You don’t. Talk, I mean.
You just don’t.
Darla
Two men. Two hands.
Two Darlas battling for control.
Uncle Mike came to the rescue. “OK, kids, let’s head home and look at that car.”
“What car?” Joe asked. Hoo boy. Was that beer number eight he was sucking on? For a guy who turned his nose up at American beer, he sure was having a love affair with his Rolling Rocks.
Trevor stood and I scooted out, a smoldering look on his face and his hand on my ass. The imprint of his fingers setting my body on fire. I scooched out and Joe’s loose, languid body followed mine, his arm draped over my shoulders. We followed Mike out the door, several guys stopping Trevor to shake his hand and nod. That’s a high compliment around here.
“I’m driving,” I declared. One beer cleared through me and I was fine.
“Me, too,” Mike added.
“Nope. I’ll do all the driving,” Trevor declared. “I had one and it was a while ago. Darla can bring you back in the morning, Mike, for your truck.”
I froze. Disagreeing with Mike was a dicey move. This could go either way. Mike was Mama’s brother and had been there through the mess of Daddy’s death and her recovery. He knew, to the core, that driving under the influence wasn’t something we did. Yet that stupid macho shit came out of him sometimes and checked out the sensible side.
“I’ll drive!” Joe declared.
“And I’ll model for Playgirl,” Uncle Mike countered, rubbing his big old belly and striking a model’s pose. We all laughed as we stepped into the cool night air, the breeze making my skin turn to gooseflesh, Joe layered on me like silk cloth, leaning against my shoulder and warm, his muscles fed by a steady stream of beer. He wasn’t quite pickled, but he certainly was loose.
Trevor won, but only because I pointedly handed him the keys and Mike just shrugged. Score one for the ovaries. I crawled in back with Joe and Mike rode shotgun. The back of my car was a place I’d frequented plenty over the years, but never with anyone in the front seat. It felt about as foreign as everything else these past two days, but once you’re thoroughly out of your comfort zone, why not go for broke?
The drive home was uneventful, Mike and Trevor talking about the Patriots and the Browns, a bunch of talk about the draft and number three picks. It sounded like a foreign language, or a chemistry equation, but instead of saying methyltetrawhatever they were talking about defensive linesomethings and salary caps.
I liked that Trevor could find common ground with Mike. Joe, on the other hand, was looking for common ground with me. And by common ground, I mean flesh we could rub together. His hands were in his own lap but if eyes could fuck, his eyeballs would be halfway up me by now.
Trevor pulled in neatly next to the covered BMW and we all piled out. Joe fished his car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Mike, who made appreciative sounds when the Beemer was revealed.
“Damn fine car.”
“The best my parents’ guilt can buy,” Joe agreed. Mike climbed in and you could hear the sigh of sitting in luxury, of a clean car unmarred by bumps that dump coffee on the seats, grease and mud and grime and plain old wear and tear. It was a finely-oiled machine designed for status and prestige. Around here, a brand new king-cab Dodge or Toyota Tundra might grant that. Mike could appreciate a different culture, though, and he caressed the steering wheel the way a 17-year-old boy might enjoy his first handful of bare breast.
Mike tried to turn the car over. Nothing. Trevor got a little skittish suddenly, excusing himself to go to the bathroom inside the trailer. Joe leaned against my shed and grinned a loopy smile. Mike fumbled with the controls in the front seat and finally found the hood latch, popping it, and then climbing reluctantly out of the car to amble around the front, reaching in the small slit of the hood to find the full release lever, pulling up and securing the hood in an elevated position.
“Jesus Christ. What a joke!” he muttered. “Nothing’s wrong with your car, Joe. You kids playing a joke on me?”
“What do you mean, Mike?” I asked. Trevor’s disappearance puzzled me and made my hinky meter go on alert. Had he sabotaged the car? Why?
“Someone just pulled a bunch of hoses loose and undid a spark plug. Nothing wrong with the car. Give me a minute and I’ll loop it all back in place.” Mike’s meaty hands worked with a deft precision I found myself admiring. I wanted to turn to Joe and say, “See? Even in this backwater town I went and found you someone to fix your fancy car.”
So I did.
Joe just ignored me, walked over to Mike, and asked, “What do you mean?” His left hand reached up to lean on the edge of the upright hood, but Mike’s reflexes were faster, grabbing him at the wrist before he could put his full weight on the edge. That was a rookie mistake, and one of the fastest ways to injure a guy working on a car. Meekly, Joe pulled back and shoved his hands in his pocket, a lock of hair falling over his eye and making him look like he was on a midnight photo shoot for Vogue.
“I mean your car is fine, Joe. Someone just pulled on the parts for kicks. Some kids around here, I guess.”
“Not around here,” Joe mumbled. “A kid from Massachusetts,” Joe declared, his voice surprisingly jocular compared to what I imagined was a storm of fury inside him.
Trevor
Stepping into the trailer was a bit like dodging land mines. I escaped from one set by getting away from Joe; the second Mike looked under that hood, he’d know it had been messed with. Pretending to need the bathroom was my only out.
Cathy sat at the cluttered dining room, giving me that look moms seem to cultivate over time, the judgment and disappointment like a language they hone on Rosetta Stone the way they make us polish our Spanish.
“Hi, Cathy,” I said politely, pointing down the hallway toward the bathroom.
She just nodded, a gesture of understanding, and I ran in to use the facilities and gather my thoughts, which were a jumbled, rush mess right now. What the hell were we doing? Joe had his hands and mouth all over Darla and I…didn’t care? Not quite. I cared. I didn’t care in the way I was supposed to care. And neither did Darla or Joe, it seemed. This was like some complicated, hokey Disney family special, except it involved me and some very real-life problems with high stakes.
Continue and be burned?
Never try and regret it?
As I washed my hands and ran wet fingers through my hair, cooling down and trying to get my brain to slow down, I caught my face in the mirror. Same blue eyes. Same blondish hair. Same shit-eating grin and body.
Different man. How could I change so radically in two days?
Coming out of the bathroom, Cathy smiled at me and beckoned me to sit at the table across from her. Uh, oh. This was going to be one of those parent grill sessions, wasn’t it? Stifling a groan, I did what she asked. I was sleeping with her daughter, after all. She had the right to ask me a few questions, I guess. Beside, it bought me time before getting chewed out by Joe, who would be wicked pissed right now as he learned what I’d done.
“You enjoying your time here, Trevor?” Her voice was a gravelly version of Darla’s, and her hands were extremely well manicured, like my mom’s.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Where did that come from? We didn’t do the “Ma’am” and “Sir” thing in Mass. All the parents were on first name basis. None of them wanted to feel old.
“But you’re about to leave.”
Ouch. “Yes.”
“You know, Darla has a cousin who lives near Boston.”
“OK.” Where was this going?
“And her cousin has been trying to get her to move there for a long time.”
That’s where this was going. Was Cathy afraid I was trying to take Darla away? I mean, two days did not equal asking Darla to move. Staying silent seemed like the safest course here, Cathy’s eyes boring into mine. What was I supposed to say? Choosing the Joe approach, I let my own awkwardness fill in the blanks and hoped she’d speak up first.
Like all parents, she did. “I like having Darla here. She helps a lot.” A pained smile spread her features wide as my fists clenched at my sides, my teeth grinding together. We really weren’t so different, were we? Parents who wanted to tell us what to do, even as adults. Darla’s mom was disabled and needed to use her as a crutch. My mom was disabled in her own way – heartbroken and convinced she needed to turn me into Uberboy.
What if we just broke free?
Like so many other lessons in life, you just have to try it and see what you experience. How could I do that with a tightly-controlled schedule of How to Be Perfect, a project-managed specimen that proved my parents could produce a kid who didn’t need to be institutionalized?
What they didn’t realize was that at the rate they were going, and Mr. and Mrs. Ross, too, Joe and I were going to end up in a very different kind of institution.
Or, worse, like clones of our parents.
No.fucking.way.
And Darla? If Cathy didn’t give her a chance to spread her wings and go where the wind took her, then she’d end up just as stifled. A flash of anger made me start to speak, but Cathy interrupted before I had the chance.
“And I think it’s time she went and visited her cousin Josie in Cambridge.”
“Mama!” I hadn’t heard Darla step into the trailer, but as I turned around and followed her voice, there she stood, her face a mask of shock, wild hair backlit by the foyer light. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s time you go, Darla.” Cathy folded her hands primly on the table top, worrying a piece of paper that had the words “GRAND PRIZE WINNER!” on it. I took a good look at Darla’s mother and saw that she’d gone to some trouble with her appearance, wearing lipstick and something on her eyes. Her expression was more animated, and she tapped the paper.
Darla stepped forward and reached next to me, her shirt sliding open as she bent down, giving me a heady whiff of her scent and a nice view of her rack. I should have been able to suppress that right now, under the circumstances, but I was horny as hell and frustrated as fuck, knowing we were about to head out and leave her behind. A few more hours, a handful of days…more. I wanted more.
Cathy handed Darla the paper and a second form under it. As she read both, Darla’s eyes widened, her face spreading into a friendly, eager look of promises fulfilled, of hopes granted, of something she hadn’t had – ever, if her countenance were to be believed. It made me want to scoop her up and take her away, to give her that feeling of having enough, of being wanted enough, of being – dare I say it? – loved enough to be something I gave her every single day.
“You got your aide hours?” Darla sputtered. Aide hours?
“Yep. Fifteen a week. Paid for by the state, and I can hire who I want. Guess who is coming to work for me?”
“Who?” Darla shook her head over and over while Cathy reached for a cigarette case. Man, I hadn’t seen one of those since I was a little kid and Grandma Connor still smoked. It was a cheap beige vinyl case and looked like a freakishly elongated change purse. She slid a cigarette out and pinched it between her lips, lighting it with a neon-green lighter in the outer pocket of the case.
