused, staring down at the faces of Jonathan and Rachel. They almost seemed like strangers to him. Finally, he closed the knapsack.

He waited until the coast was clear and then left the house by the side door, so that no one would see him go.

5

1

There was someone knocking—no, actually, someone was
pounding
—on the door. He had the idea, vaguely, that the noise had been going on for a very long time before he actually heard it. Robert Turchek sat up in bed and groggily reached for his watch on the nightstand. The room was dark, because all of the curtains were drawn completely closed, but he figured that the two o'clock illuminated on the watch face was
P
.
M
. and not
A
.
M
. Mainly he figured that because who the hell would come to his door in the middle of the fucking night? Nobody with any sense, that was for damned sure.

The pounding hadn't stopped; in fact, whoever it was out there kept knocking with one hand, while pressing the doorbell with the other.