Calamity

He slipped the phone back in his pocket and went to Brendan’s lane. He wasn’t there. Mr. Coyle was clapping. “Pick up that spare, it’s an easy one.” Yes, it is, Tyler thought and turned to Mr. Coyle. But then he turned right back. Brendan’s black and white marble composition book was sticking out of his bowling bag; it was practically crying out for someone to grab it and leaf through the pages.

He had an obligation to read whatever Brendan might have recorded from the conversation with Paul last night because now Sasha was going back on what she said and actually asking him to have her again. She hadn’t literally said that, of course, but he could tell. Paul had said that women became horn dogs once they got their first taste. If Brendan had written something about Tyler acting inappropriately or even a direct accusation of rape (Brendan was only twelve but he was damn perceptive), Tyler had to dispose of the evidence because it could damage both his and Sasha’s reputations. After today, they might even be boyfriend and girlfriend.

He grabbed the composition book, tucked it under his arm, and turned to Mr. Coyle. His son missed the spare but Mr. Coyle still clapped for him, telling him he’d get em all on the next frame. “I don’t know where my brother is, but—”

“Bathroom, probably,” Mr. Coyle said. “It’s only bowling but these kids take it so seriously. It’s like life and death. He’s probably nervous. The kids can be hard on each other. I try to tell em it’s just a game but, hey, they’re kids.”

“Yeah, but—”

Mr. Coyle leaned toward him, lowered his voice. “Some of the parents are nuts, too. They scream and curse. You’d think they had money riding on it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe they do.”

This time, Tyler blurted out his question and Mr. Coyle smiled large. “Awfully early for a hot date, isn’t it?” Instead of waiting for a response, Mr. Coyle slapped him on the back. “I know how it is. Women expect all kinds of things. Go ahead. I’ll take Brendan home. Tell the old man to give me a call. I miss our chats.” Then he started laughing as if he had said something hilarious.

Tyler nodded and left, almost running out the door.

* * *

On the way, Tyler called Paul.

“You must’ve gone deep. Struck oil.”

“You think that’s what it is?”

“Must be. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since you had her.”

An ambulance sped past him in the other direction, lights flashing and siren blaring. Whenever that happened, Tyler always wondered for a moment or two what had happened to the person in need. Was it a heart attack? Was it something more gruesome? Would there be puddles of blood for the paramedics to walk through? Then the ambulance was gone and forgotten. Later he’d think back on that ambulance and hear its warbling siren so loudly he’d get nauseated.

“So, this is good.”

“You sound nervous. Afraid you can’t hit the same spot?” Paul’s laughter made Tyler smile at first and then it began to grate on his nerves.

“What if her mom is there?”

“Let her watch.”

He had to wait almost a minute for Paul to get his laughter under control. “Seriously.”

“She’s probably at one of her witch meetings or reading somebody’s future. Tarot cards and shit. If she is there, wedge a chair under the doorknob. You don’t want a surprise interruption. Witch or not, no mother wants to see her daughter violated.”

“I’m not violating her.”

“That’s right,” Paul said, “you’re pummeling her.”

“What if it’s a trap?”

“A trap? She gets her hand on your cock and then, BAM!, down comes the knife and you’re standing there watching yourself bleed out while she adds your dick to her collection.”

Tyler hadn’t been thinking of that exactly, though the images lingered longer than he wanted them to. “What if she wants to record me confessing or something?”

“You’re on your way to get laid, Tyler. Stop being such a freak. She may be weird, but she’s not going to trick you into confessing or chop off your dick and store it in a jar.”

“You’re right.”

Another ambulance shot past him. Must be a massacre.

“Then again,” Paul said. “You never know.”

“What?”

“You might want to check her basement first or the kitchen cabinets or her closet. I’d look for a barrel of formaldehyde. That’s a dead giveaway she’s a cock collector. Then you better run.”

“Shut up.”

“What if her mother wants to, like, have you perform on some witchcraft altar? That could be freaky, man, though interesting.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And watch out for the snaggletooth. If she tells you to close your eyes, make sure your hands are around her throat. Just in case.”

“Jesus, Paul. What is wrong with you?”

“Hey, I’m not the rapist.”

“I’m not a rapist.”

“As long as the bitches like it. And don’t forget the rubbers.”

“Shit.”

Paul was able to stop his laughter before it got out of control. “Better hit up the store. You do not need a pregnant weirdo snaggletooth bitch on your hands.”

“Oh, fuck. That’s it.”

“What?”

“She’s pregnant.”

She was trying to be nice to him, even lure him to her house with the promise of sex, so she could tell him that the take-home pregnancy test had been positive and that he had to prepare for parenthood. He eased his foot off the gas pedal.

“I didn’t wear one. Last night.”

Silence.

“What should I do?”

“Pray.”

“I’m serious.”

“How could you not remember a condom?”

“I didn’t think we’d get that far. I didn’t even have one. I don’t own any. I wasn’t thinking. My mind had been”—FIRE! FIRE!—“blocked or something. I didn’t realize what I was doing.”

“What, you thought you were fishing?”

“I know I fucked up, but … fuck! What am I supposed to do?”

“If she is, you know, pregnant, push her down the stairs.”

“What?”

“It’ll make her miscarriage.”

“If she is pregnant,” Tyler said, “the thing’s only the size of a few cells.”

“Better to take care of it now than when it’s a few billion cells, you know?”

Would she want money for an abortion? If so, how was he supposed to get it? He only had a few hundred dollars in his joint checking account with his folks and that was supposed to be spending cash for college. He’d have to ask for the money and that would be quite the conversation. Dad had never hit him and rarely screamed but how else was a father supposed to respond? Then again, a father would understand better than a mother and might even hand over the cash, knowing it was the right thing to do.

“Just play it cool,” Paul said. “Don’t flip out or give her any reason to call the cops and start all the paternity nonsense. As it is, everybody in school is probably going to find out. She may be a weird bitch, but she still has