Part 17 (1/2)

”I suppose so.”

”I used to work in a garage,” he said. ”Made ten dollars an hour, and everything I made, Uncle Sam got fifteen percent. So I started looking for alternative business opportunities. Started out selling inspection tags and license plates. After a while it was spare parts-tell some rich guy he needs a new alternator and sell the old one to one of my buddies, cheap.” He shrugged. ”I only did it to the summer people. Developed into quite a little sideline.”

”So why did you quit the garage?”

”Didn't quit. Got fired.”

”For stealing?”

He smiled. ”For making personal phone calls.”

”You're kidding.”

”Nope. And now I draw tattoos on people.”

”And do you find tattooing more emotionally rewarding than working on cars?”

”Somewhat,” Michael answered, nodding gravely. Then, suddenly, he sat upright. ”Let me look at that foot.”

I extended my legs toward him and he pulled the foot into his lap. He peeled back the adhesive tape that held the gauze over the wound, and we both looked at the dark dimple on my heel. There was a little dried blood around the edge of the wound. Michael licked his finger and rubbed it away, gently. ”You'll probably live.” He pressed the adhesive tape back down to seal it; but his long, thin hand was still on my ankle, and he didn't show any inclination to move it.

He pulled my other leg into his lap and I wondered what I would do if he leaned down and kissed me. Then he actually did, and I was surprised to find that what I did was kiss him back.

For the rest of the afternoon, we lay twined in the cool shade and kissed, and never once did he slip a hand under my T-s.h.i.+rt or ask me to get in his Jeep with him so we could drive somewhere. There seemed to be nothing else for the two of us to do other than lie on the gra.s.s in the cool summer shade, with the breeze coming in from across the lake, and share our innocent kisses, as though we were two normal people enjoying a day off together. Instead of ourselves.

I said, ”Your eyes change color, did you know that?”

”Yours are army green,” he said. ”They're the same color as my pants.”

We went to the bar, which wasn't as crowded as I expected. Michael said that it would be, once the s.h.i.+ft at the mill ended. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands; then I lifted my feet up into the sink, one at a time, and washed them, as well. I took the wad of b.l.o.o.d.y gauze and tape off my wounded foot and threw it away. The hole in my heel was still sore, but it was no longer throbbing.

When I came back, Michael was sitting at the bar, and there was a beer in front of the stool next to him. ”I told the bartender that you were twenty-one,” he said. ”So if anyone asks, that's how old you are.”

”I'll try to keep that in mind.” I picked up the beer and took a long pull.

We sat in silence. People were starting to filter into the bar. Somebody put Johnny Cash on the jukebox; it was a song Becka liked. The bartender was leaning his round stomach against a corner of the bar, talking to an old guy wearing a John Deere cap. The old guy was eating pretzels, breaking them into pieces. I could tell he had dentures by the extra movements of his mouth when he chewed.

Then Michael said, ”You're a nice person, Josie.” He wasn't looking at me.

I didn't know what to say. I said, ”Thanks,” but it didn't feel like enough.

”It surprised me,” he said. ”You being so nice. I expected you to be more like your brother.” Then he did look at me. ”From what Becka said.”

I took another drink and swallowed it before answering, ”We're not that different.”

”You're close.”

I glanced casually at him. ”Sure. Broken home and all that.”

Michael gave me an appraising look.

A little while later, when the front door opened and we were hit with a gust of hot, reeking air, sour with the smell of the lake and the car exhaust from the highway outside, Michael's hand was resting lightly on my knee. I turned and saw my brother walking through the door with Becka, one hand possessive on her shoulder, his hair freshly washed and his white T-s.h.i.+rt clean and soft-looking. There was a lazy, bored grin on his face that vanished when he saw us.

They headed toward us, Becka wearing a satisfied halfsmile and Jack with angry eyes fixed on me despite the look of patent cool on his face. Michael sat up straighter and said, ”Hey,” as they came within earshot.

”We interrupting something?” Becka said. She was wearing thick makeup to cover a red, angry-looking mark on her upper lip. She'd been rubbed raw kissing my brother.

”The beginning of a long and drunken evening,” Michael replied. ”And that's about it.”

”Good,” Jack said. ”Because you should have seen what happened to the last guy I interrupted with my sister.” His voice was friendly, as if it were a joke.

Soon we all moved to a table. Michael took the chair across from mine; Becka sat down next to me. ”How was the beach?” she asked.

”It was the beach,” Michael said.

”It was fun,” I said. Jack's eyes were fixed on mine. ”How was your day?”

”Great,” he replied.

”That's nice,” I said. ”What'd you do?”

Becka said gaily, ”Oh, we hardly did anything at all. Sat around on our b.u.t.ts all day.”

”I can imagine,” I said.

Michael's eyes were on me, glittering brightly as he sat in silence. He was smiling his private smile again. It made him look closed off and distant, and it made me uncomfortable.

”I think I'll go get another beer,” I said.

”Get a round,” Jack said.

”Want me to come with you?” Michael asked.

”No, I'm fine.”

The bar was crowded by now, as Michael had said it would be. There were men everywhere: big men in shabby work clothes, who smelled of sweat and labor, dancing with girls who were preened and pressed. I preferred the sweat to the smell of the girls' hairspray and perfume.

I glanced back at the table; Michael said something and Becka, watching him, laughed. Only Jack was looking at me. His eyes burned and his jaw was tight. He looked a little like Raeburn had, that night at the Christmas party, when Claire was teasing him.

Suddenly I was intensely unhappy: forceful, tidal-wave unhappiness, the kind that washes over you and fills your ears and your eyes and your lungs. Sometimes when I feel that way it helps to get drunk, but it's like shoring up a high-rise with playing cards. Sooner or later something happens-a word or a song or a turn of phrase or, more often, an unwelcome memory-and everything comes cras.h.i.+ng down. This time it was remembering Raeburn that made it happen. I found myself fighting back tears.

I fought my way to the bar, pus.h.i.+ng at people who couldn't or wouldn't let me pa.s.s. A woman carrying a gla.s.s of water b.u.mped into me, and the water sloshed onto my s.h.i.+rt. It was one of the s.h.i.+rts that Becka had bought for me, and the cheap material instantly glued itself obscenely to my skin. The woman slurred an apology and vanished into the crowd. I made it to the bar and a man holding a beer said, ”Hey, baby, when's the wet T-s.h.i.+rt contest start?”

At least I'm wearing a bra, I thought. ”Shut up,” I said.

The bartender was wearing thick gla.s.ses and an ancient green T-s.h.i.+rt that said ERIE HOSE CO. #8 across his fleshy chest. When I finally got his attention, I tossed back my hair and told him to get me four Budweisers and a shot of Jack Daniel's. His eyes never left my chest.

I did the shot at the bar, took the four bottles between my fingers, and made my soggy way back to the table. When Jack saw me he swore. ”What the h.e.l.l happened to you?”

”I got wet.” I slammed the beer bottles down.