The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 13
“No.” Way too quick. “No, I think we won’t be here much longer. In fact, I should, uh, you know.” He nods to Etta. “Let me know when you need some driving time, Ethan. You know, like we talked about.”
“Thanks.” I watch him head back to Connie, whoever the hell she is. Friend, my ass. And if I log hours with Dad and Mom finds out . . . But—hell, there are so many things she’d kill me for lately. Maybe I should consider adding that one, just to get in as many things as possible before she figures anything out. How does that expression go? May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb? Something like that.
Etta gets that I don’t really want to talk about my parental problems. She doesn’t say anything about Dad or Connie or the fact that there’s a flask of something he’s pulled out of his pocket and is dumping into his coffee. Couldn’t do that inside, either. He downs the contents of the cup quickly and then tells Connie to finish hers in the truck. She complains, but he’s halfway there already, so she minces after him.
“So.” Etta picks up pretty much where we’ve left off. “Friday. I would love to have you drive me to visit a friend who lives a few towns away. For dinner. We could leave early and take a circuitous route. And if you wanted to bring a friend”—she leans on the word a little—“that would be delightful. Not obligatory, of course. Any of it. Just an invitation.”
This proposal takes me a little by surprise. “What kind of friend?”
“Yours, or mine?”
“Yours.”
“A woman I’ve known for years. She lives alone, like me. She’s a fascinating person. Earns her living reading people’s energy.” Etta smiles, watching my face. “She’s also been known to do a little astrology on the side, and she isn’t above telling you something she’s picked up about you that she couldn’t have any way of knowing.”
“What is she, like, a fortune-teller or something?”
“I suspect that she’d shudder if she heard anyone call her that. I would say it’s more like a psychic hit she sometimes gets from people.” She laughs out loud now, no doubt at the expression on my face, which has got to be something close to terrified. “Don’t worry. If I tell her you’d rather not hear any of that, she’s perfectly capable of fooling you into thinking she’s a completely average person.” Another smile. “Ethan, please don’t feel like you have to do this. It’s fine; we’ll come up with another plan for night hours.”
The thing that got to me was the psychic part. “It’s just—you know, she might say something I don’t want anyone else to know.”
“Well, she has quite a bit of discretion. She would be careful. But, as I said, we could—”
“I—I think maybe I’d like to.” It’s suddenly occurring to me that this person sounds like she’d fit right in with the whole Poe mystique. I’ve been wearing less Goth stuff lately, but that’s mostly because I think Max doesn’t like it. I haven’t given up on Edgar Allan. And I’m getting an odd sensation, like what you might expect to feel if you choose to do something that’s absolutely positively going to happen whether you want it to or not, and actually it’s the right thing, even if you can’t see that yet. Like, fate, maybe. Or destiny. It feels weird, and scary, and it pulls at me.
“Great! And is there anyone you’d like to invite to join us?”
That’s not as straightforward. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. Just let me know before Thursday, so we’ll know how many to plan dinner for. Now, I think we’d better get on our way so we can get in another hour of driving before the day’s over.”
We drive for over an hour, and I’m able to log some good time on my chart. Then Etta asks if I’d like to come back to the house with her for some cookies. “Peanut butter.” She says it in this voice that makes it sound like she knows it’s my favorite. I wonder if Mom told her.
We sit at the kitchen table, Two curled up on a big pillow beside the stove. I look over at him, and he seems so peaceful, like he wouldn’t hurt anybody, or anything.
“Where did you get Two?” I ask.
“He used to live with a family a little farther upstate. They went to Canada to get him for their son. But the boy was killed by a car when he was riding his bike on the highway. After that, the parents couldn’t look at the dog without thinking of their son, and they couldn’t provide leadership for him. A pit bull without leadership is a dangerous animal. So they started asking around, and I decided to take him. I’m the one who named him Two.”
“Can I pet him?”
“Sure you can. Look how relaxed he is. This is the best time to give him some quiet affection.”
I go and sit on the floor, and he opens his eyes but doesn’t raise his head off his paws. He blinks at me a couple of times and closes his eyes again, and I reach out and stroke his forehead. He has funny ears, kind of like floppy triangles. I pull on one of them a little and he kind of sighs like that’s just what he wanted. I run a hand down his side; the fur is a little rough, kind of stiff. It reminds me of the feel of the oriental rug in the living room.
I ask, “Don’t pit bulls usually have tiny ears?”
“That’s only if they’re clipped. Two’s ears are natural. By the way, he loves having his spine massaged.”
I work my fingers into the skin around his spine, and he turns his back more toward me so I can reach it easier. Who’d have thought?
When I get up, Two does, too. Etta says, “Do you have just a little longer? It’s getting cool out, but I’d love to run him a little. It’s just light enough. And those coyotes will be long gone.”
“Sure!” I’m not sure what she means by running him, but it sounds interesting. We go out behind the house, and Etta has this long, curved plastic stick with a kind of claw on the end. She grabs a few tennis balls from a covered bucket beside the house. Two is nearly prancing with excitement, but he’s waiting for Etta. He doesn’t bark or jump on her, or me, just watches her face. She puts a ball into the claw end of the stick and then flings it over her head and forward. The ball, and the dog, go flying. He looks powerful; even in the dimming light I can see the muscle definition under his hide. He comes trotting back, ball in his mouth like some kind of prize.
“Good boy!” Etta tells him. “Good boy, Two!” She holds out her hand and he drops the ball into it. She holds it out to me. “Wanna throw?”
The ball is wet from Two’s spit, but I guess that’s part of dog ownership. I push it into the claw and give the stick a huge arching fling.
“Beautiful!” Etta says. “You have a better arm than I have, that’s for sure!”
I throw again, and again, like I can’t quite get enough of it, and each time Two comes trotting back to me. I think he could go on forever, too. I love watching him run, and I love the grin on his face after he gives me the ball. Finally, he doesn’t come back right away, probably because he can’t find the thing in the near darkness. I’m just starting to be afraid he’s met up with another coyote when he reappears, and I’m disappointed when Etta says it’s time I went home. At least she lets me drive, and during the friendly silence I spend some time wondering if Mom would let me get a dog.
I’m sitting upstairs at my desk at home maybe an hour before dinner, trying to figure out how I can get lots more driving hours, and trying to decide whether to tell Mom about the coyotes, when there’s a soft knock on my door frame. I turn and see Mom leaning there, an odd expression on her face.
“You had a few calls while you were out,” she says.
Max? Did Max call? My heart gives a kind of lurch; I don’t really want Mom to know how much I want to hear from him. I try to sound like it doesn’t much matter. “Oh? Who from?”
“Jorja.”
Shit. My lie about where I was yesterday is going to come out. I wait, and Mom goes on. “She must have called three times. Seems a little odd, given that you were just with her yesterday. Something going on, Ethan?”
I try to hide my deep breath of relief with a shrug. “Don’t know. I suppose I’d better call her back and find out. Thanks, Mom.”
She leaves, and I sit there staring at my driving log but not seeing it. Something’s twisting inside me, heavy and dark, and it makes me want to zone out behind my duck blind rather than admit what it is.
Suddenly I feel caught again, rock-and-a-hard-place. I want to tell Jorja she’s still my friend. I also don’t want to call her at all, because I know I’ve neglected her lately. And that heavy dark feeling? Guilt. Pure and simple. And this makes me feel mad at Jorja. After all, why the hell does she have to call three times and make Mom suspicious? I’m sure Jorja’s going to yell at me; it’s been days since we’ve had anything like a real conversation. I mean, we still have lunch together and share a bus seat, but we haven’t talked a lot. It’s mostly my fault, what with thinking about almost nothing but Max and knowing I can’t tell her any of that. But—in a way, it’s her own fault. She won’t let me talk about it.
I sigh, heave myself up and locate the phone, and carry it back to my room. Then I lie on the bed to try and pretend this is all cool and casual, that everything’s perfectly normal, like I haven’t practically deserted my supposed best friend, my best friend who doesn’t want to know about the love of my life.
The first thing she says is about what I expect. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Um, yeah, like, hello? You called me three times today.”
“Was it three? Whatever.”
“You got a cold or something?”
Silence. Then, “No. Why?”
“It’s just—you sound stuffed up.” Then—has she been crying? Surely not about me. There’s more silence, so I break it. “What’s up?”
“What d’you mean?”
I heave a sigh. “Jorja, in case you’ve forgotten, you called me. Three times.”
“Yeah. So? You weren’t there. You expect me to remember what I called for?”
Okay, not making sense. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” But she doesn’t fool me. She sounds like she’s about to start crying again.
“D’you wanna come over for dinner?”
“What for?”
What for? WTF? It’s part guilt, part remorse, part pity maybe. “I’ve got something to show you.”
“What?”
“You have to come over to see. We’ll probably eat around seven.”
More silence, and then, “Fine. I’ll see you at six-thirty.” And she hangs up without saying good-bye.
Mom gives me a dirty look when I tell her there’s a guest coming for dinner. “You could tell a person, Ethan. What if there wasn’t enough food?”
“You’re doing a roast chicken. There’s always enough.”
“Not the point. Next time, ask me first.”
Jorja is fifteen minutes late, and I’ve been on tenterhooks trying to decide whether to show her my ear cuff or my tattoo or both. By the time she gets there, time’s too short to do either. I let her in.
“You’re late.” She just shrugs. “I’ll have to show you after dinner.”
“Whatever.”
I don’t get it. If she’s mad at me, why did she even come over? Just so she could rub it in? But she helps me set the table, and then I call Kyle down from his lofty tower of a bedroom. He’s still got the glove on.
Jorja is hardly the most tactful person in the world. “What’s with the glove, Kyle?” He glares at her and doesn’t speak. She turns to me. “This the offending right hand you told me about?”
That gets to Kyle. “You told her? How dare you talk about it!”
Mom plunks a bowl of gravy onto the table. “Kyle, for heaven’s sake. If you wear that glove to school, you can hardly keep it a secret.”
After dinner Jorja helps wash up, and then she and I go upstairs to my room. Mom eyes me as we head toward the stairs, like she’s not sure what to say but feels like she ought to warn me about behavior in some way.
Once we’re in the room behind the locked door, I say, “Ever see one of these?” And I dig the ear cuff out of my pocket. She takes it and shakes her head. So I demonstrate.
Her voice tells me I’ve broken through the apathy of earlier. “Wow. That’s cool. Where did you get that?”
It feels like we’re friends again, so I decide to go all the way. As it were. “Turn around for a sec.”
I turn my back to her as well and pull my jeans and my underwear down enough to let me expose the right side of my ass. I pull the bandage off and peer over my shoulder to watch her reaction. “Okay, look. It’s not all healed yet.”
She turns, and her eyes and her mouth open wide. Anyone else would have said, OH, MY GOD! In a harsh whisper she says, “Ethan! Where did you get that?” I wait, and she walks over to it. I can tell she wants to touch it but doesn’t quite dare. I’m wondering if she’ll get the rainbow implication and point out the sinfulness, and I’m all ready with an answer that should satisfy her: It’s where no one can see it, so it’s like being gay without acting on it.
I let her stare for a few more seconds and then pull myself together again. “Same place I got the ear cuff.”
“Man! Would they . . . d’you think they’d give me a tattoo?”
Okay, that’s not quite the reaction I expect, though I probably shouldn’t be surprised; she’s even deeper into Goth than I am. At least she hasn’t picked up about the rainbow, and that makes me feel a little calmer about the locker room at school. “I don’t think so. They weren’t even supposed to give me one. You’re supposed to be eighteen. And they made me promise not to tell anyone where I got it.”
“You could ask.”
“Maybe. I’ll see.” Truth is, I don’t really want to. I like the specialness I get from being the only kid I know with a tattoo. Plus, I’d led the way into Goth, and Jorja had followed and then outdone me. The last thing I want is for her to get a tattoo someplace where it shows and get all the attention for it, when it was my thing first and I can’t show mine.
We chat for a while, and I’m sort of waiting for her to say something about why she’d called me three times, but she doesn’t. I mention that I’m going to get an iPhone, and I come so close to telling her I’m in love. It’s right there, so many times, just waiting to be said. But I don’t. Instead I tell her I’m going to meet someone who reads energy and gets psychic hits off of other people. I’m half thinking maybe I’ll invite her to go with me on Friday. But she ruins that idea.
“Ethan, don’t do it! Those people are in league with Satan. Where do you think they get those powers?” Right; I almost forgot. The beast again, no doubt. “God doesn’t give powers like that to anyone.”
But that gets to me. “What about the prophets? What about Isaiah and maybe half of the Old Testament?”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“They’re telling us how to prepare for what God has in store, obviously! Like the coming of Jesus.”
“Wouldn’t it be just as useful to know about specific bad stuff that’s coming?”
“That’s in the Bible, too, you know. Have you read Revelations yet?”
“No.”
“Read it. You’ll see. And stay away from that person, Ethan. I mean it.”
I’m thinking that she must not know anything about the origins of the yin-yang symbol, or I’d have gotten a lecture on that.
When she leaves it’s almost like we’re friends again. Almost. Mostly it’s like she thinks we are.
Mom and Kyle are in the kitchen, arguing as usual these days. I start to head upstairs, but then I catch just enough that I want to hear more. I hear Mom’s voice say, “. . . tomorrow morning. I have the distinct honor of meeting with you and Mr. Glasier.”
“What? What for?”
“What do you think? It’s that stupid hand of yours. Evidently your left hand hasn’t learned to take notes or write essay exams very well yet. Don’t pretend this is a surprise to you, young man.” Kyle mumbles something I can’t quite hear, and then nothing.
Jorja had asked about taking class notes that day we hitched out to Nick’s, as soon as I’d mentioned the hand. It’s something I hadn’t even thought of, and now here it is for real.
After school the next day, as I head for the bus, all thoughts of Kyle and Mom’s appointment with Glasier evaporate when I hear Dad’s whistle. I look around for a truck, either his or one of the town’s, but I don’t see one. Then I see him waving an arm at me, standing beside a black Chevy Camaro, obviously several years old but in great shape. It has a cowl induction hood with the raised center portion tapering to three points a little above the front end, making it look like a black panther with flared nostrils. I stand there like an idiot, wondering where the hell it came from, and then I wave to Jorja and trot over to him.
“Whatcha up to, kid?”
I grin. “Nothin’ much.” This time our message is Yesterday at Friendly’s didn’t happen. We’re cool. And something different and fun is about to happen.
“Get in.” He gets behind the wheel while I throw my pack behind the passenger seat and climb in. “Thought I’d give you a taste of real driving. Bet no one’s given you a taste of a stick, have they?” He bounces a hand off the knob while I struggle not to think about what else a taste of stick might mean.
As I watch his hand lift up before slapping the stick head again, I see it has a silver wolf head against black. Custom, obviously. Whose car is this? But I don’t go there. “This is standard transmission?”
“Yep. Sure is. Six gears. I’m gonna teach you how to drive like a man.” His legs move as he works the pedals, the engine guns, and suddenly I’m pressed hard against my seat back. I know we leave a trail of black on the pavement behind us. As we head down the road, too fast for the legal limit, I test the air to see if I can smell booze. Nothing. Maybe he’s actually totally sober today. For me. My throat tightens a little.
He pulls into a parking lot behind some storage buildings, the place where they keep the equipment for mowing beside highways and plowing roads in winter, practically deserted today, between seasons. Then Dad shows me a side of him I didn’t know was there.
