Zipped (9 page)

The crew put away their tools and swept out the truck. Nobody spoke, and when the other jeeps began to move toward the locker rooms, Mick began moving, too. Lisa said something to Traylor and went off to the girls' side to change.

At his locker, Mick put on a dry shirt and his dry leather jacket, but his Levi's were still wet and his boots were spongy. He was the first one out of the locker room, and when he saw no one around, he climbed on his bicycle.

“Mick!”

Lisa's voice.

She smiled when he turned. She must have brought a complete change of clothes because she was totally dry from the neck down. Only her hair was still wet. She looked pretty great. “I'm waiting for Traylor,” she said, and nodded toward the locker room. “He still in there?”

Mick had seen Traylor leaning close to the mirror fussing with his hair. “Yeah, he's in there. He's doing some remedial work with the hair gel.”

Lisa laughed. A silence followed, and then she said, “When Maurice is done firing me, I'm going to catch a ride home with my mom. There's room in the trunk for your bike if you want a ride, too.”

Mick wanted to say yes, he wanted to a lot, but he had the feeling she was just being polite. And why should she be anything more than just polite? If what she wanted was tall, dark, and Mormon, he was none of the above.

“Naw,” he said, “it's okay. It's not that far.”

She shrugged and smiled. “All right. Just thought I'd ask.”

Which made Mick think he'd been right. She
was
just being polite.

Traylor emerged from the locker room, blinking. His gelled hair went way beyond the normal weirdness.

“Over here, Traylor,” Lisa called.

“See ya,” Mick said, and stood in the pedals, but as he set off he circled back and, slowing slightly, said, “Just so you know, I think Maurice'd be crazy to fire you.”

Lisa grinned and as Mick pulled away, she said, “I'll tell him you said so.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

These Minutes with Maurice

“So whattaya think this is all about, anyhow?” Sean Traylor said to Lisa as they walked across a wet mulch of leaves and pine needles toward Maurice Gritz's cottage.

Lisa didn't like toadies, so she didn't like Traylor. “I'd guess you're going to get some of the brownie points you've been after, and I'm not,” she said.

Tall, skinny Traylor threw up his hands in a gesture of mock horror. “
Whoa!
That's kinda harsh.”

If this had been someone else, Lisa might've been disarmed, but this was Traylor, who'd laughed at Maurice's Gomez line. “Yeah, I guess it was,” she said matter-of-factly, and that ended their conversation.

Rain dripped from the corrugated roof of Maurice's cottage. Gray smoke steamed from its metal chimney. A wooden footbridge spanned the small gully, and the front door was enameled forest green. Traylor stepped forward to knock.

A few seconds passed and Traylor was about to knock again when the door suddenly swung open and there was Maurice, grinning and toweling his head dry. He was wearing only cutoff sweatpants—no shirt, no shoes—and Lisa thought he looked like one of those weird, too-buff, too-smooth guys you saw in muscle magazines. He draped the towel around his neck and motioned them inside.

“C'mon in where it's warm and dry.”

Traylor stepped in first. Lisa followed but hovered near the door. Everything was neat—the bed was made, the floor was clean—and almost cozy. Rain tapped on the tin roof. At one end of the room the embers inside a wood-burning stove glowed a brilliant orange.

So, Lisa thought, our manly crew chief has been tending his cozy little fire while his campesinos work in the rain.

Behind Maurice, from the kitchen alcove, a kettle began to whistle. Maurice said, “You guys want some hot chocolate or instant coffee?”

Lisa and Traylor both shook their heads.

Maurice nodded. The whistle continued, but he ignored it. He said, “Look, Traylor, I just wanted you to know you did good work today. When jeeps do bad, I tell 'em. But when they do good, I tell 'em that, too, and you did good work today.”

Traylor simultaneously nodded, blushed, and grinned.

From the kitchen the whistling grew shriller and more insistent. Maurice kept his smile fixed on Traylor. “You need a ride home, Traylor?”

Traylor said no, he had somebody waiting for him.

Maurice's tone turned politely dismissive. “Okay, Traylor, good work, and we'll see you next week.”

Traylor nodded and set the door closed behind him when he left.

Maurice glanced for just a moment at Lisa, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen alcove. The whistling quieted and a minute later he came back out holding two cups of hot chocolate. When he presented one to Lisa, she didn't know what to do except take it. She was still standing just inside the door, the doorknob within easy reach.

“You look like you're still freezing,” Maurice said in a voice that seemed almost friendly. “Stand over by the stove.” He gave an encouraging smile. “It'll warm you up.”

Lisa didn't want to leave her place by the door, but she knew it would seem rude if she didn't. She moved over to the stove.

“There,” he said, and Lisa had to admit the fierce heat from the stove
did
feel good, but the hot chocolate was stuff from a packet.

Maurice was regarding her. “You want something to eat? I make a pretty stellar omelette.”

“No, thanks.”

Maurice nodded. He sat down on a weight bench positioned between the bed and the wood-burning stove. He looked at her for a second and said, “Can we talk off the record for a minute here?”

Lisa said, “What does that mean?”

Maurice drank all of his hot chocolate in two or three gulps, then reached for the plastic tub of Bazookas on the bed stand. While unwrapping one, he said, “It means talking honestly and”—he grinned—“not for attribution.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Well, for starters,” Maurice said, “I think I owe you an apology.”

Lisa waited.

“I get the feeling you think the way I've treated Uribe”—he pronounced it
you-rib-bee
again—“isn't quite kosher.”

The woodstove made a steady ticking sound.

Lisa said, “You get that from Janice or figure it out for yourself?”

Maurice smiled and shrugged. “Little of both.”

Lisa thought about it for a second or two, then took a deep breath. “Okay, first of all, it's
oo-ree-bay,
not
you-rib-bee,
and, yeah, I think you hold her to a much tougher standard than the rest of us, and, finally, it's not me you should be apologizing to, it's her.”

To her surprise, Maurice's expression was serious, and he was nodding slightly. “Yeah, I was thinking maybe I ought to do that, too.” He looked down at his bare feet for a few seconds, then he raised his eyes to her again. “So how do you like this job, Doyle?”

“Off the record, this isn't the best day to ask.”

Again Maurice nodded thoughtfully. Then—and to Lisa this seemed like weirdness on top of weirdness—he lay back on the weight bench, grabbed the massively weighted chrome bar resting on its cradle above him, bowed his back, and began gruntingly working through a set of bench presses.

So that's how Ken-doll does it, Lisa thought. Only Ken-doll didn't appear to be wearing anything beneath his cutoff sweat-pants. Lisa looked away.

As soon as Maurice sat up from his bench presses, Lisa set down her empty cup and said, “I've got to go now.”

To her relief, Maurice simply nodded, went to the door, and held it open for her. “I'm glad we had this little talk,” he said.

“Me, too,” Lisa said, though she wasn't sure she was. She stepped into the rain.

“Doyle.”

Lisa turned.

Maurice let his eyes settle on Lisa. “Off the record, Doyle, you have the most beautiful goddamn hair.”

Lisa had always been taught to thank people for compliments, but if this was a compliment at all, it came covered with slime, so it was to her own surprise and dismay that she heard herself say, “Thank you.”

As she turned and walked away, Lisa felt his eyes on her, and she had to fight the impulse to run, actually run for the footbridge.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Soldier on a Roll

The house was dark when Mick got home that Saturday afternoon. He hung his jacket over a chair and pushed the chair next to the radiator, then he went upstairs and took a long hot shower. After that, he checked messages—one from his father saying it was snowing hard at Tug Hill and he and Nora had decided to stay the night, and he'd call later to make sure Mick was okay, and one from Reece saying the weekend with his cousins in Connecticut was something that shouldn't happen to any species above crustacean. Mick smirked at this and went back to thinking about his father. He was glad they were staying over at Tug Hill. As long as his father was with Nora, Alexander Selkirk couldn't be.

In the kitchen, Mick fried onion rings and sliced sausages that he washed down with orange juice he drank straight from the carton. He tried to let Foolish out into the backyard, but the dog took one look at the rain and skulked back inside.

When Mick went upstairs and flipped on the computer, Foolish wedged into the knee well of the desk and curled across Mick's feet. Mick had meant to spend a little time trying to get into Nora's e-mail, but was stopped short when he found e-mail of his own.

I'm in my dorm room. If you get this by 7:00 P.M., call me. 555-
5768. Myra.

Mick wondered if this was some kind of hoax Reece had dreamed up, but he called the number anyway. A girl answered.

“Myra?”

“Who?” the girl said. She was almost yelling. There was loud music in the background.

“Myra!” Mick yelled. “I'm calling for Myra!”

He heard the receiver bang down on a hard surface. The bass of the music kept thumping away, and there were girls yelling and laughing. Someone close to the receiver said, “You are so ballsy, Winifred.” At least that's what Mick thought the voice said. He looked at the clock. Two minutes had passed. He'd just decided to give it one more minute when a voice said, “Hello?”

“Myra?”

“Yep, this is Myra.”

“It's me, Mick.”

“Nick?”

“Mick. Em. As in mittens.”

“Oh! Hello, Mick as in mittens. I was hoping you'd call. Are you doing anything?”

Mick said he wasn't.

“Well, the commons doesn't serve on Saturdays and I'm starving. Want to get something to eat?”

It took a long moment for the question to penetrate, and another long moment to make himself say, “Sure.”

“How soon can you get to Bing's?”

Mick made a rough computation. “Twenty minutes.”

“Okay, then,” she said, “twenty minutes at Bing's.”

Myra Vidal was in a window booth with what looked like a college guy. She looked bored, but her face brightened when she spotted Mick. She waved him over and by the time he got to the booth the other guy was simultaneously sliding out and giving Mick a sidelong inspection.

“Thanks,” Myra said to Mick as he sat down. “Frat Boy was making me crazy.” She grinned. “I told him you were my study date.”

“I guess he might've wondered where my books were,” Mick said.

She smiled and looked at him with friendly eyes. After a second or so she said, “You know what's nice? You're even cuter than I remembered.”

Mick felt color rising in his cheeks and she laughed. “But just as embarrassable.” Another second passed, and already Mick felt himself settling into a comfort zone. “You hungry?” she said. “Do you like cheeseburgers? I love cheeseburgers, but can't eat them. But I'd like to watch you eat one.”

“Why can't you eat them?”

“Twelve thousand fat grams,” Myra said.

A waitress materialized, and when Mick glanced up, he had to look again. “Mrs. MacKenzie?”

The woman stared at him.

“I'm Mick Nichols. From Cub Scouts. You were my den mother.”

Mrs. MacKenzie grinned. “Mick Nichols. You're a whole new you! Good thing you told me who you are.” Then she whispered behind a cupped hand, “Former Cubs get extra fries.”

After she went away with their order, Myra said, “I'll bet you were the cubbiest little Cub Scout.”

Mick grinned and said, “I'd rather not talk about it.”

Myra sipped from her coffee. “It was nice of you to show up on such short notice.”

Mick waited.

“It's just that the dorm's crazy on Saturday nights, and Pam thinks it's her social responsibility to party on Saturday night.” Myra's face clouded—it was as if she'd just had some kind of unpleasant thought—and then she gave her head a little shake. “Anyhow, I just wanted to stay out of trouble with somebody, and I thought of you.”

Mick said, “Okay, is this a dis or not?”

“Not.” She smiled.

“Good,” Mick said, and it was good. Everything about this was good. He was warm and dry and sitting across the table from the kind of girl your average guy would kill for.

The waitress slid their food onto the table—a Caesar salad, no croutons, for Myra, and a cheeseburger for Mick. After a couple of bites, she said, “I've got a boyfriend, is why the whole partying thing doesn't really work for me. Boyfriend's in Berkeley.”

Myra took another bite of salad and opened her wallet to a photograph of one of those rugged and casually handsome guys you hardly ever see except in suit ads. His name, she told Mick, was Ethan. Ethan wanted to be an environmental engineer. He'd gotten a full scholarship to Berkeley, is why he went so far off.

Mick nodded and flipped to the next picture—another guy, this one in cap and gown. “That's my brother,” Myra said between bites. There were two other photographs, one of Pam and Myra laughing with their arms draped over each other's shoulder, the other of just Pam looking up from a book.

“Nice shot of Pam, no?”

Mick nodded.

“She's photogenic cubed. You will never see a bad picture of Pam Crozier.”

Mick pushed the wallet back across the table and Myra took another look at the last photograph of Pam before folding the wallet up. “She knows about Ethan, and she knows that's why I don't like to party, but, you know, a guy calls, and she's off like a shot.”

Mick said, “I guess a guy called tonight, huh?”

“Yeah. We were going to go to the library and a movie, keep ourselves out of trouble.”

Mick had never understood the weird little snarls between girlfriends, and he didn't understand this one. They ate a few minutes in silence, and then Mick turned his head in surprise.

“You just see a ghost, or what?” Myra said.

Mick pried his eyes away. The two people who'd just walked into the diner were Maurice Gritz and Janice Bledsoe. Mick discreetly pointed, and Myra glanced back. “I kind of know those two,” Mick said. “The guy's my supervisor at work and the girl's a friend of a friend.”

Myra's eyes were wide with merriment. “You work for Maurice Gritz? Sonny, you've got my sympathy.”

“You know him?”

“More than I care to. He escorted me to homecoming a few years ago.” She smiled. “I had no choice. He was king and I was queen.”

“And?”

“Let's just say I hope your friend of a friend is really, really good on defense.” She grinned at Mick. “Is she?”

Mick made a little shrug. “I don't really know her, and the friend is really just kind of a friend.” He looked down at his French fries. “In fact, today was the first time I ever talked to her.”

Myra broke out a friendly laugh. “My smoke detector's picking up something here.” He blushed, and Myra said, “I knew it!” Then, “I don't know what I'm doing in comp lit. I should be a psych major.” She smiled at Mick. “So what's the new friend's name?”

“Lisa. Lisa Doyle.”

“And she was friendly to you today?”

Mick lowered his eyes. “Kind of, but . . .”

“But what?”

Mick told her about the day, and how he was going to ask her to do something after work, but her friend, Janice Bledsoe, had mentioned tall, dark, and Mormon and that had kind of let the air out of the balloon.

Myra waved her hand dismissively. “I wouldn't read too much into it. Besides, what Janice was doing was a classic girl move. She sees you're getting friendly and she plays dumb and throws a wrench into the works.”

“You think? I mean, why would a girl care if her girlfriend was talking to a guy?”

A light laugh from Myra. “Trust me on this. The female persuasion is unmatched for complicatedness.”

Mick was chasing behind that thought when Myra said, “Describe Lisa Doyle.”

He did, as best he could, and Myra, smiling, said, “My my my.”

“What?”

“You seem to have all the details down pat.”

Mrs. MacKenzie stopped to pour Myra another cup of coffee. When she departed, Myra said, “I guess you'd like it if I changed the subject from Lisa Doyle.”

Mick nodded, and as Myra reached across the table to steal one of his French fries, her top loosened at the collar. Mick glimpsed swelling cleavage above a lace-trimmed bra and below the table his important part jumped to attention. Mick sat staring blandly at Myra and tried to think deflating thoughts—a squashed potato bug, his grandmother passing broccoli gas, a dog hit on the highway—but none of it worked, probably because he was still staring at someone as dazzling as Myra Vidal.

Myra licked a smudge of ketchup from a finger and said, “So did you tell that guy I don't know him from Adam?”

Mick didn't understand. “What guy?”

“Alexander somebody.”

Color rose again in Mick's cheeks. “Oh, him. No, I haven't seen him.” Myra's question had done what a squashed potato bug could not—his important part was again laying low.

Myra was both nodding and chewing. “Well, when you do see him, tell him . . . tell him he should be ashamed of himself.”

Mick thought about it. “I will,” he said.

He touched his inside pocket, where the green floppy disk was hidden, then he turned and looked out the window.

It was raining again in Jemison.

Myra offered to drive Mick home on her way to the library. She drove an ancient Honda Civic, rusty at the wheel wells and piled with books, but it had a pleasant smell to it, not the damp musty smell Mick had learned to expect from most old cars in Jemison. As she drove, Myra fumbled through a canvas sack of tapes at her feet, glanced at one, then handed it to Mick. “What does that say?”

It said Najma Akhtar, which Mick tried a syllable at a time. “Nadge-mah Ak-tar.”

“Close enough,” Myra said, and shoved it into the deck. Almost at once a quick rhythmic mix of drum, sitar, and female singing filled the car. “Wow,” Mick said.

“Yeah. It knocked me out the very first time I heard it. Pam likes it, too, but only after smoking the demon weed.” Myra smiled. “Whereas I don't need any alteration whatsoever to get lost in it.” She shot Mick a glance. “It's Pakistani,” she said, of the music.

Mick nodded. He'd never heard Pakistani music before.

“Try putting the seat all the way back and closing your eyes.”

Mick did, and the pulsing music seemed to wrap around him and lift him up.

“Whattaya see?”

The truth was, he saw dancing women wearing not many clothes. “Dancing women,” he said.

Myra laughed. “Yeah, sometimes I see them, too.”

Mick kept his eyes closed, listening to the music, until Myra lowered the volume and said, “Okay, which way now?”

Mick popped his seat upright and got his bearings. They'd overshot his street and had to turn around, which Myra didn't seem to mind.

“There,” he said as they approached his house. “Just past the old Chevy.”

When they pulled up, Myra stared at the house. “Looks dark,” she said.

“Yeah, my dad and stepmom got snowed in at Tug Hill, so it's just the dog and me. Except that's a predicate nominative so it should be ‘the dog and I.' ” He laughed and Myra laughed, too.

It was dark in the car except for the greenish illumination of the dashboard. The Pakistani music was still playing, but low. The windshield wipers went
thip thip thip.
Myra stared straight ahead, as if she were ready to get going. Mick reached for the door latch. “Well, thanks,” he said.

“I could study here,” she said, still staring forward, but then she turned toward Mick. In the faint greenish dashboard light she seemed to be smiling. “I mean, if you didn't mind.”

While Mick turned on lights in the living room, Myra gave scratches to Foolish, then gravitated to the photographs on the fireplace mantel. She picked up one of Mick in his blue Scout uniform. “You
were
the cubbiest little Cub Scout,” she said, and then scanned the other pictures. “Who's the dish?” she said.

Mick turned to see which picture she was referring to. It was Nora-in-swimsuit. “My stepmom. On their honeymoon in Mexico.”

“She nice?”

Mick almost said, “I used to think so.” Instead he said, “She's okay, I guess.”

Myra turned. “Any particular reason she does no better than okay?”

“Not really.” There was a sudden stillness Mick didn't like. “Anyhow,” he said, “isn't that the deal? Aren't kids supposed to hate the stepparent?”

“You hate her?”

“No,” Mick said quickly, and then, slower, “No. In fact, I like her.” Then, “I just don't like everything she does.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Just things.”

“Just things like what?”

“I don't know!” He turned away.

He could feel Myra coming close to him, and then she had her hands on his shoulders, slowly massaging them. It felt wonderful. In a gentle voice she said, “You can tell me if I'm shooting in the dark here, but I have the feeling that something about your stepmom has kind of stuck in your craw and one of these days you're going to have to cough it up.”