Bliss and Other Short Stories Part 11

Outside, the snow had thinned almost to nothing and some sky was showing in the west. Track practice would begin in a week; the first meet was less than a month away. I would be up for the 220 and the 440, but nothing longer. I tried the mile once, last year, be-cause Coach told me I had the form for it, but I finished just about dead last.

David Walker was worse than me, although that's not saying much. Walker couldn't be talked out of losing. He'd start out like everybody else, but by the time he'd been lapped by all the other runners, he would have settled into his true pace: a painful lurch to-ward a full-length touchdown in the cinders. A couple of us would scoop him up and walk him around so he wouldn't cramp too badly. When he could breathe again, he'd clean his gla.s.ses on his shorts, check out whatever skin damage he'd taken, and head for the show-ers. This happened at nearly every meet and came to be seen, to Coach's embarra.s.sment, as an event in itself.

I took my box of boots through the kitchen door. Alice was sit-ting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.

"What do you have there, Phil?" Alice asked me without look-ing up.

"New boots." I put the box on the table and opened it. The smell of fresh leather rose over the table.

"Ooh," she said, musically, and flipped back the tissue paper with a finger. She looked into the box and I had the feeling she was as-sessing more than just the cost of footwear. Alice settled her gaze on her cup again.

"How much did those set you back?"

"Fifty dollars." I didn't tell her about the tax because I could see that she was mad at either Frank or Ellie and would very shortly be letting me have some of it, if I hung around. I picked up the box and made for the stairs.

"Dinner's in exactly half an hour," Alice said.

Up in my room, I sat on the bed and laced up the boots. The left boot felt fine but the other-the one I hadn't tried on in Somer's- was too tight. Way too tight. I re-tied it, loosely, giving it extra room across the top, but it was still too tight. I compared the soles and checked the size numbers printed inside the boots: everything matched. I walked around the room and did some deep knee bends, trying to stretch the leather.

My foot was hurting, now. I walked around the room three times and with every other step I felt an evil pinch to my right foot.

I took the boots off, crushed them into the tissue paper, and threw the box into the closet. *

I woke up early enough the following morning, Sat.u.r.day, to get breakfast while it was still hot. Alice had said, "I'm not a waitress and this isn't a hotel," and she wasn't kidding. I was halfway dressed when I remembered the boots. I took the box out of the closet and dumped them onto the bed, where they jumped once and then lay still, the glossy waffle soles gleaming like big shiny teeth in a big smile. I decided to try them again in the light of a new day.

I minced down the stairs and into the kitchen. Ellie was sitting at the table in her bathrobe. She looked sweet, I have to admit. Al ice was at the stove. Frank stood at the open door, drinking coffee.

The room was warm and was spiced with the smell of bacon and Bisquick pancakes. My right foot was throbbing.

"Morning, Doodlebug," I said to Ellie-just for fun.

She gave me her bored look; then she glanced down. "Work boots," she said. "How utterly fascinating."

Alice turned and eyed the boots. "Those are very nice, Phil," she said.

"Nice if you're a farmer," Ellie said.

"El-lie," Frank growled. "Be nice."

"I am a farmer, and so are you, Doodlebug. We come from a long line of farmers."

Ellie sighed and took a sip of juice. "Why do you keep calling me that? It's so sickening."

Alice said, "There are no farmers in this family, Phil."

"Well-hicks, then."

Alice turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n. "That is a word I don't like to hear. Do you want two eggs or three?"

"Give him three," Ellie said. "He's a chicken farmer." She grinned at me.

Frank said, "Doodlebug. I knew a fellow once who was called that."

Ellie screamed with laughter. I began to flap my hands and cluck. I dived under the table and pecked, so to speak, at Ellie's bare feet. She laughed and kicked; then she pulled back and gave me a good one square on the ear.

"Jesus Lord," I said. "That really hurt, Ellie."

"Well, you shouldn't go after people's feet." Then she saw the look on my face. Flushing, she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't think it was that hard."

"Forget it," I said. I eased into a chair to take the weight off my foot. They were all looking at me.

"Phil, what is it?" Alice asked.

"One of these G.o.dd.a.m.ned boots doesn't fit," I said. "And I can't take them back because they were on sale."

"I don't understand," Alice said. "You bought boots that don't fit?"

"Just one of them," I said. "The other one fits fine."

"Well, h.e.l.l," Frank said. He edged a little ways out the door.

"Dumb hick farmer," Ellie said.

"Be quiet, Ellie." Alice threw eggsh.e.l.ls in the garbage can and looked at Frank, then at me. "Did you even try them on in the store?"

I pulled off the boot that had caused the trouble and held it up.

"This is the one I didn't try on. I did try on the other one and for some reason, I guess I wasn't thinking, I figured they'd fit the same, just like always. I've never noticed that one of my feet is big-ger than the other. Never even thought about it. Do you ever think about stuff like that, Frank? That you might not match the way you always thought you would?"

"Hey, hey," Frank said. "Settle down, now."

Ellie said, "Phil, it doesn't matter"-but I wished she had come out with something smart.

"Of course it matters," I said.

"Fifty dollars," Alice said quietly. "Phil, we just don't have that kind of money to throw away."

"It was my G.o.dd.a.m.ned money."

"Hey!" Frank said. He made a cop's slow-down signal with his hands, then jammed his hands in his pockets. He looked miser-able.

"I'm going over to Bill's," I said.

"Can I come?" Ellie asked.

Alice was smiling but her face was sad and hard. She did a slow turn back to the stove. Frank, outside now, said, "They look like good boots. What size are they?"

Alice began to cry.

I looked across the table at my sister but I couldn't speak-her face at that moment looked so much like Mother's, I wished that I had drowned, too, that we had all gone down together in the car that night; wished that I would never again have to sit in a strange room and see the pain on my sister's face and not be able to do anything about it.

I grew dizzy suddenly. I realized I had been holding my breath. When I filled my lungs the room seemed to slant and a handful of black sparks shimmered across my field of vision. Ellie and Alice seemed to be sliding away from me, going over an invisible edge, and I would be the next to go if I didn't get out.

I ran upstairs and got into my old boots, then skirted the kitchen and went out the front door.

Frank's keys were in the van. Ellie came out and ran across the yard. She stood in the mud in her bare feet and banged on the win dow.

"Let me come," she shouted.

"Go back inside."

"Let me come with you. Please, Phil."

"No."

Bill's mom answered the door. She was wearing a floaty pink house dress with sleeves that ended in two explosions of blue fluff. She lifted one of these and aimed it toward the rear of the house. "I wouldn't say for sure," she said. "But I believe Sir Laurence is in the rehearsal hall."

I heard Bill muttering behind the door-then a shout. Our cla.s.s was putting on Macbeth and Bill was playing Macduff. He was ly ing on the bed, holding his script at arm's length, when I came in.

He smiled a big stagey smile.

"My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither," he said.

"Let's go for a ride. I've got the van."

"It's early, isn't it? I'm running my lines." After a pause, he said, "What's up?"

"Nothing. Hey-I think there's some whiskey in the truck."

"All right!" Bill leaped up, then crumpled back onto the bed.

He pressed the script to his belly. "All my pretty chickens?" he moaned.

"You want to give it a rest?"

"You're touchy. Don't you like art?"

"I love it."

Bill pulled a fresh shirt from the closet and put it on. There were shirts lying all over the room. "Exeunt," he said.

Bill's mom met us at the front door. "I wouldn't ask," she said.

"But where are you going?"

"Out," Bill replied. "We're going to drink whiskey and roll the van and die tragically on the highway."

"Fine," she said. "Just be back here by suppertime."

"Okay, Mom."

"Fine," she said, and floated back down the hall.

We could see the school's brick bell tower from the bridge. "The school, the old school, and nothing but the school," Bill sang out.

The sun had soaked into a gray sky; snow was beginning to fall again. I parked the van and we walked to the football field, pa.s.sing Frank's pint bottle of bourbon back and forth. We ate some snow to kill the taste.

I saw a movement across the field and quickly stuck the bottle into my back pocket.

"What? Who is that?" Bill said.

Whoever it was, was running, not toward us, but along the bleach ers on the other side of the field. When he reached the end zone he tapped the goalpost, turning, and ran down along our side.

"Jesus Lord," Bill said. "It's Walker."

David Walker saw us when he was still about twenty yards away.

He slowed down then and jogged over to us.

"Oh, hi," he said. "It's you guys. What're you doing here?"

"What're you doing here?" Bill replied-clever boy. He grinned, elbowing me as Walker took off his fogged gla.s.ses and wiped them clean with the waistband of his sweatsuit.

"Getting in shape," Walker said.

"We were just out," I said.

"Out and about. Just having a few little drinks," Bill said. "You look like you could use one. Want a drink?"

Walker put on his gla.s.ses and took us in one at a time with his owl's eyes. "No. No, I guess not. Thanks."

"h.e.l.l of a day," I said. I wanted to move this conversation along.

Walker looked out over the field. The snow had picked up and was slanting across it in a stinging wind.

"I guess it is," he said. "The season's almost here. Well, I better get back to it."

Bill had wandered downfield and was reciting Shakespeare into the wind, throwing his arms for effect. Walker and I watched him for a minute and then Walker said, "You guys really drinking?"

I shrugged. "Just enough to keep out the cold."

Walker looked at me-a disapproving, soph.o.m.ore look; then he glanced at the whitening field.

"Come on, I'll race you once around. If you're not too drunk."