Chapter 22 (first draft)
Visiting
Dad liked to visit. When he had Jan and me in tow, he would drop by friends' houses: The Barkers' and Shuckers’ in Mt. Carmel and the Tombaughs' and Ellensteins' in Evansville. Each of these families had kids close to Jan and my age. They had worked at the same jobs long enough to be stable and own their homes, three of which they had built. The visits I was a part of seemed to be an ongoing series. I assume Dad had been dropping by before Jan and I entered the picture. Dad never called ahead. The families were happy to see us, and were home when we stopped by weekday evenings or weekend afternoons.
Jan and I made the best of getting to know other kids that we were thrown in with: our duty to be pleasant with near strangers. Dad seemed to monopolize the adult conversations, talking about himself and his current project. These four families received Dad's stories with enthusiasm, but in retrospect, I wondered how much of it was forced. Dad was primarily tuned into himself.
*****
Puttering through Mt. Carmel in Cousin Carol's VW, intoxicated on freedom, I headed out to Tim's house. Having my own car, even if it's borrowed, was a first. Running around Mt. Carmel was strange and wonderful. No one to answer to. Dad was in Chicago. Aunt Ruth knew I was going to Tim's. Grandma was bedridden. I should have been grateful to her for taking me in fourteen years earlier, but I wasn't. Dad did not respect his mother. He clearly thought she was out of touch with anything meaningful to him. Even though I had been liking him less as a person once I hit my teens, I still mimicked his attitude toward Grandmother. The weekend lay out in front of me. Pursuing my teenage desires at the forefront.
Fifteen minutes later, I turned into Evergreen Lane on the north side of Mt. Carmel. Nobody was home. I could have called first, but that involved planning. Instead of waiting for Tim, I headed back into town, staying on Cherry Street until I found Third Street, where I took a left. I wanted to see the river. Or drive by it.
Mt. Carmel sits on a bluff overlooking the Wabash River, which flows around its southeast quadrant. I did not hang out at the river because there was no adult in my life who would take me there often. My attention was always drawn to Evansville and Dad, anyway, which did not include the river. He told me about paddling up the White River, which emptied into the Wabash a stone's throw from the boat ramp. There was a finger shaped sandbar a mile up the White River that he named Cowling Island. During his high school years, he and Russ Schucker would put Dad's canoe in at the boat ramp and paddle up the White River to Dad's island, where they would shoot birds and pretend to be castaways.
I went to grade school with Russ Schucker's son, but we never hung out together. When we visited, I learned their family called them Big Russ and Little Russ. At school, Little Russ was just Russ. I heard so many stories about Dad and Big Russ's adventures on the river, I felt like I knew them better than I did.
I picked the wrong street and had to jog over to Fourth. The hill to the river sloped down at first, then leveled out into a gradual decline. At the boat ramp, the road turned into gravel. Turning left along the river, I drove over the little creek and remembered the Sunday Dad had brought us down here. I was nine and wearing my new white bucks. Dad told me to be careful and not get them dirty. I did fine until I tried to jump over the little stream near where it emptied into the river. I misjudged the distance. My right leg went into the mud up to my calf. When I pulled it out, the shoe was gone. Dad turned the air blue as he struggled to find my new shoe in the muck. I had one white and one brown shoe from then on, which Dad told me to leave in Mt. Carmel. They could be my new play shoes, he said. After a lecture from Grandmother, on top of Dad's anger, they became pariahs to me. I put them in the back of my closet and never wore them again.
I bumped along the river road for a couple of miles, then it turned left, away from the water. The little car handled well on the gravel, sliding through turns as I downshifted, then picking up speed in a lazy way, even with the pedal on the floor. Not in a hurry, I was happy as a duck in mud. Can't say the same about the VW.
Me and my new four wheeled friend worked our way through the boonies. I had a sense to gradually circle left. Passed Highway 1, then turned left on Park Road by instinct. When I saw the golf course and swimming pool, I knew where I was.
I drove by the Barkers' house and stopped at College Drive. Came back into town on Market Street, then jogged over to Cherry on Ninth to avoid our family's store. Turned toward the river on Fourth Street, zoomed down the big hill, slid through the turn at the boat ramp, and was on my way to lap two.
Had too much fun to count laps. Between the rattling of the engine and the road noise, I couldn't hear much else. When the gas gauge hit half full, I veered off my route and stopped by Tim's again. He was in the garage.
"Hey, BC, surprised to see you," he said. Where'd you get the wheels?"
"Dad's in Chicago, I'm anywhere besides home for the weekend, and this is Cousin Carol's Bug. Aunt Ruth loaned it to me since Carol can't get her license until November."
"Looks pretty good. Could use a wash job."
"Yeah, I've been doing laps along the river, waiting for you to get home."
"I was in school. How come you're not?"
"Cut school so Dad could leave for Chicago."
"How many laps did you do?" Tim asked as he walked around the car. "Picked up some dirt and weeds, I see."
"Lost track. Went through about half a tank."
Tim whistled. "These Bugs will run forever on a tank of gas."
"Half a tank."
"Okay. So, half of forever."
"What are you up to?"
"We play at the Pool tonight. Why don't you come along? Want some lunch? Freda's out somewhere. We got bologna and cheese in the fridge."
"Sounds great. Isn't the pool shut down?"
"Yeah, but they close in the party room upstairs. It will warm up once the dancing starts." After sandwiches and apple juice, Tim said, "How long are you in town for?"
"Until Dad gets back. Monday or Tuesday. Not sure. Wherever I crash will determine that, I suppose."
"You can stay here if I'm here. When we are playing, I try to avoid coming home too late. Spent some nights in the bus or at Smitty's."
"Anywhere is cool with me. I can also stay at Aunt Ruth's or even Grandmother's."
"That brings back some memories. Remember the time I came by, and you'd been burning ant hills? Caught your sock on fire. Got it off in a flash, but could not remember taking your shoe off first."
"I do remember. Do not know how I pulled that one off. Still got your basketball hoop and ball?"
"In my closet somewhere. You want to play?"
"Hell yeah. Been a while. You got to spot me a few points, though."
"It's great to see you and all, but I'm not going to spot you shit."
"Can't blame a guy for trying."
"And I don't," Tim said, giving my arm a friendly pop.
We put up the hoop on the inside of his parents' bedroom door and banged each other around with the foam ball. Tim won handily, which I knew he would. Freda came home. Tim said, "Crap, we gotta clean up and get out of here." She was none too happy to see the mess we'd made of her room. She did not ask why I was there or whose car was outside, so I knew she was upset. Normally, Freda would quiz me about everything.
After escaping, we drove to Smitty's, where the guys in the band packed up the bus for that night's gig. Dwayne commented how dirty "my" car was. I grinned and didn't correct him.
That evening, as Tim's band, the Apollo's, set up and began to play, I felt aimless. My dancing was no better than my singing. I hung out on the terrace overlooking the pool, which was dark except for underwater lighting. It was cold, but I didn't feel it. The excitement at being away from Dad and having wheels was fading.
Mt. Carmel's Municipal pool brought back memories of Dad. He took Jan and me there often when we were little. When I was five, I rode down one of the water slides on his back and hit the pool with a big splash. When he came up, he had blood all over his face. I bawled my eyes out, thinking I had hurt my father. Jannie comforted me while the lifeguard tended to Dad's injury. In a few minutes, Dad came over to us, smiling, showing us his bandage. "I banged my nose on the bottom of the pool, Son. I'll be fine."
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulders and heard a girl say, "Didn't think I'd ever see you again."
I turned around, surprised, and said, "Barney, wow, how are you?" I had "gone steady" with Barney since I gave her a Five and Dime Store ring in the second grade. Cost thirteen cents. Dad paid for it.
"What brings you to Mt. Carmel? Thought you were in Evansville."
"I am. Or was. Will be again. Duh. Not making much sense, am I?" I said, tripping over my tongue.
Barney laughed. "I still have your ring and pen."
"I think they are yours by now, don't you?"
"You know what I mean."
I did and felt foolish making a joke out of the two things I had given her. The pen was a nice Papermate ballpoint. I bought it with the money I had in my pocket one day at the stationery supply store with Dad. Barney and I had never kissed. Maybe we held hands twice. I only saw her in school because I was in Evansville every weekend and vacation. Even at that young age, I was petrified at the thought of getting tied down. In my family, it seemed normal to get married, have kids, and be miserable. The idea of being stuck in Mt. Carmel or Evansville choked the air out of me.
"How's school going?"
"It's fun. I sing in the choir and work backstage for plays. What about you?"
"It's okay. Big new school. Made it through two years. Don't really have a lot of friends. I'm on the school paper."
"Are you writing stories?"
"No, taking photos." I laughed to myself.
"What's funny?"
"I was remembering the time we put one over on Mr. Schreiber."
"Who?"
"The school paper advisor." Caught up in my thoughts, I looked through Barney, remembering.
"So, are you going to tell me what's funny?"
"Oh, sure. I'm sorry. Trish had this MG..."
"Whose Trish?"
"The other photographer for the paper."
"Oh. Go on."
"We were out on assignment. Stopped for some burgers. Got the idea for the trick. Pulled over on a neighborhood street. I got halfway under her car. She put three packs of ketchup on my face and shirt. Took some photos and went back to school."
"That's funny? And you had ketchup all over you?"
"Washed it off, mostly. Anyway, the next day, when we developed the film, Trish went rushing into the classroom, yelling, "There's been an accident. BC got hit by a car." I hid out in the darkroom.
"Who's BC?"
"That's me."
"Since when?"
"Since last year."
"So what happened?"
"Trish rushed to Mr. Schreiber's desk and showed him the photos. He about had a cow. Before it went on too long, I came out of the darkroom, grinning."
"You're still a cut up, aren’t you?"
"At times, I guess, yes."
"Well, Mr. BC, it's been real. I'm going back to my friends."
"Okay," I said, thinking, What did I do to chase her off?
#
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