LITMIR.BIZ

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“Jerry Reed, what on earth are you doing?”

      “Keeping the cougars away,” said Jerry.

      “There aren’t any cougars around here,” said Aunt Beth.

      “It’s working!” said Jerry.

      Donny Applewood (several years older than even Phil and Henri LaTroppe) lurked in the background sucking a beer. He wore dirty jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt with a package of Export “A”s tucked in the sleeve. He was pasty-faced, and so thin his chest was concave — six feet tall, but he couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and forty. He had greasy hair, a wispy goatee, and acne. He’d once thrown a brick at Mr. Applewood, cut him for seven stitches. He used to mark his place in the dirty books he read with old razor blades so the teachers at the high school would cut their fingers when they tried to snatch them away from his shirt pocket. As I passed to get more kindling, he raised his bottle and said in a low voice, “Beer?” He never addressed anyone by name.

      After the hot dogs, Marjorie put some music on and tried to get people to dance on the porch. She came down the wooden steps to where Phil, Chicklet, and I skulked in the shadows. She took Chicklet and me by the hands and led us to the porch. Chicklet was to dance with Monica. He turned to me and rolled his eyes.

      The record that Marjorie had put on was a slow one, and she sang softly along with the words. Her breath was hot in my ear.

      Why does the sun go on shining?

      Why does the sea rush to shore?

      Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,

      ’Cause you don’t love me anymore.

      Marjorie leaned in and put her hot hands on my neck. I could feel the curves and hollows of her body. She smelled of lilac-sweet perfume and sweet perspiration.

      “What does it mean, Ray?” she asked, turning her face up to mine. “Why does the sun go on shining?”

      “Christ, I don’t know,” I said.

      Footsteps behind us: Donny had left Phil and Henri LaTroppe out by the barn to guard the case of beer. He crossed over to the swing couch where the other two girls were sitting.

      “Want to dance?” he asked Charmaine Ault.

      “No, thanks,” said Charmaine.

      “Oh, come on, Char,” said Marjorie. “It’s a party. Dance with my brother. He doesn’t bite.”

      “That’s not what I heard,” said Charmaine. She stood up and rolled her eyes, “Oh, all right.”

      Marjorie Applewood whispered in my ear, “I write poetry.”

      “What about?”

      “About your mother. You know. Dying.”

      “My mother?”

      “About airplanes crashing and horrible fires in the woods, houses burning down, people drowning. Death. About my father, I write about that, too. And, of course, love.”

      She took me by the hand and led me upstairs to her room. We sat on the bed. She unlocked the drawer in the side table and took out a black school scribbler. Her arm touched mine as we sat on the bed and she showed me the neatly printed pages. I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the poetry — the beer, the warmth radiating from Marjorie Applewood’s skin, the down on her arms. The short skirt that had ridden up her thigh. The bed. My erection.

      “Do you miss your mother?” she asked.

      “Sometimes, I guess.”

      “You’re not like the people around here. You know that, Ray, don’t you?”

      We leaned toward each other. The walls of the room were blue. Her lips were red. I felt the brush of her tongue.

      But then through the calico curtains — hazy headlights: an automobile fast up the drive. I heard the sound of spitting gravel. The car lurched to a stop on the lawn, beneath a dim light high on a telephone pole. A maroon Buick station wagon. The sound from the car radio drowned out the record player on the porch.

      “Who’s that?” one of the girls downstairs asked. Marjorie raced down the stairs, leaving me holding the scribbler.

      Three people piled out of the back seat of the car: two boys and a girl. One of the boys was fat. They were tanned. They wore pastel Bermuda shorts, button-down shirts, and loafers without socks. They were drunk and laughing, waving their beers around.

      “Get back in that car and move it.” Marjorie stood by the open passenger side door, hands on her hips. “Who do you think you are? You can’t just drive up and park on the grass. And turn that radio down!”

      “I thought this was a party,” said the fat boy. He leaned against the car, grinning stupidly.

      But someone did turn the car radio down. From the window of Marjorie’s bedroom, I saw that two people were still in the car, the driver and a woman beside him. I couldn’t see her features, but she had her arms folded across her chest and she didn’t look relaxed. The driver opened his door and put one foot out, but he remained seated, smoking a cigarette.

      “Turn out those headlights!” someone yelled from the porch.

      “So, it’s a party. Who invited you?” Marjorie said. “And on top of everything else, your friend is being sick.”

      Sure enough, behind the station wagon, the other boy (Radley Smith, I would learn was his name) was bent over, throwing up in the petunias. The girl who had got out of the car went to tend him, although she kept her distance. The faces of the two who remained in the car were shrouded in darkness.

      Phil and Charmaine came out of the shadows and into the light cast by the lamp on the telephone pole.

      “It’s Jethro and Ellie May!” said the fat boy, laughing again. He drained the rest of what looked like a Budweiser — the long-necked bottle was exotic — and threw it into the darkness behind him.

      “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, fat boy,” said Phil.

      From the porch, Chicklet yelled, “Turn out those headlights! We can’t see a damn thing up here.”

      “All right, you go out there, right now, and pick up that bottle,” said Marjorie, pointing to the dark field.

      “Oh, yeah, right,” said the fat one. “Like I can see in the dark?”

      Henri and Donny materialized out of the darkness by the barn. Donny was carrying a crowbar.

      “What…?” said the fat one, standing up straight. Even the boy who had been vomiting stood, watching Donny.

      Henri stopped at the edge of the circle of light. Donny loped past the front of the car. He raised the crowbar and swung it down hard. The sound of breaking glass shattered the night.

      The driver bolted from the car. “Jesus Christ!” He moved toward the front of the car. He was tall and he looked strong, but Donny had the crowbar. “Look,” he said, waving his hand at the darkness. “How are we going to see to get out of here?”

      “Your fucking problem,” said Donny. He raised the crowbar to smash out the other light, but the woman in the car reached across to the driver’s side and switched it off. That was when I saw her.

      Donny lowered the crowbar and faded into the darkness. The girl in the car shifted over to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed carefully off the lawn. She leaned toward the open passenger door. “Come on, Jack. Let’s get out of here.”

      While the fat boy and Radley Smith scrambled back into the car, the tall boy came forward into the pool of yellow light where Marjorie still stood. He looked down at the scars the tires had gouged into the lawn, the broken glass from the headlight.

      “Sorry about the grass,” he said. “I guess the broken light means we’re even.” He held out his hand and smiled

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