The office door slams open and Reuben stalks out.
As his father approaches, Sam releases Rick. Rick throws himself on Sam again and Reuben shoulders his way between them, making it impossible for either of them to land a blow. Peeling them apart, he holds Sam back. Sam’s resistance to Reuben is all show.
“What’s the matter with you?” Reuben demands of Sam.
The boy lapses into sullen silence.
“Rick?” Reuben asks.
Rick shakes his head. “Shit for brains, that’s the matter with him,” he offers sarcastically.
Sarah’s Honda appears in the distance.
“Go on in,” Reuben tells Sam.
Relieved to get away from Rick, Sam doesn’t need a second invitation.
The mechanic shoves his hands in his overalls pockets and cocks his head thoughtfully at Rick. “This keeps up, you guys won’t have a team.”
Rick finds himself blinking back tears.
“I don’t give a shit,” he blurts.
“Sure you do,” Reuben counters gently.
Inside again, Reuben makes himself a cup of tea. He twiddles the teabag in his mug, as if enjoying the amber swirl of the tea bleeding into the hot water. Sam watches his father dip the hot teabag out and squeeze it between two thick fingers—no doubt adding a little oil to the flavor of the tea—then flick the limp remains into the trash, an operation as ritualistic as the working of the cleaning rag through his fingers. The tannic smell of the tea is clean and pleasing.
“Sammy, come listen to this pig and tell me if you hear a whistle around the head gasket.”
To Sam, the air leakage is immediately audible. When he confirms it, Reuben nods. “What I thought,” he says, with an edge of irritation that brings Sam’s eyes back to his father’s face in concern. But there’s nothing there but the familiar composure.
At bedtime, Sam prowls, checking the doors, the lights, the oven to make sure it’s off, though his father’s already done it. Checks the baby, who’s sleeping—like a baby. Leaning over the rail of her crib, he trails the tip of a finger over her open palm and the slack fingers curl instinclively around his. From the corner of her mouth, she bubbles a pearl of spit as flawless as she is.
He tries a book and can’t concentrate. Clamps on his earphones and dodges up and down the airwaves until he locks on a college station from Burlington that’s putting out wrecking-ball techno-rock. Punches dub to roll tape. This stuff is so toxic it could be used to wash blood cells in one of those experimental cancer treatments. Terrible stuff to listen to this late, really.
Gives up. Gives in. Again already, he wants Deanie fiercely. Her, not just any female. Nevermind the awkward bits, the letdown after—the experience was so overwhelming, he can’t fend it off anymore. Has to wallow in it, the sensations, the revelation. Her chains rolling between them as he fucked her. When he comes, it hurts enough to make him choke and cough.
Better call the game, bush, it’s after midnight. Any more of this and he’ll be coming blood. Still he lies awake, sticky and sweating, bemused at his own insatiable horniness. Since the time in the parking lot, he has been troubled with this guilty lust. The guilt is not in the lust but in being one of the many; he loathes himself for joining the longtime gangbang of Deanie Gauthier. Can’t take it back now, gone and done it. And he’s guiltier still, for lusting for her even more. Like tigers around a tree, his thoughts chase themselves until they melt, orange and black, spinning behind his eyelids.
Next morning she’s at the Corner, hugging herself against the chill. The familiar headrag, the bobbing glint of her earrings, bring an immediate stab of desire. Just what he needs. His pecker stirring around like a sleepy hound. She grins at the sight of the truck, climbs in and settles back contentedly, feet on the dashboard like she owns it. She notices the small bag on the seat between them and grabs it. She coos over the huge blueberry muffin inside it, and the carton of orange juice. While she devours the muffin, she surveys Greenspark with a proprietary air as they pass through it.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Sore,” she says through a mouthful of muffin. “I think you bruised my fucking ribs, landing on me.”
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“Don’t sweat it, I can play.”
After practice, he thinks, maybe she will ask if he wants to go to the Mill. Have to work, he’ll say. No he won’t. If she doesn’t ask, he’ll ask her. She’ll probably say no, just to be a wench. Maybe she won’t. But he doesn’t say anything before they reach the school. Neither does she.
In the gym, he keeps his eyes off her while she is unchaining herself. He’s all business on the outside. So’s she. Inside, he’s miserable and confused. Both of them acting like it never happened. He wishes it hadn’t and he wants it to happen again.
He has other troubles. Nobody is a happy camper. The girls are uneasy, infected by the dissension among the guys. The boys act like they are attending a wake. Nobody looks anybody else in the eye and they all talk in asides. The upbeat tape mix Sam has prepared sounds ironic as they go through the session, all of them moving as if they were hobbled, physically and emotionally.
“What’d I tell you?” Rick mutters to Sam at the end.
“I dunno,” Sam says. “I wasn’t listening.”
Rick pauses. “All right. I’ll save my breath.”
“Do that.”
Second period, Sam is first into the weight room. He slots the snythesizer onslaught taped from the college station and cranks the volume on the boombox. Feeling as feverish as he did after his bout with the Mutant cold germ, he wants to sweat out the congestion of emotion and a restless night. As the others drift into the class, no one ejects the cassette. The music is a hard-wired, heartless robo-dick anthem, an intensifier
