Rumble (7 page)

to leave, just in case this is a matter

of misplaced rage. “Hey, Lainie. You

didn’t know Vince would be here, right?

I mean, you wouldn’t set up my buddy,

would you?” If there’s one thing I hate,

it’s games, especially the kind that get

my naive friends into trouble. Lainie’s eyes

narrow, and she gives me a vile smirk.

Why don’t you shut the fuck up, ass licker?

What I do is none of your business.

“Nice mouth. Careful you don’t catch

something ugly hiding in there, Marshall.”

With a chorus of groans, the group in the hall

swells backward into the room, and there’s

a loud thump just beyond them. “Time to

go, I believe. Marshall?” Against all that

is logical, the dimwad shakes his head.

Nah. I’ve got plans for little Lainie girl.

You go ahead without me. You’ll get me

home, won’t you, Lainie?
Totally unfazed

by the commotion in the hall, he kisses her

again, and she kisses him back, in the most

ludicrous display of igorance I’ve ever

witnessed. “Well, I’m going,” I tell

Alexa. “At least, if I can find a way

out. Think I could fit through that window?

Okay, probably not. Thanks for the company.”

I stand, but before I can take a step, she puts

her hand on my forearm.
Take me home?

I actually rode with Lainie. Looks like

she’s got more on her mind than me,

and it’s a very long walk in the rain.

Or even not in the rain. But you know—

I’m babbling, aren’t I?
Her grimace

makes me smile. “I happen to admire

those who babble, and if you can help me

safely escape the morass, I’m more than

willing to drive you home, milady.” Now

I’m babbling, but I think she likes it.

She Takes My Hand

You go first, and fast.

I’m going to be sick. Got it?

I do. If there’s one thing more

imperative than watching a fight,

or even winning one, it’s getting

the hell out of the way of a likely

vomit blast. I’d duck myself.

“Too much beer! Move, man!

You like the smell of Pabst puke?

Out of our way!” Like magic, the mob

parts, and we hustle by the human heap

on the floor—Vince pounding on . . . ?

No clue who. And I really don’t

care. Best of luck, Marsh. Sweet

little actress Alexa keeps her

fist to her mouth, approximating

the sounds of imminent upchuck.

We escape into the mist-mellowed

night, laughing and surfing mud

all the way to my truck. I open

the passenger door, sort of boost

her up inside. “Quite the performance.”

I thought so myself.
She looks at me

with eyes the approximate color of ripe

blueberries, and in those eyes I find

recollection of a time when Alexa

and I might have merged into coupledom

had I not fallen instead for her best friend.

Well, her then-best friend. The tiniest tip

of her tongue comes to rest against her

upper lip and I know what she wants and

for some insane reason, I sway toward her,

wanting to kiss her, and I am a millimeter

away from doing exactly that. “I can’t.”

It comes out a hoarse croak. “Sorry.”

She pulls her feet inside, and I close

the door, walk around to the driver’s side,

climb up beneath the steering wheel.

Wordlessly start the engine. We withdraw

to separate cubes of space, only feet apart,

but a universe away from each other,

both of us wondering what that meant.

We Are Quiet

For a mile or so.

Very quiet. Finally,

she tosses a pebble into the silence.

You’re really in love with her.

Splash. Glug, glug, glug.

“Hayden is easy to love.”

Really?

“Really.”

I don’t see it.

“Why not?”

Because you two are not

the same kind of people.

“That’s true. I’m a guy

and she’s definitely not.”

You know what I mean.

She’s starting to get pissed.

“Actually, I’m not sure I do.”

Come on. She’s a raging Jesus

lover. You’re anything but.

“Well, there is that. . . .”

The small injection of humor

goes unnoticed, or ignored.

Doesn’t that bother you?

“Once in a while.” More like

often
, but I keep that to myself.

She reflects for a second or two.

Don’t you want to, you know . . . ?

Okay, this word duel grows old,

not to mention hard to keep up

with. “Don’t I want to what?”

She tsks irritation.
Stop being dense.

Don’t you want to have sex with her?

Because I’m pretty sure she’s not

going to do that. Not without a ring

around her finger and a Bible verse

before—God-inspired foreplay.

Enough!

“Why in the hell is everyone suddenly

so interested in my sex life? Mom’s

positive I’m getting some, you’re sure

I’m not. And Marshall thinks I need

pharmaceuticals to masturbate.”

The last, of course, is total bullshit,

meant to elicit a reaction, and it does.

Alexa snorts laughter.
Wh-what?

“Nothing. I made up the part about

Marshall. Just wanted to see if you

were paying attention. But I did have

to defend my actions—or lack of them—

to my mom. Just because she got knocked

up her senior year, guess she figures—”

Wait. Your mom got pregnant . . .

with you?
Now she’s way too serious.

“That’s what they tell me. I was born

approximately five months after

a fancy shotgun wedding. Pretty sure

my grandfather wishes he’d pulled

the trigger. Then again, pretty sure

sometimes my dad wishes so, too.”

There’s a Lot More

To this tale of regret, details gleaned from Dad’s

inebriated ramblings. Confessions not confided,

but rather overheard. Like how he was a junior

at UOregon, a star forward on the Ducks

varsity basketball team, and head-over-heels

in love with another girl the night he met Mom,

who was much too young to be hanging out

at a frat party. How, despite a team prohibition

against alcohol, and a personal vow to remain

faithful, he went ahead and indulged in a drink

or four, which loosened his inhibitions enough

to make him forget about the love of his life

and engage in a fifteen-minute ride-of-his-life

with a wicked eighteen-year-old wild child

from out in the sticks. How, despite the guilt,

and swearing to himself he’d never again

cheat on his girlfriend, when Mom showed

up at his door he invited her in for an encore.

Three times they had sex, that was all, but

apparently that was more than enough to get

Mom in a family way, and even though

his heart belonged to someone else,

he agreed to do the right thing and marry

Mom, losing both the love of his life

and his shot at a career in the NBA. Not

to mention, gaining a wife who rocked it

in bed but was pretty damn boring otherwise,

followed by a couple of problematic sons,

an upside-down mortgage, and a tidy job

only made interesting by the coaching gig.

Now all they do is play the blame game,

especially after what happened with Luke:

If only; you should have; why did you?

But that’s a lot to say before I drop

Alexa off, so I hold it all inside

and make do with this: “The last thing

I want for myself is a shotgun wedding.”

I expect her to reply with a comment

about the availability of birth control.

Instead, she says,
So, you’re afraid

of your life becoming complicated,

and Hayden makes that easy for you.

I Want to Deny It

But I can’t, not completely. So I stutter,

“B-b-but, that’s not why I love her.

She’s beautiful and smart and sweet . . .”

And uncomplicated, yes, and I really

don’t need complications in my life.

You’re right. She’s all those things, but

there’s something else there, a nasty

little undercurrent. I mean, I thought

I knew her, but . . . Just, be careful.

Second time tonight someone’s told me

to be careful while referencing Hayden.

I should probably jump to my girl’s defense,

but Alexa’s right. Hayden can be snippy.

“No worries. I can fight her off if I have to.”

Alexa’s laugh is warm, rich gingerbread,

and I’m glad I didn’t have more to drink.

I most definitely share my father’s genes.

Don’t want to have his history in common,

too. But I don’t have to worry about that

with Hayden, do I? Suddenly, it strikes me:

Alexa hit
that
nail square on the head.

If There’s Anything Worse

Than the professional psychotherapy I endure,

it’s amateur pysche dissection, intentional or not.

Spot on or not. So I’m happy when I turn off

the main road into Alexa’s unassuming, well-kept

neighborhood. I attempt a return to small talk.

“So, what are you up to the rest of the weekend?”

Her shrug releases the scent of her leather

jacket, a hint of some citrusy lotion.
Not much.

Filling out college applications and FAFSA

forms. Tedious and silly. I’m not going far.

“Me either. UOregon, and I’m thinking about

taking a year off before that. But when I told that

to Mr. Wells, he acted like it was a dead-

end alley to residence behind a Dumpster.”

Well, I think it’s a great idea, especially

if you explore a little of the world beyond

the Willamette. Everyone should travel

before they decide where to settle down.

I pull over on the dirt shoulder in front

of Alexa’s small tract house, which

is shuttered by the night, no hint of light.

at the windows. “You here all by yourself?”

As a matter of fact, I am. My parents went

to the movies in Eugene. They won’t be back

for a while.
She feathers my hand with her

fingertips.
Want to come in and play?

I lift her hand from mine, bring it up

to my lips, kiss it gently. “You tempt me,

milady. However, I shall have to decline

your generous offer. Perhaps another time.”

Fine,
she sniffs, but at least she smiles.

In that case I’ll just have to go play alone.

I watch her walk to her door, appreciate

the arc of her hips, their metered swing.

I could change my mind, follow her in.

Instead, I’ll go home and play. Alone.

Well, Not Quite Alone

It’s a little after midnight, and Dad still

isn’t home. Postgame on Friday nights,

he regularly goes out with his buddies

and gets wasted. On more than a few

occasions, he’s arrived home courtesy

of a designated driver, usually a wife,

called out into the cold to save her husband’s

butt, not to mention his friends’ butts.

They never call Mom, who is home

and passed out on the sofa, snoring

like a chain saw above the soft play

of HBO on the TV. She is on her back,

long reddish hair a tumble of waves over

the pillow, her face worry-freed by sleep,

and in this one glimpse, this momentary

standstill of time, she is the mother

I always imagined she could be—warm

and caring. Not pierced, heart and soul,

by fragmented dreams and splintered

memories. But now she rolls to one side,