Chinese Handcuffs (10 page)

Back in the van, the swarm of feelings in his chest are slowly crowded out by rage, and suddenly all he wants is to get even. He doesn't even know where he'd begin, so he just starts driving, out of town, through Riverside State Park, turning onto every obscure back road that presents itself, in an attempt to become as
physically lost as he feels emotionally lost; but that place doesn't exist on this planet, and each back road eventually comes back to pavement. Finally, feeling wholly unsuccessful at any kind of purge, he heads the van back toward town, though the thought of going home brings such emptiness into his heart he has to close off his mind. He thinks that his anger has subsided some and that he can go home and try to help there, at least get Christy out of the center of all that
weight.

There are only traces of dusk left in the sky as he drives onto Monroe Street toward downtown, passing the Dragon tavern, where Preston used to get his drugs, where the Warlocks hang out. Five or six vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycles lean on their kickstands on the street in front of the bar, and the sight of the bikes brings his rage surging back, swirling into his throat, physically almost choking him. In what will later seem like a timeless blur he slams on the brakes at the next intersection, takes a hard right, and speeds around the block and into the back parking lot of the dry cleaners, housed next door to the Dragon.

He reaches into the rider's seat and picks up the plastic box containing what is left of his brother, snaps the cheap plastic clasp, and opens it. Inside he finds a thick clear plastic bag held closed with a twist tie, exactly
like those used to seal Hefty bags.
My brother's in a Baggie,
he thinks, and almost laughs.
All that's left of my brother is in a goddamn Baggie.
He pulls the bag out of the box, and for a quick second curiosity slips in, leaves him staring at the fine ash, flecked with bone chips and whatever else resisted the heat of the cremator's oven.

Then Dillon ups the ante. He digs into the glove compartment, removes Preston's Luger pistol, tucks it into his belt, fully visible, then stretches around behind the seat to pull up Preston's toolbox, from which he extracts a large flathead screwdriver. With his brother's remains in one hand and the screwdriver in the other, he moves around the side of the Dragon to where the Harleys are parked, pops the locked tanks on all six bikes, and adds a little bit of Preston to each one. Then he walks through the front door of the Dragon, the plastic bag still half full of Preston's ashes and the Luger still tucked in plain sight.

The Dragon is a small tavern, dimly lit by vintage Olympia and Rainier beer signs and shaded overhead lamps hanging at the center of each of three pool tables. Frosted windows prevent outside passersby from seeing in, and the room is ringed by old, hard-seated wooden booths. It's early yet, and the bar is filled to only about a third capacity with bikers and their ladies, and at the
moment Dillon walks in, heads turn. He stands before the bar that faces the entrance and waits for quiet. It doesn't take long. He's running on automatic, nearly unaware of the steel grip of fear that waits just beneath his rage.

“My name is Dillon Hemingway,” he says in a voice bigger and deeper than he knows. “Some of you guys know me because I used to come in here to drag my brother, Preston, home when he was so messed up he couldn't get to his van. You probably remember Preston as your wienie little crippled gofer, somebody to humiliate when things got slow.”

One of the bikers stands up from a booth by the far window. “Hey, you little pimp, what the hell do you want?”

Dillon fingers the gun. “Just a minute of your time,” he says, holding up one finger, “just a minute of your time.”

“Get the hell out of here,” the biker says back.

“I'm almost on my way,” Dillon says, glancing around at the rest of the room. “Any of you who can read probably know Preston's dead. He killed himself with the very gun I have tucked here in my belt. He probably had a lot of reasons, but the one that pushed him over the edge was being humiliated beyond endurance right here in this wonderful little yuppie
watering hole.”

Another of the bikers rises, starts to cross the room, but Dillon says, “I wouldn't do that. You need to know I don't give a shit what happens to me and this gun holds nine very big bullets.” He hasn't removed it from his belt yet, but his hand grips the handle. He holds the plastic bag up to eye level. “I brought Preston back with me,” he says. “He seemed to like it here a lot, so I thought it might be a good place to leave him.”

He opens the bag, holding it in his palm, and begins sprinkling the ashes around. “I'm leaving him here to haunt your asses,” he says, taking the gun from his belt. “Anytime something really shitty happens in here—or out there, for that matter—consider that my brother might have had something to do with it. If one of you gets beat up real bad, or a bike goes down, or you lose an old lady, or your kid gets sick and dies, just think about old crippled wienie gofer Preston Hemingway. I got a feeling he's already at work.” As he speaks, Dillon spreads the ashes onto the pool tables and the floor and the bar. Several bikers are up; but the gun is out, and no one wants to take the chance. Dillon empties the bag as he backs into the doorway. “Like I said, my name is Dillon Hemingway. I'm in the book, and if you can't read the address, you can find me at Chief Joseph High
School. I know what kind of greasy scum you are, and I know you'll come after me, so I want you to know I ain't hiding.” In a flash he's out the door, around the corner and starting his van. He expects them to come after him now, but he's out of the parking lot before he sees anyone. It will be later when they discover that Preston Hemingway isn't necessarily a good fuel additive.

 

The day the Warlocks showed up at Chief Joseph High School was a day when John Caldwell would have been more than willing to turn Dillon Hemingway over to them and call it even. They roared into the parking lot as school was dismissed and 1,722 students between the ages of fourteen and eighteen spilled out onto the campus, headed home. There were at least
55
of the outlaw club's members, and each carried an instrument of considerable weight and substance whose sole purpose for existence was to assist its handler in the destruction of the human skull.

The leader, the huge man known as Wolf, easily six feet five inches tall and a good three hundred pounds, with tattoos covering the length of both arms, stood straddling his chopper. He cupped his hands and boomed, “We wanna talk to Dillon Hemingway! Nobody's lookin' for no trouble. We just want to talk to Dillon Hemingway.”

Julie Conners sprinted back inside to the principal's office, and when she was finally able to spit out what she needed to say, Mr. Caldwell told one of the secretaries to call 911 and got up to go outside. He worked his way through the crowd, which was beginning to lose some of its fear, releasing occasional catcalls to the gang. Pushed to the front of the crowd by his pride and his position, Caldwell stood at the edge of the sidewalk, facing the bikers, and asked them calmly what they wanted.

“We have business with Dillon Hemingway,” Wolf repeated.

“I'm sorry,” Caldwell said. “We don't have a student here by that name.”

“Then how did you know he was a student?” Wolf asked with a sneer. “Maybe he's a teacher or a janitor.”

Caldwell stood his ground. “We don't have anyone here by that name.”

One of the other bikers yelled, “He
told
us he goes to school here, asshole. Now get him out here before someone gets hurt.”

In a lapse of judgment even for him, John Caldwell flared. “You watch your mouth in front of these kids!

The biker laughed. “Yes,
sir.
Try this: he told us he goes to school here, shithead. Now get him out here.”

The sounds of sirens broke the gang up, and in sec
onds the bikers were roaring off in at least five different directions, but not before giving Caldwell a few more titles to try on in front of his students. They also made several pointed comparisons of certain parts of his genitalia to shrunken raisins. He was humiliated and outraged when he stormed into Coach Sherman's office, where Dillon was pulling on his sweats, having spent sixth period—his independent study in PE—swimming a hard two miler.

 

In the following days Caldwell held Dillon personally responsible for the more than ten thousand dollars in damages brought on by three separate incidents of nocturnal vandalism—as well as for the “image-damaging” television and newspaper coverage—and demanded that Dillon apologize to the student body en masse for bringing Chief Joseph High School into whatever foul dealings he had with a gang of low-life motorcycle bandits.

Afraid he might offend the spiritual sensibilities of many student body members, Dillon never did tell anyone what he had done to bring the gang down on him, rather allowing the popular belief that he had some kind of shady dealings with these people and that he might indeed be, as Caldwell said
many
times to whoever would listen, just like his brother.

Late in the third quarter, while Chief Joseph's girls' basketball team mopped up the floor with crosstown rival David Thompson High, Dillon shoved Kathy McCarty's foot into a bucket of ice to stop the swelling in her ankle, sprained coming down from her fifteenth rebound of the night. Kathy played second string to Jennifer Lawless, who had been on the bench since two minutes into the half because of the lopsided score. Jennifer would get maybe four or five minutes' more playing time before game's end just to keep her loose, but the outcome was not in question—had not been since the first two minutes—and the pressure was off. This was the last league game before the district tournament, due to start in four days out at the community college, and Coach Sherman wanted to be sure her
starters were as healthy as possible. She would spend the duration of this game watching girls with less experience to determine who could come off the bench to fill key roles when needed during the tournament.

Jennifer had reluctantly agreed to go on a “date” with Dillon after the game if he would promise not to call it that, and Dillon found himself thinking more about that than his treatment of Kathy McCarty's ankle, though by now sprains were second nature and Kathy was in no danger of losing her foot to malpractice. He had felt an awkwardness with Jen since she agreed to go, and though there was no way he could explain it to himself or anyone else, part of him wished he'd never asked.

Jen was also having difficulty concentrating on the game. She had agreed to the date with Dillon because she felt that if she were ever going to take head-on what appeared to be almost a phobia about boys, Dillon would be the one with whom to do it. He was gentle and respectful with her, and most of the time it was as if neither of them considered that they were of the opposite sex. But Dillon or no Dillon, Jennifer knew how she felt anytime a boy tried to touch her in any kind of sexual way. And she knew why. She remembered how she froze inside and how quickly she rose to
anger in the face of persistence. She had gained a reputation as rather unapproachable over the years and had actually welcomed the title of prude to help her keep her horrible secret. Less sensitive boys had at one time or another called her gay or les, and she even let that pass in favor of challenging anyone to look at her life.

Dillon had made reservations for nine-thirty at Archie Brennen's, a classy three-story restored historical landmark home that had been converted into one of Spokane's finest restaurants—with prices to match. The game had started at an uncharacteristically early time—six-thirty—so Jen had plenty of time to shower and wind down before they headed over. She was to change in Coach Sherman's office as soon as the other players were gone.

The gym was empty except for the janitor, sweeping up the portion of the floor that had been earlier covered by the collapsible bleachers; Coach Sherman, who sat at the empty scorer's table, working up the team stats; and Dillon, who waited patiently, if nervously, for Jen to get changed.

“You guys are going someplace nice, huh?” Coach said, appraising Dillon's leather sports coat and newly pressed jeans.

“Yeah, Brennen's.”

“Ooh. Big spender.”

Dillon raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He'd been on plenty of dates in his time, but this one made him jittery, even to talk about.

“Gonna have her in by team curfew?” Coach teased.

“Easy,” Dillon said, glad to have Kathy keep things on a light note. “Wouldn't do to have the trainer undermining the team rules and regs.”

“Rules and regs are off,” Coach said more seriously. “Unless you make more money than I think you do, you're in for a major capital outlay. You guys just have a good time. It won't hurt Jennifer a bit to lighten up a little.”

Dillon blew out a sigh. “Won't hurt Dillon a bit to lighten up a little right now either,” he said. “This might be a big mistake. My gut is hopping around like a rabbit on an anthill.”

Coach shrugged and smiled. “Could be love,” she said. “Whatever that is.”

At Brennen's Dillon ordered steamed clams for an appetizer and their best nonalcoholic champagne, pulling out every trick of etiquette his father and mother had drilled into his head from the day he was old enough to drop a spoonful of mashed peas three feet to the rug. He was smooth as polished leather, except he
couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound like elevator talk.

“Pretty good game,” he said over the salad.

Jen smiled. “Pretty good. Not much to it really.”

“Rather have a tougher game going into the tournament?”

Jen shrugged. “I don't know that it matters really. Once the tournament starts, I can't even remember the season.”

Neither could take that conversation much farther, nor did they have better luck with the weather, the SATs or Jen's summer job prospects. Looking across the table at her, with the light so soft on her face and her hair falling easily on her shoulders and over her silky blouse, Dillon felt, clearly for the first time, the beginnings of a physical attraction, the part that had been missing, and his attempts at conversation became immediately more difficult. An hour and forty-five minutes from the time they were seated Dillon was better than fifty bucks in the hole and the “date” was a monumental bust.

When he pulled up in front of Jen's house, Dillon shut down the engine and turned toward her, his back against the door, elbow resting on the steering wheel. He said, “Maybe this wasn't as great an idea as it seemed when I had it.”

Jen's head was down, staring at her hands in her lap. “It wasn't you. I think I don't play this part very well.”

Dillon stared out the front window a second, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, thinking. “So what do you want to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know for sure. The day I met you I had this really strong feeling of connection, almost like I already knew you. It was like I used to have with Stacy when I was a kid. I guess I just naturally thought I was supposed to do something about it.”

“Well, you have. We spend a lot of time together. I feel the connection, too, Dillon.”

“So,” Dillon said, looking back at her, “what's wrong with this picture? I see you. You see me. We're attracted to each other. You're pretty—beautiful, actually—and there are uglier guys in the world than I. We're both smart; we like the same things. I'm a boy; you're a girl. Everything works out like a storybook until we go on a date, where we treat each other like extraterrestrials.” He shook his head. “I don't get it.”

Jennifer looked at him, and her face softened. “There are things about me you don't know, Dillon. I'm not going to tell you what they are, not now anyway. But if you knew, they would help it make sense, I think.”

He nodded slowly, looking into her eyes. He trusted what she said, and the
way
she said it let him know not to push.

“What I need for you to do is not to make some big complicated deal out of this, okay?

Dillon said okay without knowing exactly what he was saying. It
was
a complicated deal.

“I need you to be in my life,” Jen said. “But I can't let us be in love. At least not like most people think of it. Not physically anyway. Not now. I can let you touch my heart, you've done that from the first day; but I can't let you touch my body, and I guess that's what ‘dates' are all about.”

Dillon put his hands flat on the ceiling. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Just what you've been doing, if you can. Care about me. Spend time with me. Fix my wounds on the court.”

Dillon sat, bewildered. Finally, when Jen remained quiet, he said, “Hell, I can do that. I
been
doing that.” He squinted as if that would help him see things more clearly. “Jen, would you tell me something?”

“If I can.”

“Do I appeal to you? I mean, do you think I'm good-looking or funny or any of whatever it is that attracts girls to guys?”

She laughed. “Of course I do. I think you're all those things. I'm not blind and deaf. I'm just screwed up.”

“That's all, huh, just screwed up.”

“That's all.”

“Will you make me a deal?”

“What?”

He took a deep breath. “Will you tell me about it someday?”

Jen looked down. “I don't know. Someday maybe.”

Dillon hesitated, his head nodding like a toy dog in the back of a '55 Chevy. “I guess I thought we'd be more than friends.”

Jen touched his hand, held it a second, and said, “There's no such thing as more than friends.”

There is when you're as horny as I am,
Dillon thought, but he only nodded.

 

“So, how did your date with Jen go?” Coach asked. Dillon stood in the back of her office, folding towels, while Coach sorted out uniforms.

“You remember high school, Coach?” he asked.

“Vaguely. But I asked you first. How did your date go?”

“I'm going to tell you,” he said, “but I need to put it in context.” He walked to her desk with a pile of
towels and dropped them on the top. “When you were in high school, did things turn out like you expected them to?”

“Well, I expected to get a D in Latin, and I got it. What things do you mean?”

“Any
damn thing,” Dillon said in exasperation, continuing to fold. “The date was a bust. The second we were ‘going out' neither of us could think of a thing to say. Imagine
me
not thinking of something to say. That's like A. J. Foyt being afraid to drive home from the track. I blew fifty bucks on a meal I can't even remember the taste of because I was concentrating so hard on how shitty things were going.”

“You should start slower,” Coach said. “Next time go to Burger King.”

“No kidding. But we had a good talk afterward, and I thought things were fine. I mean, basically she said she wanted me to be her friend, and isn't looking for any others, really, but we just can't act like one of us is a girl and one is a guy.”

Coach laughed. “Cuts down on your chances for contracting anything unpleasant, in a genital sense, I mean.” She thought a second. “You don't have an agreement that you won't go out on dates, do you?”

“No,” Dillon said. “But I don't really feel like it. For
one thing, I started getting these really strong feelings—you know, like sexual—somewhere there in the main course. That's never happened before with Jen. I can't tell if I'm screwed up because something's wrong with me or if I'm screwed up because of circumstances. The only other girl I'd consider going out with is in love with my dead brother.” He shook his head. “I think there's a fairly good chance I'm going to end up in some obscure religious order.”

“Might have to clean up a little of your impulsiveness,” Coach said.

“And speaking of girls in love with my dead brother,” Dillon went on, intent on exploring the rest of what seemed just a little bizarre in his life, “guess what else I think I found out.”

“What else do you think you found out?” Coach asked, stacking the jerseys in one pile and starting in on the shorts.

“Have you seen Stacy Ryder's adopted brother?”

“Once,” Coach said. “She brought him to school.”

Dillon pulled out a wallet-sized snapshot. “Does this little booger look familiar?” he asked.

“It looks like Stacy's brother,” she said.

“Yes, it does,” he said. “Want to know who it really is?”

“You're telling me it's not Stacy's brother,” Coach said. “So who is it really?”

“It's goddamn
me,
” Dillon said. “And you know what? I've seen Stacy's cousin, and she doesn't look one little bit like me, and neither does anyone in her family.”

“What're you saying?”

“I'm saying that ain't no adopted baby. I'm saying that's my brother's baby. Ryan Ryder is my freaking
nephew.
”

Coach stopped sorting. “Dillon, you don't know that. You should be a little bit careful before you fly off with some wild idea. A lot of babies look alike.”

“I'm not flying off,” Dillon said. “I mean I'm not going to do anything about it. I
can't
do anything about it. But I can sure check it out with Stacy.”

Coach shrugged.

“Do you think I should?” Dillon asked.

“Don't we have a
counselor
at this school?” Coach asked back. “Why are you asking me all this?”

“Yeah, we have a counselor. They sent me to her after Preston killed himself. I think she's better at helping kids choose a college.”

Coach put her things aside and sat on her desk, motioning for Dillon to sit in her chair. “So, what do you want from me?” she asked.

“Advice,” he said. “Tell me what to do.”

“I don't do that. I
never
do that. You know a minute ago when you asked me if anything turned out the way I expected it to?”

“Yeah.”

Coach Sherman watched Dillon for a moment, searched his eyes as if struggling with whether or not to go on with this, then: “Dillon, why do you think I'm not married?”

“I don't know. Never found anybody good enough, I guess.”

Coach smiled. “Is that what you guess? It's a good thing you're cute, Dillon, because you're not going to make it with insight. I'm not married because I could never make a relationship work; never found anyone who had the same expectations that I have. All my life I was told by my parents and my teachers and my friends how women were supposed to be, but I could never pull it off because it wasn't how
I
was.” She shook her head and laughed. “High school was a horror show for me. I spent the whole time thinking something was wrong with me because I wouldn't play the game the way it was laid out. One of the reasons I became a teacher was to see if I could change that for some kids.”