Learning to Live Again Page 13

  “Sightings up here, Ken?” Sam was saying as he put his arm across Margie’s back and squeezed her into his side. He must have sensed her presence, she thought, because he hadn’t turned his head to see her. She had her mittened hands stuffed deep in the suit pockets, her shoulders hunched against the cold. Her feet were her only completely warm part and she was thankful for the moon boots. Cold dissipated quickly warmed as she was, smashed against Sam. He was hugging her against him for the entire town to see. Perhaps he felt more for her than he was willing to admit.

  “Theah’s a society of us folks seen ‘em,” Ken replied. “I tell you what. You stick round these parts long enough, you see ‘em too.” Ken waved the beer can in his other hand while his middle rotated as if he was whirling an invisible hula-hoop around his hips.

  Margie stood tiptoed and whispered in Sam’s ear, “Where’s Peter?”

  Sam turned his head, buried his lips in her neck and whispered back, “Snowmobiling.”

  She was about to ask, “Where?” when a swarm of steel and aluminum creatures on sliders came roaring out of the woods across the frozen reservoir. She spotted Peter in the lead. Her heart took a leap and she wanted to beat on Sam for endangering Peter, but as she watched she saw the boy/man in control of his machine, maneuvering through the trees as if he were born to the ride, and she held her tongue.

  Peter parked his vehicle with the group on the ice below the bonfire. He ran, slapped his mittens together, and grinned like his lips were taped to his ears.

  He bombed into his mom, clutched her in a bear hug, and swung her body in dancing circles around and around until he fell backward on his rump with her on top. “I love you, Mom,” he shouted, and kissed her soundly on the lips. “What a blast!” He set her off his lap and stood up, grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’m starved. Want a hot dog?”

  They sat on a log near the fire and ate hot dogs in buns and Van Camp’s pork and beans while Peter talked and talked about his ride of rides. His stomach apparently satisfied, Peter looked longingly back at the ski-do. “Can I go again, Sam?”

  “Ask your mom.”

  Peter looked at Margie. “I want a turn,” she said.

  “I’ll take a fifteen minute run and then you can go with Sam, okay?” Peter said.

  Margie watched an obviously female bundle start the machine parked next to Sam’s. Her face was turned in their direction, and she waited—for something or someone. Peter glanced quickly there and back to his mother. “Okay?” he said again, an almost imperceptible impatience in his voice.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Margie warned with a smile.

  “She someone you know?” Sam asked as they watched Peter run down the snow-covered bank to the snowmobiles.

  “I don’t think so, but I might not recognize my best friend with all these clothes on.”

  “Should I say he’s probably in safer hands with Joe?”

  “Why? Do you know who she is?”

  “She’s a girl, darlin,” Sam said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. He bent his head and planted a smacking kiss on Margie’s lips. “And girls are big trouble. I’m becoming an expert as we speak.”

  He whispered the last, his breath warm on Margie’s cheek. She wanted to ask him what he meant by his last remark, but decided to match his sweet smile and bide her time. They were alone on the hill now, everyone else on rides. He kissed her again, a real one this time, soft but lingering. “I bet you think I’m falling,” his voice so low she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.

  I won’t make that mistake again, she wanted to say, but stopped herself. “What? Falling where?” She picked up her feet and looked at the ground as if he might land there.

  He kissed her once more, this time with his hand at the back of her head, his lips parted, and his tongue against her teeth. She resisted for a count of two, then gave up and let him have his way with her mouth. “I want you back in my bed, little girl,” he said in a breathless whisper. “You’re driving me nuts.”

  Brownie was the leader of the pack returning to the camp. He poured himself coffee from the black pot on the Coleman stove then walked to the log where Sam and Margie sat watching for Peter. “There’s a story going round you two ought to know about,” he said.

  “What’s that?” They asked in unison without turning their heads or their attention.

  “Seems someone has it on good authority that Peter’s missing father is alive and well and living in Green Mountain.”

  “What?” Margie’s heart skipped two beats; she forgot to breathe. Brownie had an open smile on his face and his eyes sparkled. She tried to speak in a normal voice. “What are you talking about?” She noticed Sam watching her reaction.

  Brownie bent down to their level before he told them the hottest news off the town’s oral press. “Sam is Peter’s father. Bet you guys didn’t know that,” he said as if he’d bested them with this tidbit of information.

  Sam’s eyes opened wide and blinked hard. “How did that get started?” He looked at Brownie then at Margie.

  Margie knew without knowing. She wanted to scream, shake the living daylight out of him, her Petey. Oh yeah, she knew. Then she felt remorse. Then she felt thanks. The rumor was untrue. Peter’s real father was not a resident of Green Mountain and for that she was ecstatically thankful. Peter acting out his dreams was more an embarrassment than a problem. “I’m sorry, Sam, it was probably Peter wishing out loud.”

  Sam shook his head and turned on that wonderful smile that said, “Oh well, Peter …” and she wished with all her heart that she could make Peter’s dream come true.

  “It’ll run around town a bit. People will get tired of it and jump on something else. I wouldn’t give it more lip service than a good laugh,” Brownie told them, slapping his gloves together and stomping each boot. “I could use some of that brandy in a hot cup of coffee.” He left them for the Coleman stove.

  A lone figure was fast approaching. He made a long, thin shadow dressed in a one piece snowmobile suit. Carrying a hotdog in one hand and a cup of steaming brew in the other, he nodded his head in hello. “Any truth in that rumor going on over there?” Dr. Pharr motioned toward the bonfire.

  “What rumor would that be?” Margie and Sam asked in unison.

  “I’m going to guess, no. Peter doesn’t resemble either one of you.” He took a bite of his food, a swallow of his drink. “Great ride. I love coming out on a clear night like this. Stars out. Cold wind in your face; universe packed solid under your slides; peace in action. Makes you wonder what all the fuss in the light of day is about. Then it’s over and you go home and remember.” He finished his food, squashed his empty paper cup, waved a farewell and trudged on down the hill toward the parked cars.

  Margie and Sam sat in silence waiting for Peter to return from that fifteen minute ride that was quickly going on twenty five. Finally, breathless and beaming, he appeared out of nowhere and fell on the ground in front of them. “You guys’ turn,” he said and closed his eyes.

  “Go over and sit with Brownie. I don’t want you freezing to death lying out here,” Margie told him, getting up with Sam to take her first “peace in action” ride.

  Cell phones didn’t work well in Green Mountain and only a select few who thought themselves too important to be without a link to those who could not function without them, carried theirs everywhere they went. While Sam didn’t consider himself indispensable, he did carry his company issued cell phone on his person when he left the house. He wanted to be sure to catch the call from his boss when it came. His cell phone rang. He looked at the readout: Mike West’s home phone number. He walked out of earshot from Margie and Peter and put the phone to his ear. “Sam here,” he said.

  “Sorry to call at this late hour, Sam, but I just got back from Seattle and wanted to give you the news.” Mike paused. “How’s your health, by the way?”

  “Excellent. Just saw my doctor here last week. My tests came back normal. My blood pressure is good.
He says I can go back to work anytime.”

  “Good, because I’m calling to tell you you’ve got the project if you want it. It’s a go. But you have to be back at your desk a week from Friday. Actually, I’ll stretch it to the following Monday, We just won’t tell anyone. That’s less than two weeks. Can I count on you?”

  “Mike, I’ll be there. And thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me, Sam. It’s your talent I’m banking on.”

  ******

  Thirteen days to be back at work was all Sam could think of while he and Margie sailed the snowmobile over the packed snow. He thought about the act of telling his mother. He thought about how to tell Peter. Lastly, he thought about Margie. Excitement dimmed to … was it loathing? He had to go back to work, didn’t he? Surely, no one expected any less of him. His dad would tell him to find work at one of the New Hampshire firms within traveling distance of his mother. No question that his mother would move to Charlotte with him. He would do a better job of keeping in touch with her and he’d come up to Vermont at least twice a year. His mother would have to choose that or move, that was all there was to that. And Peter? And Margie? He’d miss them both. He’d miss them terribly.

  Margie’s arms were hugging him from behind, her hands clasped at his middle. Her body, pressed against his back, warmed him and made him feel a part of the night—a character in the play of snowmobile and snow and star filled sky. A “peace ride” he agreed with Dr. Pharr and he put out of his mind the upcoming end to life as it was in Vermont.

  CHAPTER XV

  Brownie was still plowing when Peter left the house for school Tuesday morning. He waved as Peter slipped by, skating the hill on rubber soled boots. Peter had the brown paper bag from the pharmacy stuffed in his lunch box between a peanut butter and peach jam sandwich and his mom’s chocolate chip cookies. There was room in the box because he’d broken the thermos and hadn’t replaced it. He liked buying his milk from the cafeteria better than carrying it; the cafeteria milk tasted colder and was two percent richer than the milk his mother bought.

  He found Piccolo in the smoking area at the side of the main school building. “What’s going on?” he asked him as he undid his lunch box and dug out the bag.

  Joe grinned. A reflex response that was erased so fast, Peter almost missed it. But there remained a twinkle in Piccolo’s eyes that made Peter smile. Piccolo was up to something, and Peter was a player. He lost the smile and scrunched up his shoulders, mimicking Joe. He felt pretty cool. Students walking by looked twice to see who was hanging with Joe Piccolo.

  Joe stubbed out his cigarette in the sand box by the door and blew on his bare hands. “Jesum it’s cold,” Joe said, scrunching his shoulders higher and tightening his arms against his thin flannel coat.

  “Mr. Smith says you need to wear a hat when it’s real cold. Your body heat escapes through your head, or something.” Peter hated he was such a dork. Allowed to hang with the coolest guy in school, he was quoting an old medicine man.

  “Yeah? Never heard that before. You warm with that hat on your head?” he asked, nodding his head at Peter’s knit cap.

  “Pretty warm,” Peter said, weighing his words now.

  “Think I saw one of those around the house. I’ll have to try it out.”

  It occurred to Peter that Joe had changed the subject. Had no intention of telling Peter anything about the bag with his mother’s drugs. And Peter, sworn to secrecy, couldn’t tell Joe that he knew they weren’t for his mother. While Peter was mulling over his next words he spotted Billy Michelson headed up the path and about to pass by close to where they were standing.

  “Michelson,” Piccolo said out of the corner of his mouth while digging out a cigarette from a pocket inside his coat.

  Billy looked around, scoping the yard, before he walked toward Piccolo. He stopped a good five feet short of the boys. “Yeah,” Billy said.

  Joe lit his cigarette and motioned Billy to come closer at the same time. “Got hold of some Xanax. You interested?” he asked in a hushed baritone.

  Billy looked at Peter who quickly turned his head to hide his wide eyes and close his gaping mouth. “What if I am?”

  “I’m in a hurry, man.” Piccolo took a long drag on his cigarette, put it out in the sand and moved to leave.

  “Yeah, I’m interested. How much you got and what’s the price?”

  “I got to have fifty for thirty pills,” Joe said.

  “What’s the strength?”

  Joe looked at Peter.

  “Two milligrams,” Peter said.

  “You got them with you?” Billy asked.

  Inside the school Peter grabbed Joe’s arm before they parted to head for their home rooms. “What the hell are you up to?” he hissed.

  The grin appeared again. “We’re gonna nail this flatlander’s ass.”

  ******

  Billy Michelson and Joseph Piccolo had their fifth period together. Algebra was Piccolo’s favorite class. He carried the same grade in it as he did his other classes, a D but he liked the teacher and enjoyed working the problems. His D grade had to do with the homework he never turned in.

  Ervin Wheeler had a soft spot for Joe Piccolo. He argued at staff meetings that Piccolo was smart, even brilliant, but a product of a dysfunctional family. It was Wheeler’s belief in the boy that kept him from suspension. Piccolo may not have been blessed with the brilliance Wheeler claimed for him, but he had a talent for reading adults.

  Five minutes before the fifth period ended, Piccolo asked to be excused. “Can’t you wait? The bell rings in five minutes,” Mr. Wheeler told him.

  “No sir. I think I got the flu,” Joe said.

  He left his books on his desk with what appeared to be his lunch bag on top. He returned right after the fifth period bell had rung and found Mr. Wheeler erasing the board. Joe walked to his desk, opened the top book and pocketed the five tens left there. Then he asked Mr. Wheeler, “Did you see anyone take something off my desk, sir?”

  Wheeler turned around and looked at Joe. “Are you missing something?”

  “Yes sir, my mother’s Xanax.”

  ******

  Eddie Polanski shook his head in dismay. He understood why the drugs were brought to school. He understood that Amos was supposed to have come to the school this morning to pick up Mavis’s pills, but never showed up. Joey didn’t have the drugs locked in his locker because fifth period was his last class on Tuesday and he intended to leave right after class. But somehow, someone had to make Smith abide by the law. Surely Peter could understand that. And Joe could see that having drugs delivered to school was not a good idea.

  Joe told Eddie he should open Billy Michelson’s locker. Billy had a sixth period class on Tuesday and was still at school. “He’s in my fifth period class,” Joe said.

  “Why would I look in his locker and not everyone else’s?”

  “Look in everyone else’s then, but look in his first.” Joe had that knowing look he wore most of the time. It was the look that won him the reputation for being trouble with the adults who had to deal with him. They called it an attitude. Joe Piccolo had a lot of attitude.

  Polanski walked with the principal who carried the master keys to open the lockers. With a look of disgust Eddie told Dwight Mercer to open Billy Michelson’s locker first. Polanski was not convinced of a crime even after finding the missing drugs in Billy’s locker. He gave Joe Piccolo a look that said, “I’m watching you.” And brought the Michelson kid in to the station for questioning.

  ******

  “Brenda called in sick today,” Hannah said as Margie was coming in the back door Wednesday morning. “Her son got arrested at school yesterday; did Petey tell you?” Hannah paused a second for an answer but couldn’t wait and rushed on. “Seems Polanski found Mavis Piccolo’s drugs in Billy Michelson’s locker. But that ain’t half of it. Marvin Petri was in here this morning and he told me that he and Polanski went over to the house with Billy to check if there were other drugs and foun
d a meth lab in the shed behind the house. Billy said that the lab was his dad’s. Marvin said they arrested Michelson out of a teacher’s meeting at the school library.” Finally finished, Hannah took a breath while staring wide-eyed at Margie.

  “How did Billy Michelson get Mavis’s drugs?” Margie felt panic rush from her head to her heart.

  “Stole ‘em from Joey right off his desk. Seems Old Man Smith told Petey to take them to school with him yesterday to give to Joey. Amos was supposed to pick them up, but didn’t show.” Hannah watched Margie’s face.

  “Well …” Margie’s heart relaxed; she took a deep breath. “How is Mavis?” she said, not able to think of anything else.

  Hannah shrugged. “Same, I guess. I haven’t heard different.”

  Same as what? Margie wondered a fleeting moment before she grabbed the large stainless steel bowl she used to mix the sourdough.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Saturday morning burst through openings in Sam’s Venetian blinds offering all the promise of a bright and crisp new day. Allison kept her radio on “Easy Listening,” an FM station that featured 60’s and 70’s music. Sam’s dad was a lover of opera. Nostalgia punched Sam in the gut as he descended the stairs missing the sound of Saturday’s broadcast of the New York Metropolitan Opera. He’d remember to turn it on in the shed this afternoon.

  “Karen called,” Allison announced as Sam came through the kitchen doorway. Her voice hit him like a slap.

  “What did she want?”

  “You to call her.” Her back to him, she unpacked the dishwasher.

  “She didn’t give you a clue?” Sam took a cup from the cupboard and filled it from the coffee pot. On the radio the Eurythmics sang about “sweet dreams are made of this. Everybody is looking for something.”

  “When did Karen ever give your parents the time of day?”

  Wasn’t that radio awfully loud? Did he hear his mother right? Mom never had a bad word for anyone.