Part 18 (1/2)
”I didn't want to bring this up at the dinner table,” Grandpa says in a conspiratorial whisper, ”But how are things in your love life?”
”Not so great.”
”Aw, come on. They should be tripping over themselves to get at a sensitive artist.”
”You mean, like Grandma did? Maybe you should try painting again.”
”My darn hands shake too much these days. Eyes are as bad as they ever were. Least they kept me out of dubya dubya two, right?” The hairy moles look like spiders crawling on his face in the shadow of the overhead bulb.
”Grandpa, can I ask you a question?”
”You just did. You may now ask me another.”
”If you could know when you're going to die, or how, which would you choose?”
Grandpa lowers himself into the wounded beanbag chair, which puffs white styrofoam dots onto the floor. ”Bryce, I reckon I already know the answer to one a' those. Now, if I coulda found out at your age...”
”What do you mean, you know the answer?”
”Someone said once that old age is the one disease you don't look forward to being cured of.”
”What if you could've found out when you were my age?”
Grandpa sits totally still, like someone flipped his power switch off. A thought hits Bryce, a thought he doesn't want to consider, can't consider. But who sits that still? Grandpa turns back on again. ”Ultimately, that's in the Lord's hands you'd best worry about the here and now, all the time you've got left.”
Bryce could tell him the truth right now. Grandpa's old and wise and will know what to do.
”DO YOU TAKE MILK?” his mom shouts through the ceiling, obviously talking to Grandma.
”Bryce, can you help me up? I estimate I have three minutes to get myself to a toilet, and going up the stairs'll take two and a half.”
After Grandpa leaves, Bryce goes back to the brochures. All those healthy kids. All the time they've got left.
58.
On Christmas Eve, Ricky holds two purple pills toward Claire.
The dinner reservation had been set for six people at 5:30. Bryce and Claire both balked, saying they wouldn't be hungry that early. Claire didn't know what was true for Bryce; for her it wasn't only the lack of hunger but being sick of her grandparents and the weird habits they'd developed as they'd gotten older.
Claire's mom reminded the kids that their grandparents were used to Central time and ready to eat by 6:30, but Grandpa said to let the kids stay.
”I'll see you both at church later,” her mom said as the party of four walked out. She looked at Bryce to add, ”Don't be late.”
Bryce retreated to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Claire waited until the car was safely around the corner, then went into her mom's closet. She put on her new coat, carefully tucking the tags inside the sleeves. Makeup. Dakota's shoes.
”I'm going out,” she yelled down the bas.e.m.e.nt steps.
”Where?” came the reply, a voice from a cave.
”None of your business. See you later.”
”We have to leave by seven-thirty!”
The bike ride to Ricky's apartment building took fifteen minutes of hard pedaling, or twenty-five of normal Claire chose half and half tonight, trying to get there fast but without messing up her makeup She'd need to leave at 7:10 to be home in time to put the coat away and change for church Make it 7:15 She set her bike under the outside staircase. The sounds of laughter and music came from his mom's apartment, the party where Rick Sr. would be getting drunk all night. Little Christmas lights grew all along the railing, up the stairs and straight to his door. She checked her coat once more in the window reflection before knocking. Ricky would be impressed to see her wearing real fur.
He didn't say anything about it when he opened the door. Nor when he offered her one of his dad's beers. Nor when they were kissing on his bed (even though she was still wearing it).
Finally she said into his mouth, ”Do you like my coat?”
He pulled his head back, rubbed the fur on the collar between his fingers. ”Nice.”
”It's my Christmas present. I'm not supposed to get it til tomorrow but I wanted you to see me in it first.”
”My mom gets me something every year. My old man just gives cash.”
”Then you can buy whatever you want.”
”I guess.” He picked up his beer can off the floor and drank deeply.
”You can have my beer, too. I have to go to church later and my mom will sniff my breath or something.”
”You have to what?”
”It's Christmas Eve.”
”Since when do you go to church?”
”Since I was, like, a baby and got baptized.” The heater clanged and banged through the wall, followed by a purr of warm, musty air.
”How do you not crack up watching all those dopes praying to their invisible buddy in the clouds? I'd be p.i.s.sing myself laughing.”
”I go because I don't have a choice, Ricky.” The heater kept pouring down on them; Claire wanted to take the coat off and leave it on. ”I wish we could smoke but my mom would for sure smell that.”
”I have a surprise for you.” He left the room. She wanted to have a look inside the journal always on his desk, to see if there were love poems written in there, but he was back too fast. Two purple pills cupped in his palm. ”From when my old man broke his ankle last year. He think he's all tough, so he didn't take 'em.”
”What does it do?”
”Gives you a nice buzz. Your mom won't smell anything.”
Claire takes one, swallows it with a gulp of warm beer. Ricky follows suit.
They're lip locked again, he's got his hand under her coat, her s.h.i.+rt, her bra. He's doing that heavy breathing thing. She can feel him through his jeans, pressed against her leg.
The pill announces itself behind Claire's eyes first, cotton candy. When it's at her chest, where his hand gropes her, the song comes through the wall from an apartment next door.
She sits up.