‘Right.’
‘If Darcy’d been there, she’d have stayed back. No room in the Jeep.’ Buck is getting weird and agonized. ‘It wouldn’t of come down the way it did.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up over things you can’t help.’ Stitch starts the motor so he won’t have to hear what Buck says in reply. He takes off in high and doesn’t slow down until they turn into the estuary off Pierce Point.
They are in low, putt-putting along the shoreline to the Marina when Buck says, ‘Look!’ He can’t point; it’s too obvious. He jerks his head at the shore. Weird business: they are being watched.
‘Holy crap,’ Stitch says, and he means it in a good way. ‘That’s Walker Pike.’ Even from here, although he is half-blind without his glasses, Stitch knows. Pike is so unlike them that there’s no mistaking it: that cigar-store Indian profile, the proud lift of the head. Even back in high school he was a little scary, strung tight as a string on a crossbow. Not Like Us. Stitch Von Harten personally has changed shape in the years intervening and so has Buck. It happens, but not to Walker Pike.
If anything, he stands taller, so lean and easy in his body that Buck sucks in his belly at the sight. ‘Fuck, in high school he was nothing. Now look.’
‘Yeah. Pierce Point trash,’ Stitch says. ‘What goes around comes around someplace else, I guess.’ Walker Pike that they used to walk past without speaking is
somebody
now, sitting there on the deck of his neat redwood house with its glittering solar panels. ‘I heard he invented Google or Ebay or some damn thing. Now he’s rich as God. Look at that house!’
‘Yeah. Kara says it’s in
Architectural Forum
, just what you can see from here. They never got inside.’
‘All that, and he wouldn’t let them in?’
‘He always was one weird bastard.’ Stitch waves. ‘Hey, Walker.’
‘Look, he sees us! Walker, hey.’
‘Remember us?’ Not that Walker would recognize him, heavy as he is. ‘It’s Stitch and Buck, Buck Coleman? From Fort Jude High?’
Fluid, fearsomely easy within his body, Pike stands. Like a priest, he lifts one hand, showing them the blade but stopping short of the blessing. Then he turns and goes inside.
Stitch says, ‘Well, it’s nice to see you too. Son of a bitch couldn’t afford a clean T-shirt when we knew him. Now look.’
Buck is slapping at his pockets. He motions to Stitch to shut the motor. ‘Phone. Crap. Too late.’
‘Probably the girls, getting on our case.’ In Stitch’s pocket, his phone is vibrating off the hook. He pulls it out and checks caller I.D. ‘Wait. No. It’s Chape. Buck, it’s Chape. Yo, Chape!’ He listens carefully. ‘There’s trouble with Brad. He wants us at the shack. We’re on our way,’ he says into the phone and slaps it shut. ‘Damndest thing. He says Chaplin’s coming.’
‘Well, shit.’ Buck looks happier than he has all day, probably because unlike them, all-American high school hero Bob Chaplin is slipping, so much for the leader of the pack. Every man needs somebody to look down on, and now it’s Chaplin’s turn. ‘It’ll be nice to see him. He’s been home, how long? It’s damn well time he showed himself.’
13
Walker Pike
It was funny and sad, watching the two old fuds out in their motor boat, idling a little bit too close to his house. Walker didn’t mind; they looked harmless enough until they hailed him, which drove him inside. He can’t be with people he knows. Walker knows them, all right, but he doesn’t know them well enough to predict what they’d say or do if he let them in, or what might come down if it went wrong.
In high school he had their faces by heart, but he wouldn’t have recognized either one if Stitch hadn’t broadcast their names. Von Harten. Coleman. The least of the fabulous five – football captain and four rich kids from the Fort Jude Club. In high school he hated them. Face it, in high school he envied them. Well, look at
‘If Darcy’d been there, she’d have stayed back. No room in the Jeep.’ Buck is getting weird and agonized. ‘It wouldn’t of come down the way it did.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up over things you can’t help.’ Stitch starts the motor so he won’t have to hear what Buck says in reply. He takes off in high and doesn’t slow down until they turn into the estuary off Pierce Point.
They are in low, putt-putting along the shoreline to the Marina when Buck says, ‘Look!’ He can’t point; it’s too obvious. He jerks his head at the shore. Weird business: they are being watched.
‘Holy crap,’ Stitch says, and he means it in a good way. ‘That’s Walker Pike.’ Even from here, although he is half-blind without his glasses, Stitch knows. Pike is so unlike them that there’s no mistaking it: that cigar-store Indian profile, the proud lift of the head. Even back in high school he was a little scary, strung tight as a string on a crossbow. Not Like Us. Stitch Von Harten personally has changed shape in the years intervening and so has Buck. It happens, but not to Walker Pike.
If anything, he stands taller, so lean and easy in his body that Buck sucks in his belly at the sight. ‘Fuck, in high school he was nothing. Now look.’
‘Yeah. Pierce Point trash,’ Stitch says. ‘What goes around comes around someplace else, I guess.’ Walker Pike that they used to walk past without speaking is
somebody
now, sitting there on the deck of his neat redwood house with its glittering solar panels. ‘I heard he invented Google or Ebay or some damn thing. Now he’s rich as God. Look at that house!’
‘Yeah. Kara says it’s in
Architectural Forum
, just what you can see from here. They never got inside.’
‘All that, and he wouldn’t let them in?’
‘He always was one weird bastard.’ Stitch waves. ‘Hey, Walker.’
‘Look, he sees us! Walker, hey.’
‘Remember us?’ Not that Walker would recognize him, heavy as he is. ‘It’s Stitch and Buck, Buck Coleman? From Fort Jude High?’
Fluid, fearsomely easy within his body, Pike stands. Like a priest, he lifts one hand, showing them the blade but stopping short of the blessing. Then he turns and goes inside.
Stitch says, ‘Well, it’s nice to see you too. Son of a bitch couldn’t afford a clean T-shirt when we knew him. Now look.’
Buck is slapping at his pockets. He motions to Stitch to shut the motor. ‘Phone. Crap. Too late.’
‘Probably the girls, getting on our case.’ In Stitch’s pocket, his phone is vibrating off the hook. He pulls it out and checks caller I.D. ‘Wait. No. It’s Chape. Buck, it’s Chape. Yo, Chape!’ He listens carefully. ‘There’s trouble with Brad. He wants us at the shack. We’re on our way,’ he says into the phone and slaps it shut. ‘Damndest thing. He says Chaplin’s coming.’
‘Well, shit.’ Buck looks happier than he has all day, probably because unlike them, all-American high school hero Bob Chaplin is slipping, so much for the leader of the pack. Every man needs somebody to look down on, and now it’s Chaplin’s turn. ‘It’ll be nice to see him. He’s been home, how long? It’s damn well time he showed himself.’
13
Walker Pike
It was funny and sad, watching the two old fuds out in their motor boat, idling a little bit too close to his house. Walker didn’t mind; they looked harmless enough until they hailed him, which drove him inside. He can’t be with people he knows. Walker knows them, all right, but he doesn’t know them well enough to predict what they’d say or do if he let them in, or what might come down if it went wrong.
In high school he had their faces by heart, but he wouldn’t have recognized either one if Stitch hadn’t broadcast their names. Von Harten. Coleman. The least of the fabulous five – football captain and four rich kids from the Fort Jude Club. In high school he hated them. Face it, in high school he envied them. Well, look at
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