Whatever Lola Wants (9 page)

“I had it made for you. It's stuffed just like Marmalade Bear. Don't you love it?” Damn, she'd failed. She saw the fear in him, pleading to flee. She wanted to scream, For shitsake, it's not a wasp! At least he had to see the trouble she'd gone to. If he knew he'd understand. She was working with the allomyrina again, all they'd let her work on—

“Can we go?”

His question perforated her good nature. Anger spurted: “Johnnie! It's not a wasp!” She took him by the elbow. “Over here. I want to show you something.” She part-led part-drew him to three cages on shelves against the far wall.

He wouldn't look. He closed his eyes. He heard a light flip on.

“There.” She held his elbow with one hand, his shoulder with the other.

He must not open his eyes.

“What do you think?”

Could it be so terrible? The clicking again. Soon as he opened his eyes she'd take him home. He lifted one eyelid— Both lids tore open, he leapt away, the back of his throat screamed, “Yee—yeeeee—hee—!” He couldn't get his eyes closed, couldn't turn away. In the cage, a foot away, two dozen of those bugs, feet clenching the grill, bodies over three inches long. Their horns penetrated the grill half an inch out. They'd gore him to death from mouth to crotch! His knees gave but she held him standing.

•

“Now there's a woman the world would be better without,” Lola said. “Torturing that little kid.”

“Consider it done,” I said. “She's long dead.”

“Good.” Lola gave an exaggerated look around. “Then whose memory were you seeing?”

I thought for a moment. “Maybe—Johnnie Cochan's.”

“Yeah. I expect he'd remember those bugs.” She nodded slowly. “I hate her.”

“Hate?”

“Actually, I think I don't like the kid much either.”

“Johnnie? Why not?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe— No, forget it. Tell me some more.”

A quick glimpse, another memory, around the same time—

Terrible. I couldn't tell her. That year, 1963, in the fall, was when Lola died. “Uh—want to hear about Carney, growing up? He called himself C.C. then.”

“Hope he had a better time than Johnnie Cochan.”

Two

1. (1968)

C.C. admired Rabbi Grossman, but
the man sure could take a three-tiny-point sermon and drag it out over forty minutes. Okay, it was done, and C.C. moved to countdown phase. Thirteen minutes from end of sermon to end of service. He'd timed it five weeks in a row. Even the announcements just before finishing took the same amount of time, no matter how many there were. They'd reached the Mourners' Kaddish. Good.

Charlie was likely out front already in his screamer Chevy, waitin', waitin'. He'd promised to leave the dance for a few minutes, pick up C.C. “Why d'you go to temple anyway?” Charlie'd once asked him. Charlie knew C.C. didn't believe in the whole God business, neither of them did, both felt brave for saying so. Out loud. Mostly to each other. “For my grandmother,” C.C. had said. “She likes to have somebody go with her.”

Which was true. And Barbara Feyerlicht had no one else to be that kind of company, no one from the family. Her husband, Maurice, C.C.'s grandfather, had died three years ago and Gramma was still in mourning; she didn't stand up for the Kaddish anymore, after the first year you only stand on the anniversary of the death. Bobbie wouldn't be caught dead in the synagogue, and anyway she was out at some anti-war rally. C.C.'s mum had always gone to the synagogue with Gramma, when his mum came back home here to Median, that is. But she was gone too, eight years gone, and Gramma would never stop mourning for her. For his father too, Gramma always added. But C.C. knew it was different, Dad wasn't Gramma's flesh and blood. Though Gramma had loved him a lot, she always said.

Strange. Each year C.C. remembered them, his own father and mother, a little less. He could still hear their voices, how their words sounded different from the same words when Gramma or Bobbie used them, and he could see their faces. But each year he had to look harder at the photographs, re-inscribe the images in his brain. Did he miss them? Of course, he'd say to anybody who asked. Except who would ask a question like that? And what did missing mean anyway? Charlie had parents and they were always on his ass. If C.C.'s parents were still alive, would they be on his ass too? No way of telling. Because the one thing C.C. knew about his parents, they'd be different today than they'd been the day the plane crashed. And he was different, too. How? He could barely remember the little kid he'd been, the one whose parents died. Nearly half his lifetime ago they'd died.

Bobbie replaced them. Sure, no one can replace your parents, he knew that. But Bobbie was great, day in and day out great. Even when he did something that got her pissed off at him. Because she had a way of being pissed off that said she understood why he'd come back late or hadn't gotten the trash to the curb in time or left for school without breakfast again. It was like she'd been in those places herself.

Now they were singing
Ayn kelohaynu
, so just a couple more minutes. He'd already told his Gramma he wouldn't stay for the
Oneg Shabbat
, all that sweet tea and dry cookies and talky non-talk after the service. He'd explained that Charlie was waitin' for him, they were going to the dance in the high school gym. Gramma didn't mind driving home by herself, she just didn't like to arrive at the synagogue alone. Leaving her here would be okay. If she'd asked him to go back home with her before the dance he'd do it, but he'd resent it. That'd only give him at best an hour there, hardly enough time to be with Julie, not nearly enough to make it sound natural instead of forced when he would ask her to come with him and Charlie and whoever Charlie picked up—Charlie always picked up some girl—for pizza at the Rat Kitchen Grill.

And now Rabbi Grossman's benediction was taking forever, more words, slower words, must be half an hour since the sermon. C.C. glanced at his watch. No, right on time, so predictable. Though three years back C.C. wouldn't have thought that. Studying for his bar mitzvah he'd gotten to know Rabbi Grossman pretty well. Before, C.C. had asked Bobbie should he even get bar mitzvahed? Getting bar mitzvahed because he went to the synagogue with his Gramma wasn't a good enough reason. He figured Bobbie'd be on his side, saying it'd be dumb to do all that, but instead she'd said, “It's your decision. Think what your parents would've suggested. You asked me, I'm giving you a context to think in.” Bobbie was good at contexts.

But he truly didn't know what his parents would have thought. He could still see them clearly. Mostly. Whenever she was in Median, his mother used to go to the synagogue with Gramma, and C.C. went with them. His dad didn't go much because his dad wasn't Jewish and when he went it was to be with C.C.'s mother, that's what C.C. figured. So in the end he settled on Yeah, sure, why not. He didn't want to disappoint his mother and definitely not Gramma. Bobbie wouldn't care one way or the other.

Rabbi Grossman had agreed to teach C.C. his haftorah, that segment of the bible that was read out on the Saturday closest to C.C.'s birthday. But the rabbi insisted on teaching him something else as well. “When you turn thirteen and are bar mitzvahed, Carruthers”—the rabbi calling him by the name his parents had given him, it had been his father's father's name; at least he didn't use his Hebrew name Chaim—“you are officially a man, an adult man. And what is the most important thing a man must be able to do?”

C.C. had a few answers but figured Rabbi Grossman had an idea or two on the subject so said only, “I don't know.”

“Ah,” said the rabbi. “A grown man must be responsible. And be able to defend himself and his loved ones from the many dangers in the world. If you want me to teach you your haftorah, you must also let me teach you self-defense. I'll teach you judo.” Rabbi Grossman had learned judo in the army when he'd been a chaplain. So C.C. learned shoulder locks and arm locks, hip throws and hand throws; C.C.'s favorites were the floating drop, the body throw, the elbow drop. After six months C.C., twelve and a half years old, just over five foot three, could throw an attacking Rabbi Grossman, forty-plus, nearly two hundred pounds, tumbling the man over either shoulder according to the line of assault.

“Amen,” said Rabbi Grossman, and then, “Shabbat sholom.” The members of the congregation turned to each other, shook hands with those nearby, wished each other a very good Shabbat. C.C. kissed Gramma on the cheek, filed out to the foyer with her, said goodbye. Her look might have spoken disappointment as she turned and headed for the reception hall but C.C. knew she was fine, quickly she'd be gossiping with friends.

He opened the door and headed down the steps. Yep, Charlie right there, waitin', double-parked, the Chevy engine revving. And at the dance, Julie, not waiting, not specifically, for C.C., so he had to get there fast. He jumped into the passenger seat. “Hey, Charlie. Let's roll.”

“Hey, man. Got yourself godded?”

“Nope. Got out just in time.”

Charlie loosed the clutch, goosed the gas, and the Chevy leapt forward, burning rubber. “Ready ta rumble?”

“Damn right.” He waited before asking, “Uh, is she there?” He knew she would be, she usually went to the Friday night dances no matter which club sponsored them. This dance was sponsored by the mountaineering club and she was a member. But he had to be sure.

“Yep.”

Another moment. “Is Stanley?”

“Nope.” Charlie turned a fast left, sliding C.C. against the door. Charlie laughed.

“What?”

“If you were a girl you'd be a g.d.d.h.”

“I suppose,” said C.C. Very good news, Stanley not at the dance. He'd still have danced with Julie even if Stanley'd been there. Stanley didn't live in Median, he came in two-three times a week to see Julie, figured he could arrive whenever he wanted and Julie'd be there for him. Maybe he was right. C.C. sat next to Julie in both English and history. They talked a lot and he knew she liked him, laughed at his jokes and occasionally asked for his advice. At the school dances he'd danced with her only a couple of times because Stanley was usually there, and when they danced it was always to something fast, never touching. Stanley made her dance slow dances with him, holding her tight. Which irritated C.C., and she looked uncomfortable. But he didn't say anything to Julie, that was her business and right now he had to accept that.

Then yesterday, leaving history, Julie'd asked, “Going to the dance tomorrow?”

“You can bet on it,” he'd said, knowing she would, she was in the mountaineering club.

Then she'd put two fingers on his forearm lightly and smiled up at him with her dark-blue eyes and said, “Good.” She turned and headed off to chemistry.

Charlie drove fast, peeling around corners, hot to get back to the dance. “Got yourself a boss dolly yet?” C.C. asked.

“Workin' on it.”

“Who?”

“She's new. Amanda. Haven't seen her around. But one classy chassis.”

“And you left her to pick me up. Man, you're the best.”

“Damn right. And don't forget it.”

“How's she look? Julie, I mean.”

“Good. Real good.”

“But?”

“Not my type.” Charlie liked them stacked.

Julie was slender. Nicely shaped. “I wonder if she knew Stanley wouldn't be there.” He had told Charlie about her touching his arm.

“Oh, she knew. She wouldn't'a razzed your berries if she knew he'd be on the scene.”

C.C. considered that. Then he said, “I think he's a dangerous asshole.”

Charlie glanced over. “Huh?”

“Yeah. I think he could hurt her.”

“You mean, like, physically?”

“Maybe.” C.C. thought about it. “Maybe that too.”

“Why would he?”

“Like I said. He's an asshole.”

Charlie slowed, pulled over to the curb, stopped, and faced C.C. “Okay. Listen. He's big. And not big in the jets department. And older than her. And not going to school.”

“Right. Doesn't he work in that car-parts plant in Concord, and—”

“Does that make him an asshole? Anyway, you should be friggin' glad he's on night shift or something so she can dance with you.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Just talkin'-worryin'.”

“Cool out. And remember this. If he's dangerous for her, he's real dangerous for you.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Charlie turned back to the wheel and started a slow roll. He said, “Maybe you want to shuck that coat.”

A little cool to wear only a shirt but at least his hair was long enough, it covered the back of his neck and sat thick on top of his head. Kept heat from getting out, he'd learned that in biology. Anyway Charlie'd park close. C.C. pulled off his sport jacket as Charlie spun into the lot, near as he could to the gym. C.C. wondered about that, if he should worry about Stanley being dangerous. Maybe. Not tonight.

Charlie stopped the Chevy. “Let's get in there and kill 'em.”

They got out. C.C., at five-nine and a half, had a couple of inches over Charlie, the tallest he'd get, no way for him to know this yet. But Charlie was fuller in the shoulders, the chest, and had a thicker neck. Both wore black chinos and light-colored shirts, open at the neck. They headed for the door, muffled music inside. “Ready?”

“Been ready since I bugged out twenty minutes ago.”

C.C. opened the door and a blast of sound hit them, the
DJ
whacking some hard-edged rock cut C.C. didn't know. The floor was a mass of streaming surging bodies, guys in shirts and slacks, girls in miniskirts or granny dresses, everybody shoeless on the gym floor. Charlie and C.C. dropped their shoes, C.C. wondering if he'd ever find them again, good loafers, had to wear them to synagogue. A place a thousand miles away. He looked about.