Y Is for Yesterday

  When she reached the far side of the pool, she pulled herself out of the water and plopped down on the edge. She grabbed a towel off the chaise behind her and mopped her face. She wrung her hair out and tucked the waterlogged strands behind her ears. Stringer and Patti Gibson had gone into the house. Betsy Coe and Roland danced to the Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride.” Poppy bebopped in their direction and joined them to make it a threesome. Good spirits, good energy, good bodies; all of them young and in perfect health.

  In her peripheral vision, Sloan caught sight of a wiggling bare foot. Someone said, “Steal my towel? That’s not nice.”

  She turned and saw that Bayard was stretched out on the recliner. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Invisibility’s my middle name.”

  Impulsively, she said, “Can I run something by you? This is in confidence because I may be dead wrong . . .”

  “Oooh, I like it. Sounds juicy.”

  “Well, it may or may not be. On the drive up, Troy mentioned that his being caught cheating had knocked him out of the competition for the Climping Memorial Award.”

  “No big surprise.”

  “That’s not where I was going. What occurred to me was that I got knocked out of the competition as well. Everyone is convinced I wrote the note and I’m sure the faculty’s been keenly aware that I was being shunned for it. They’re the ones who vote. None of them said anything, but I can tell by the way they look at me, like ‘Too bad, kid, but you deserve it.’ Know what I mean? I’m tarred with the same brush as Troy and Poppy, but for snitching, which is worse. Cheating, you only hurt yourself; snitching hurts everyone involved.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. That’s over and done.”

  “I don’t think so. Just listen to me. With Troy and me out of the competition, who do you think benefits?”

  Bayard’s smile faded and he blinked. “Austin.”

  “Right, and he’s the one who turned the whole class against me.”

  “Got it.”

  “You think I’m off base?”

  “Hey, it makes sense to me. What are you going to do?”

  “There’s not much I can do without proof, and I don’t see how that’s possible. I was just curious if you’d see my point.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is there any way you could give me a ride home? Poppy was supposed to take me, but I’d rather go with you. Only problem is, I have to leave early to take care of Butch.”

  “Sure. Iris can go with Stringer. He’s got room for her in his van.” He patted the edge of his chaise. “Come sit. You look tense.”

  She got up, pulled the towel around her shoulders, and took a seat beside him. “Austin’s not exactly restful company.”

  “Don’t let him get to you. He only has as much power as you give him.”

  “Ha. Don’t I wish,” she said.

  Austin appeared from the kitchen and crossed to the punch bowl. “You want the rest of this? I’m starting a new batch.”

  “Fine by me,” Sloan said.

  “I’m on hold,” Bayard said.

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  Sloan said, “Austin? I have to go pretty soon. I left Butch out in the yard.”

  “Why don’t you call that neighbor lady, Mrs. Chumley. She has a house key, doesn’t she?”

  “Well, yeah. For emergencies.”

  “So have her bring Butch in from the backyard. She can make sure he has food and water and you’ll be there in a little while.”

  Sloan wasn’t happy with the idea, but she didn’t want to raise any objections. She’d have Bayard take her as soon as they could find a way to slip out.

  Austin picked up the bowl and carried it to the kitchen.

  Sloan got to her feet, murmuring, “I really ought to help.”

  “Right. We don’t want it to look like we’re conspiring out here.”

  Sloan made her way into the kitchen in time to see Austin tilt the last of a fresh bottle of vodka into the punch mix, which was now a garish green. Through the doorway, she caught sight of Fritz sitting on the floor in the living room, still wearing his damp bathing suit. He flicked through television channels with the remote, pressing buttons repeatedly, apparently to no effect. “Hey, Austin. You got batteries for this thing?”

  “End table drawer. Don’t see any, you’re out of luck.”

  Stringer stuck his head around the door from the hall. “Any hope of food? I’m starving to death and Patti just puked up a pint of pink bile.”

  “I’m on it,” Austin replied.

  He tossed the empty vodka bottle in the wastebasket under the sink and went out the back door. He paused as he passed Michelle, who was lounging facedown on a chaise, her bare back shiny with suntan oil.

  He said, “Yo! Grab the burgers while I fire up the grill.”

  She looked up, irritated. “I’m a guest. I don’t know my way around this place.”

  “Neither does anyone else so figure it out. Jesus, get a clue. You’re not pretty enough to be useless.”

  “Thank you so much.” She made no move. Austin stopped in his tracks and stared at her. She rolled her eyes unhappily, but she did push herself up from the chaise, securing the strings of her bikini top as she stood. She crossed to the kitchen, murmuring, “Shithead.”

  Austin’s head whipped around. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I am fetching the meat. Will there be anything else, your highness?”

  “Clear the big table while you’re at it and have Betsy bring out the condiments. We can serve ourselves inside and then eat out here.”

  He crossed to the free-standing Weber barbecue, fueled by a propane tank. He lifted the lid, picked up a wire brush, and scraped the grill. Then he turned on the burners and lowered the lid to allow the interior to heat.

  Troy ambled over to his side. “You need help?”

  “Keep an eye on this while I go get oil for the grill.”

  Sloan watched the exchange through the open kitchen window, aware of Michelle behind her removing a platter of meat patties from the refrigerator. Michelle put the patties on the counter, picked up a knife and cutting board, and reached for an onion.

  On the patio outside, Iris appeared as Austin approached the kitchen door. She reached out, slung an arm across his shoulders, and hung on to him, her weight dragging him down. He struggled for balance and when he to tried to shrug her off, she let out a long wordless note of complaint.

  Annoyed, he said, “Get off me. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Come on, Austin. How come you’re never nice to me?”

  “Has it sunk into that pea-sized brain of yours that my girlfriend is here?”

  “Pooh on Michelle. Don’t you think I’m cute?”

  “Like a tarantula. You give me the creeps.”

  She said, “Well, I’d do anything for you.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said and pushed her away.

  “I’m serious.”

  As Iris ambled toward the grill, she stumbled and grabbed a lawn chair, then fell into it, laughing at herself. “I am so shit-faced.”

  Troy looked at her with concern. “Chill out. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  She put her hand over her eyes. “Who asked you?”

  “I’m offering you a piece of advice. Austin is bad news for someone as fucked up as you. Your reputation’s in the toilet as it is.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Yeah, right. We’ve seen ample evidence of that. You think he won’t take advantage?”

  “I’m in love with him.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, keep it to yourself. If he finds out, he’ll rope you into something good for him and not so good for you.”

 
“Shows what you know.”

  Sloan listened to the exchange with a sense of doom. Iris was reckless and out of control. One day it was all going to catch up with her. She tore open a package of hamburger buns and then opened the package of paper plates. She counted out a dozen and placed them on the counter, along with a stack of paper napkins. Austin crossed to the stove, opened the cabinet above it, and grabbed a container of olive oil.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked. “You need anything?”

  “I’m good. You have a serving spoon for the potato salad?”

  “I’ll find you one.” He disappeared into the walk-in pantry.

  Iris wandered in, clearly unsteady on her feet. She leaned on the kitchen table and eased herself carefully into a wooden chair. “Where’d he go?”

  “Who?”

  “Austin.”

  “He’s busy. He’s about to cook the burgers,” Sloan said irritably. Given her mother’s constant state of inebriation, she had no patience for drunks.

  “I knew that.”

  Fritz appeared from the living room. “Hey, look what I found.”

  In his right hand, he held a small-frame automatic pistol.

  Michelle glanced at him with alarm. “Shit. Where did that come from?”

  “It was in the drawer. Man, this is one gnarly weapon. What is this, a Smith and Wesson?”

  Austin emerged from the pantry with a fistful of serving utensils. “No, you moron. That’s my dad’s Astra Constable. We sit out here and target-shoot, picking off squirrels.”

  Stringer said, “The neighbors don’t complain?”

  “The gun club’s a mile down the road. People fire off guns all the time.”

  Stringer reached for the gun while Fritz pretended to sight down the barrel. “Hey, put that thing down. Are you nuts?”

  Fritz held it up and away, trying to retain control.

  Austin looked at the two of them. “Cool it, Stringer. It’s not loaded. Here. Gimme that thing.” Fritz surrendered the Astra to Austin, who popped out the magazine and held it up as though performing a magic trick.

  Fritz said, “Now can I see it?”

  “I don’t know, Fritz. You think you can handle it?”

  “Is there a trick?”

  “Yes, asshole. You have to take off the safety. Don’t you watch cop shows? And quit waving that thing around or you’ll shoot yourself in the foot. Put it back in the drawer before I shoot you myself.”

  Fritz returned to the living room, pretending to fire the weapon while he made mouth noises. He opened the end table drawer and put the gun back where it had been.

  There was an uptick of laughter from the patio, where the Beach Boys sang, “Fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes her T-Bird awa-hay.”

  Poppy scooted in, talking over her shoulder. “Thanks a bunch, guys. I love you too.”

  She caught sight of Austin, who handed her a cup of green punch. She seemed to focus in on him. “So what’s the story on the video?”

  Austin’s expression became watchful, like a fox in the presence of a rabbit. Sloan froze where she stood. Blake and Roland came in from the patio, roughhousing, unaware of the stillness that had suddenly settled over the room. Troy, entering the back door, caught the dead quiet and stopped in his tracks.

  Austin said, “What video are you referring to?”

  Poppy said, “The one half the kids in class are buzzing about. A smutty sex tape.”

  “Why don’t you ask your friend Sloan?”

  “I did. She hasn’t seen it yet.”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s bullshit. Of course she has. We’re currently in negotiations to return it to its rightful owner.”

  “Which is who?”

  “Me,” Austin said. “The project was my idea.”

  “My equipment,” Fritz hollered from the living room. “I want credit.”

  “Shut up, Fritz. You’re an idiot.”

  Poppy’s smile faltered. “What’s it about?”

  Austin said, “The film? It’s a cooking show using Crisco, which is the new hot ingredient.”

  Blake and Roland burst out laughing and Fritz’s high-pitched chortle sounded from the living room.

  Poppy was still smiling, but it was clear she was desperately unsure of herself. “Why are you all cracking up? Come on, fellas. Let me in on the joke.”

  Roland said, “You’re too uptight.”

  “I am not.”

  Austin said, “Roland doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He hasn’t seen it, either, so don’t feel bad. The title is ‘Pool Cue: A Love Story.’ It’s the Troy and Iris Show.”

  Iris did a seated bump-and-grind and nearly tumbled out of her chair.

  Troy spoke up from behind Poppy. “Why don’t you drop it?”

  She turned, blinking rapidly, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Drop what?”

  “You know what.”

  “What’s Austin talking about, ‘The Troy and Iris Show’? I want to know what you did.”

  “Would you just quit it with the third degree? I’m not accountable to you.”

  “I never said you were. I asked about the tape.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because you told me you loved me. You gave me your ring.”

  Austin snorted. “Shit, Poppy. You sound like the lyrics to a bad song.”

  “He did.”

  “Well, give the damn ring back. Obviously, Troy doesn’t care enough to tell you the truth. You want me to ‘share’ or would you rather hear it from him?”

  “Hear what?”

  Troy made a low moaning sound and banged his head against the wall. He looked to Sloan for relief, but she couldn’t maintain the eye contact.

  Poppy said, “Hear what?”

  Irritably, Troy said, “Okay, I banged her. Iris. What the fuck, Poppy. You don’t own me.”

  The animation drained from Poppy’s face. Where she’d been tentative and wounded, pushing for a reply, she now turned to stone. She did a slow pivot until she was looking straight at Sloan, still standing at the sink.

  She crossed the distance between them in two steps and slapped Sloan across the face. The impact made a wet smacking sound that startled everyone. There was dead silence. Sloan was so stunned, she didn’t react. Poppy slapped her again and only then did Sloan lift a hand to her cheek in wonder. “Jesus, Poppy. Why piss all over me? I didn’t screw your boyfriend. Iris did!”

  Poppy would have slapped her a third time if Austin hadn’t grabbed her wrist.

  “Cool it,” he said.

  “You cool it, asshole!” Poppy snapped at him. She turned to Sloan. “You should have told me the truth. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “Iris is your friend, Poppy. I’m the one you dumped.”

  “I will never forgive you. Never. You knew all the time and you let me walk into this. You can get your own damn ride home.”

  Poppy snatched up her clothes and her purse. As she passed Iris, she paused. “You’re pathetic,” she said and then she moved on.

  In silence, Iris watched her leave the cabin, her expression forlorn.

  29

  Tuesday, October 3, 1989

  Tuesday morning, I arrived at the office to find Iris Lehmann and her fiancé, Joey Seay, sitting in a ten-year-old VW bug parked out front. As soon as I pulled into the drive, the two got out and proceeded to my front door. After a brief exchange of greetings, they stood by while I went through my ritual of unlocking the door and disarming the system, after which I ushered them into my office. The mailman had shoved a handful of bills and catalogues through the mail slot. I leaned over and swept up the pile and set it on my desk. I gestured for them to take a seat and then went around my desk and settled in my swivel chair. “Would you like coffee?” I asked.

 
Iris sat with her arms crossed, refusing to look at me. “I don’t have time. Joey has to drop me off downtown so I can open the store.”

  “Up to you,” I said.

  I couldn’t help but note the differences between them. His complexion was speckled red from the healing of old acne scars that probably undercut his confidence as a teen. His ears weren’t comically large, but otoplasty wouldn’t have been out of the question. I was again struck by the worry lines that had been etched across his forehead. I could imagine him at ages five, ten, and fifteen with the same burdened look. His outfit had that odd air of stunted youth. He wore tattered running shoes and his jeans were cinched with a brown leather belt taken down to the last hole. His long-sleeved T-shirt had wide horizontal stripes in red, yellow, and green. I wondered how seasoned construction workers felt about his management skills, given that he was half their age and seemed even younger.

  Iris wore a vintage outfit that consisted of a long navy-blue silk skirt with a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse. The stand-up collar was edged with ruffles and was made of a cotton fabric referred to as “lawn” in the few romance novels I’d read. Lawn is lightweight, known for its semi-transparency, which here translated into a garment that covered her bosom primly while at the same time revealing and emphasizing her voluptuous flesh. Where Joey looked like a kid who suffered from arrested development, Iris was as ripe as a peach. I couldn’t help but notice his eyes straying to her cleavage with a giddy look of disbelief. How a boychick of his unsophisticated demeanor had been granted access to such riches probably had him lying awake at night, marveling.

  Iris said, “Joey’s stepmom showed me your business card. When you came into Yesterday, you claimed you were a journalist. Now I find out you’re a private detective.”

  “I understand why that might not sit well—”

  “Might not sit well? Are you kidding me? You lied!”

  “I did and I’m sorry about that. I was looking for information and I couldn’t think of any other way to get it.”

  “Well, how nice for you. I guess you think that justifies dishonesty, but I don’t think there’s any excuse for misrepresenting yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, Iris. If I’d known you, I’d have tried a straightforward approach, which might have been better for both of us.”