with the sermonette;
maybe Hawk wanted him to barbecue a few minutes longer over the coals of a
slow, hellish fire, which was what his dread felt like.
“Hey,
sorry,” Hawk said, “I almost forgot.”
Mike put his
hand out.
Hawk
shrugged at the open palm. “What’s your name? Mike? I’m sorry, Mike, somebody
else has it now. Guy named Lupe, I think. You know him?”
9
Mike pushed
a piece of English muffin around his plate in a smear of egg yolk and
hollandaise sauce. Everything glistened sickeningly in the morning sun,
bouncing off utensils and the silver coffee pot a waitress had left on their
table. His eyes ached, his head throbbed. For about a year after the divorce,
when his mother had moved down to Bohemia Bay, he’d had frequent migraines.
He’d taught himself to relieve them with the aid of a cheap self-hypnosis
manual. Now he felt another coming on, the first in ages, like a hot needle
jabbing deep into his right eye. Scott said the brain had no nerve endings in
it, but something in there hurt.
“Are you
going to answer me?” his mother asked.
He avoided
her eyes under the pretext of shading his face. Their table, on the patio of
the Dumas P è re restaurant,
sat in direct sunlight.
“I already
said I’m sorry,” he replied.
“You’re sorry? That’s just great. We give
you a little responsibility . . .”
“We have
extra keys,” Jack interjected. Mike looked up at him sharply, surprised to
receive any support, least of all from Jack.
“That’s not
the point,” his mother said.
“What is the
point?” Mike said, sounding shrill and false in his own ears. “It fell out of
my pocket! What’s so irresponsible about that? I looked for it, but we were
hiking around in the hills. It could be anywhere.”
“Boys get
into these things,” Jack said. “Why don’t we just finish enjoying brunch before
we get back to packing. We already did a lot last night and this morning, Mike.
You and Ryan missed the worst of it.”
His mother
looked at him steadily, as if to say, This isn’t over. “Did you remember to
tell Mr. Glantz you need tomorrow off to help us move?”
He
stiffened, because he had forgotten.
“Mike?”
“Yes!” he
said.
“Don’t you
dare crab at me. You’ve gotten out of plenty of work already. I know you have a
job now, but so do we. Jack and I only have so much time to get this done—we
can’t loaf around all summer like you kids. What’s the problem, anyway? Didn’t
you get any sleep last night?”
“I slept
fine,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong. I’ve just got sort of a headache.”
She looked
dubious, as if she somehow suspected the real story. But there was no way she
could know—would ever know—unless he told her. Which he never would.
He and Scott
had slept on the floor of the moon room, in sleeping bags borrowed from Edgar.
Or rather, Scott had slept and Mike had lain there restless and unsleeping,
thinking of the key, of the gang that had chased them through the dark streets,
of how close they had come to disaster—how he’d thought it averted, only to
find it crashing down on him again. Hawk’s failure, his own mistake. Stupid,
stupid, stupid. He’d wondered all night—worn himself out agonizing over—what
his mother would say, and what he would tell her. Instead of dreaming, he had
cooked up false but acceptable versions of reality.
He realized
with relief that the scenario for which he’d steeled himself was even now
passing. The worst was over.
Mike drained
his orange juice and looked away from the table, knowing his mother would need
time to cool off. If he managed not to talk back, things would return to normal
by the time they got home. He stared out over the patio’s low cement-block
wall, at Central Beach below. The Dumas P è re sat on the very brink of
an ocean cliff Beneath the patio, ice-plant slopes spilled down to the sand,
cut by asphalt trails where tourists and the local senior citizens, in
maybe Hawk wanted him to barbecue a few minutes longer over the coals of a
slow, hellish fire, which was what his dread felt like.
“Hey,
sorry,” Hawk said, “I almost forgot.”
Mike put his
hand out.
Hawk
shrugged at the open palm. “What’s your name? Mike? I’m sorry, Mike, somebody
else has it now. Guy named Lupe, I think. You know him?”
9
Mike pushed
a piece of English muffin around his plate in a smear of egg yolk and
hollandaise sauce. Everything glistened sickeningly in the morning sun,
bouncing off utensils and the silver coffee pot a waitress had left on their
table. His eyes ached, his head throbbed. For about a year after the divorce,
when his mother had moved down to Bohemia Bay, he’d had frequent migraines.
He’d taught himself to relieve them with the aid of a cheap self-hypnosis
manual. Now he felt another coming on, the first in ages, like a hot needle
jabbing deep into his right eye. Scott said the brain had no nerve endings in
it, but something in there hurt.
“Are you
going to answer me?” his mother asked.
He avoided
her eyes under the pretext of shading his face. Their table, on the patio of
the Dumas P è re restaurant,
sat in direct sunlight.
“I already
said I’m sorry,” he replied.
“You’re sorry? That’s just great. We give
you a little responsibility . . .”
“We have
extra keys,” Jack interjected. Mike looked up at him sharply, surprised to
receive any support, least of all from Jack.
“That’s not
the point,” his mother said.
“What is the
point?” Mike said, sounding shrill and false in his own ears. “It fell out of
my pocket! What’s so irresponsible about that? I looked for it, but we were
hiking around in the hills. It could be anywhere.”
“Boys get
into these things,” Jack said. “Why don’t we just finish enjoying brunch before
we get back to packing. We already did a lot last night and this morning, Mike.
You and Ryan missed the worst of it.”
His mother
looked at him steadily, as if to say, This isn’t over. “Did you remember to
tell Mr. Glantz you need tomorrow off to help us move?”
He
stiffened, because he had forgotten.
“Mike?”
“Yes!” he
said.
“Don’t you
dare crab at me. You’ve gotten out of plenty of work already. I know you have a
job now, but so do we. Jack and I only have so much time to get this done—we
can’t loaf around all summer like you kids. What’s the problem, anyway? Didn’t
you get any sleep last night?”
“I slept
fine,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong. I’ve just got sort of a headache.”
She looked
dubious, as if she somehow suspected the real story. But there was no way she
could know—would ever know—unless he told her. Which he never would.
He and Scott
had slept on the floor of the moon room, in sleeping bags borrowed from Edgar.
Or rather, Scott had slept and Mike had lain there restless and unsleeping,
thinking of the key, of the gang that had chased them through the dark streets,
of how close they had come to disaster—how he’d thought it averted, only to
find it crashing down on him again. Hawk’s failure, his own mistake. Stupid,
stupid, stupid. He’d wondered all night—worn himself out agonizing over—what
his mother would say, and what he would tell her. Instead of dreaming, he had
cooked up false but acceptable versions of reality.
He realized
with relief that the scenario for which he’d steeled himself was even now
passing. The worst was over.
Mike drained
his orange juice and looked away from the table, knowing his mother would need
time to cool off. If he managed not to talk back, things would return to normal
by the time they got home. He stared out over the patio’s low cement-block
wall, at Central Beach below. The Dumas P è re sat on the very brink of
an ocean cliff Beneath the patio, ice-plant slopes spilled down to the sand,
cut by asphalt trails where tourists and the local senior citizens, in
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