Downers Grove (8 page)

“What do you mean?”

He gunned the car forward. “I don't want to be pumping gas when I'm twenty-nine.”

I tried to imagine where I'd be at that borderline but then stopped in front of a huge billboard that said
DON'T GO THERE
.

“You got any plans?” he asked.

Most of my plans went no farther than next weekend. I glanced out the window, saw my reflection in the glass, the flaws, the imperfections. “Sometimes I think I want to be an actress,” I said. “A serious actress portraying the heroines of modern literature.”

“Have you ever been onstage?” he asked.

“Not yet.” I tipped my head out the window. “But sometimes I feel like my life is a movie.”

“PG-13,” he said.

“What?”

“Your rating.”

“How do you know? You haven't seen the whole movie yet!”

Bobby laughed. I could tell he was at ease with me, that we had definitely passed GO.

“So how'd you stumble into such a glamorous occupation?” he asked.

“During Career Day at school I told my counselor that I wanted to be a farmer, maybe take over one of these old cornfields
around here. He whipped open some charts and said that in the near future farming would decline by fifty percent, but the need for entertainers would rise by fifty percent. His words of advice were—'Don't be a farmer, play one on TV.'”

My mechanic pulled onto the fire road that surrounded the limestone quarry and parked beside some overgrown bushes. “I know a place where you can see the fire,” he said.

I got out of the car and followed him under the highway bridge. The creek smelled like sewage and there was garbage everywhere. Rusted drums were scattered along the water's edge, shredded plastic bags laced the dead tree limbs reaching from the bank. We passed a doorless refrigerator spray-painted 6-6-96 and a shopping cart filled with rain-soaked newspaper flyers.

Bobby carried a green army blanket under his arm. It wasn't the magical place I always imagined, but it would do. Trudging along the creek bed, ducking under the occasional low-hanging branch, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. I started feeling a little sweaty and nervous, thinking,
Wasn't this how all young girls died?
Following his shadowy frame through the thick black underbrush, I tried to convince myself he wasn't a mass murderer.

We came to a ridge that overlooked the canal. In the distance was the glowing site of the petrochemical fire. The panic of emergency lights seemed quaint from this viewpoint. My mechanic spread out the blanket, then took my arm and guided me down beside him.

“It's not beautiful, but it's something,” he said.

It was beautiful in an end-of-the-world kind of way. Emergency
lights swept the perimeter. The bridge was a shimmering wake of headlights that wormed over the canal. It looked like some cheap UFO footage for a low-budget sci-fi movie.

Bobby smelled like grease with a hint of crushed leaves. He blended in perfectly with the environment. He was so quiet at times I felt like he wasn't even there. We both lay under the stars, watching the planes line up on the horizon, waiting to land at O'Hare.

“Make a wish,” I said.

“I wish I had a real car,” he said.

“You already have two cars.”

“I'm tired of risking my neck in rebuilt wrecks scraped off the highway. That lawn mower might look impressive, but looks don't win races.”

“Well, if they did, you'd win every night,” I said.

Bobby threw a stone up at the sky. “It won't be long, you'll see. I'll be racing full-time with a sponsor. Once I get a faster car and start racing bigger tracks I'll be winning bigger prizes. I'm tired of getting my ass kicked at Santa Fe.”

Bobby was totally focused on drowning in his glamorous fate. Racing seemed like a life-or-death situation for him, as if tonight was just another speed bump on his yellow brick road.

“It's probably just a matter of timing,” I said. “Somebody will need you, just like you need them.” My mechanic was getting melancholy, so I sat on top of his waist and pushed his shoulders down to the ground, then traced the outline of his lips with my fingertips.

“Is this where you bring all your girls?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly. “They're all buried over there.” He nodded toward the weeds.

I looked into the weeds. “You're just kidding, right?” His hands crept under the folds of my sweater, over my T-shirt, and traced the outline of my bra. He rubbed me gently, his hands pressing my breasts. I leaned down and kissed him, slow slurpy kisses, running my fingers through his dirty hair. He rolled me over onto my back, pressed his lips to my earlobe. “That's for me to know and you to find out,” he whispered, then stood up and started to walk away.

“Hey wait a minute,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“Ssshhhh!” he disappeared behind some trees into the inky darkness. I could hear him rustling through the bushes, circling the perimeter. If he was trying to be creepy it was working. I heard footsteps approaching, so I grabbed a rock just in case.

My mechanic crouched down beside me. “Close your eyes,” he said.

“No way,” I said.

“Close your eyes!” he insisted.

“Why?”

“Just close them.”

I looked at him and he was smiling. It wasn't a dangerous smile, it was a fun smile, a smile I was willing to trust. “Okay,” I said and closed my eyes.

He pressed his fingers between my lips and placed a wild raspberry into my mouth. The juice squirted over my lower lip and ran down my chin. We made out fiercely, an all-out face mosh. His hands roamed all over the map. My eyes clenched shut while he fumbled through the buttons of my sweater, one after another, finally pulling it over my shoulders. He reached under my T-shirt and unlatched my bra. It loosened around my shoulders. He kissed my breasts, his warm
tongue spinning around my nipples, his lips gently sucking. I was about to die. He shifted farther down south and kissed my tummy, rimming my belly button. He started to unbutton my blue jeans, and that's where I stopped him. It wasn't easy. I felt like a field of dry grass caught in a lightning storm.

“Whatsa matter?” he asked.

“I'm not ready for a full-scale invasion.” I pulled his hair, lifted him up to my lips and kissed him. He pressed against me, his hips swaying like a snake, rubbing his crotch against mine. I squeezed my thighs around his leg.

“Do you have any condoms?” I asked.

“Don't worry,” he said, “I won't come inside you.” And then he kissed me again.

My passion surfed a tidal wave of emotions. I wanted him desperately, but I started to worry about AIDS and herpes and crabs and all the other nightmares of health class. I started thinking about my mom's early pregnancy. When Mom and I had our little talk she warned me about this trick. “Guys have about as much control over their sperm as God does with a tornado,” she said.

“Are we or aren't we?” he asked.

“Let me check my bag.” I cracked open my bottomless purse. Under all the wadded-up dollars and loose change was a stick of gum, my lip gloss, and “I'm not so stupid after all,” one priceless prophylactic. “Here.” I handed it to him.

And then a strange beeping sound started ringing in his pants.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“My beeper.” He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the number. “C'mon,” he said, grabbing my arm. “We gotta go.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's the garage … it's part of my gig. There must be a wreck on the highway.”

His mood changed with the speed of a light switch from red-hot lover boy to distant repairman. He got up and went to pee in the woods. I looked down at myself briefly, then scrambled to pick up the pieces. My eyes slowly refocused, my ears lost their buzz, my heart drained of intensity. Bobby was already somewhere else, but I was still shaking from his first visit.

He took my hand and walked me out of the woods, then drove me home in one of the heaviest emotional silences I've ever experienced. I tried to reignite some passion in the car, but that was about as useful as the fire hoses downstream. I lay my head on his shoulder, but our distance could be measured in miles.

“Do you ever see the dead bodies?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“What do they look like?” I looked over at him.

“Sometimes they look like the morning after in hell.” He stared into the oncoming headlights. “And sometimes they just look like they're sleeping.”

His cool detachment made me pine for him even more. I wanted to cuddle up into his arms and tell him my life story, to listen to the soft gurgle in his voice explain how a carburetor works, but there was only an unbearable silence.

When he dropped me off in front of my house, he kissed me good-bye and promised to call tomorrow, but his voice already sounded like a long-distance telephone call.

I walked up the driveway, pushed my key into the slot, went
into the kitchen, and poured a glass of water, then slithered upstairs to my room. Comforted in the familiar scent of my dirty bedsheets, I burned with the afterthoughts of a dream date, wishing he were pressed against my backside, his arm curled over my tummy, his heartbeat thumping against mine.

M
Y
mouth was pasty, my eyes were fuzzy, I looked like total shit. Anxious about tomorrow and regretful of the past, Sundays are like New Year's Day once a week. I strapped on my body armor, then slipped an old lace dress over my head, squeezed into last year's prom shoes, found some jewelry in the Cinderella box—a fake diamond necklace from Grandma and a silver bracelet from what's-his-name.

Mom was dressed, and I must say, looked stunning for eight o'clock in the morning. I was still reeling in from my date, and Mom was already casting her line. She wore white, so I wore black. Staring into the mirror I tried to arrange my hair, but it was too matted and tangled, so I settled for a wide-brimmed hat and a hairbrush to work the split ends in the car.

“We're not going to a funeral,” Mom said, giving me the once-over as I came down the stairs. Her makeup was so
carefully drawn she looked airbrushed, and I could tell she had a push-up bra under her dress.

“Just say the word and I'll stay home and read the paper.” I wanted her to back off and remember who was doing who a favor.

“There's oatmeal on the stove,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen. Her voice was already less hostile, almost concessional, and I knew she was grateful.

I flopped some oatmeal into a bowl, added milk and honey, then spooned it up as quickly as possible, sucking down coffee between every bite. Mom was watching me, watching the clock, bouncing off the wall with anticipation.

“It's so nice to see you all dressed up … so pretty, so …”

“I feel like a call girl in this oufit.”

“For once you don't look like your brother.” Mom poured me some orange juice, pushed the glass and a big brown vitamin across the counter.

“Are you saying I'm butch?” I asked between spoonfuls.

“I'm saying it's nice to see my daughter in a dress. Don't you want to look pretty?”

“I want to look smart.”

“Take your vitamin and let's go. I don't want to be late. Lutherans are so judgmental.”

“What about David?”

“He's not feeling good,” she said, heading for the door.

I knew she was leaving him behind on purpose and that once again I had to be the guinea pig. I chugged my juice and followed Mom outside.

The garage smelled like lawn mowers and gas cans and was cluttered with things that didn't work: the bike with the flat
tire, the hose with the hole in it. Mom started the Ford and backed out. I brought down the garage door, brushed my hands, then plopped into the front seat beside Mom. We rode along in silence. Too tired to talk, too tired to listen, my head was still spinning from last night's sleeplessness. It didn't take long for me to start dissecting the circumstances, shelving all the consequences. Bobby was distracting as a solar eclipse.

Mom turned left off Belmont and accelerated up Maple Avenue. The car made a loud clanking sound and then started vibrating weirdly. The engine slowly drained of power.

“I can't believe this.” Mom pounded the steering wheel, then leaned forward, trying to motivate it farther.

“What is it?” I asked.

The car sputtered to a stop and died a humble death in the right lane of Maple Avenue. Mom got out first and I gradually followed. She found the latch behind the grill and opened the hood. Oil was splattered everywhere.

“Oh no.” Mom leaned away from it, shook her head, held one hand to her mouth. A slight wisp of smoke rose from somewhere below the maze of dirty hoses. It smelled like something was burning.

“Do you think it might explode?” I asked.

“I don't think it'll do anything.” Mom dropped the hood. She looked real disappointed, and I know it had nothing to do with the car. She looked up the road, as if maybe we'd walk there, then looked back the other way, as if we might hitchhike, then looked over at me.

“I'll walk back to the intersection and call a tow truck. You stay here.”

I got back in the car and watched Mom in the rearview
mirror headed back the other way. Her head was slung down like some used-up whore on the way home from a long night's labor. She had the worst of luck but only blamed herself. I really loved her because she never took it out on me.

A big blue sedan stopped beside her. Mom leaned into the passenger window, then got into the car, and I'm thinking,
She is such a catch.
The car rolled up and damn if it wasn't the astronaut. Mom waved me over, but something was holding me back, some incredible weight was in my lap and I couldn't budge. Mom rolled down her window, waved again, this time more vigorously.