Yeah, right.
I scan every shop and parking lot on Main Street. Her words echo in my head like a horror movie trailer. It’s not that noticeable. You’re very handsome. I’ve never looked at you up close before. You’re always buried under that hood of yours. She saw me. Saw me from afar. Saw me buried under my hood. She saw me. And she came to the Prison. My home. Wynona Bidaban came to my home to see me. To apologize to me. She almost cried when she thought about the names she called me. She was sorry. Really sorry.
I crisscross every inch of Black Cove Park. She’s not there. I sit on a bench and gaze at the blank slate of sea. She’s not the girl I thought she was. She’s so much more. She likes Monty Python. She likes God Art. She knows she shouldn’t be with Pitbull. She paaahh ed him. She actually paaahh ed him. And I ruined it. I ruined everything. Ruined everything forever.
I look around to make sure no one’s nearby and light up a joint. I take a couple hits, snuff it out, and stuff it back in my wallet.
I take one more pass along Main Street but don’t find her. Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. Forget everything. Wynona, my chores, everything. Just go to Grubs’s apartment and get wasted. But I’m already in pretty deep with Mother Mary. I start walking back to the Prison, then freeze on the sidewalk. If I don’t find Wynona, I won’t see her for another week on account of my suspension. Shit!
I walk the downtown strip one more time, then head to Grubs’s apartment. His car’s not there. My chest’s throbbing with pain, and I feel lightheaded. I look up and down Main Street, trying to decide what to do, where to go. I feel lost. The town looks eerily unfamiliar. I suck in some deep breaths but can’t seem to get any air into my lungs. My brain feels fuzzy and my stomach’s in knots. I spot the miniature lighthouse on the corner of Naskeag Road. The road to the Prison. My road. I sprint home.
Mother Mary’s standing on the front porch when I run up the driveway. I try to think fast, but my brain’s still lost in Wynona Hell.
Mother Mary’s face is tight and red. “I’m tempted to say ‘strike three,’ but we’re probably up to three thousand and three by now.”
“I had to, um . . .”
“Don’t even try, Cricket.” She goes inside and slams the door.
I spend the rest of the day doing chores. Every movement rips at the stinging gash in my chest. Bending, lifting, sawing, weeding, raking, hauling, throwing. I see Wynona's face in everything I touch. Her glow, her laugh, her smile, her skin, her fingers on my chin. Her grimace, her terror, her cut, her shriek, her fingers on her cheek. Her scared eyes — that's the worst. She came here to apologize, and I scared her. Her initial instincts were right. I am a freak. A freak of nature.
I’m still thinking about Wynona at dinner. It’s like the feeling of a nightmare that clings to you with hazy images and cloudy fears even though you can’t remember what the dream itself was about, except I remember every detail of this dayscream. In my gut I’ve got a maggot-infested tumor denser than one of Sister Eliza’s bran muffins, reminding me every second exactly what it’s about.
I can’t believe I freaked out like that. I felt so certain she was bulldozing me into a mushy pile so Pitbull could drop-kick my ass into the briny deep. Why else would she talk all that crap about me being good-looking and stuff? I know I’m an ugly fuck. I know my scar freaks people out. First expressions don’t lie.
But if she wasn’t setting me up, why was she buttering me up like some tasty stud muffin? There’s no way she can really think I’m a hot tamale or anything. Her eyes seem to work fine. She walked right to the edge of the cliff without falling over. Monkey nuts—what gives?
I’m halfway through my peach cobbler when Mother Mary taps me on the shoulder and finger-twirls me to the tower. At first, I’m like, How the hell am I gonna mind-spin happytime tales with this nightscare bottlenecking my brain? But then, I’m like, No, this will be good, clear my head, get me to stop skull-mashing the Wynona gashing.
The Little Ones follow me to the tower and settle in. I ask them where I left off.
Gregory Bullivant’s pudgy cheeks drift at me from starboard. “Apollo Zipper didn’t die when the ferry sank in the English Channel, Mr. Cherpin.”
Even though the Little Ones call me Mr. Cherpin all the time, something freaky happens when Greggplant Parmesan says it. I suddenly feel older. Like I really am Mr. Cherpin and not just on account of a bunch of kids way younger than me calling me that. Maybe it has something to do with Mother Mary telling me I can’t live at the Prison after I turn eighteen.
Whatever the reason, the feeling makes it seem like my driftwood antics with Wynona happened a long time ago to someone much younger and much different. I know that sounds wacky because obviously I’m not older, and I’m not different. I’m just me. Me, the storyteller. Me, the orphan. Me, Mr. Cherpin.
I suddenly know what I have to do. It hits me square in the forehead like a stiff jab. I have to stop listening to the music and face it. I have to find that little girl I scratched on the face and apologize. I have to apologize to Wynona.
Holy gutloads of mayhem and dismayhem, Batman. How the hell did all that emotional hullabaloo kitty-cat my snugglepuss so lickety-split on account of one midget toad calling me Mr. Cherpin? Man oh man, the braineroo is one funky organ. I mean, turn and face the strange ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, Mr. Bowie.
The Little Ones are staring at me like I have three heads, so I’ll have to finish brain-scrambling this Freudian omelet later.
“Right, Apollo Zipper. The ol’ Zipperoo. Zip, Zippy, Zipster.” The Little Ones have no idea I’m killing time trying to pull something out of my ass. “The Zipmeister. The Zipinator.” I dim the lights and rub my hands together. Damn, even my hands feel older. Rougher, more callused. Probably just from the yardwork. “Well, Apol-lo Zipper did not die on that fateful ferry fiasco back in eighteen girdedy-nerner.”
“Eighteen seventy-five.” It’s Billy Kopin, who never speaks, speaking.
I give tough-guy Billy a thumbs-up. Huh, maybe I ain’t the only one transmogrifying in this magical power tower tonight.
I tell the Little Ones more about the phantasmagorical adventures of Apollo Zipper. Like how he survived the ferry debacle by floating on the ship’s steering wheel, and how he washed ashore on a tiny island in the North Sea, and how the island was inhabited by runaway orphans who traveled the rocky trails on the backs of domesticated wolves. The Little Ones nearly bust their little lungs cheering when I tell them there were no adults on the island, which meant no homework, baths, bed- times, or Brussels sprouts.
Just as I’m telling them that the rogue wave that sank the ferry was not an accident and was caused by evil adults who enslave children in underground diamond mines, the door to the storytorium swings open and Mother Mary Mistiming enters, clapping her hands. The hot air from the Little Ones’ groans warms the room. They line up and file out.
I stay behind, munch some leftover popcorn, and think about Wynona. I have to find her and apologize. But how? And where? And what will I say? I can’t do it at school. Too many people around. I can’t do it here. There’s no way she’ll ever step foot on this hallowed ground again. I can’t do it at her house. Too many parents around. Plus, I don’t even know where she lives. And even if I do find her and get her alone, chances are she won’t stick around long enough for me to squeak out an apology.
I gaze at the dark, distant sea. The ocean looks motionless from this far away. Unlike the way it rock-’n’-rolls a head-banging vertigo from up close. Funny how that is. How things are so calm and peaceful from far away, but up close that surreal scene cartwheels your nutsack like a pebble in the surf. Maybe that’s why people like Man Art more than God Art. A painting of a tsunami can’t obliterate your ass the way a real one can.
I head to my attic asylum to drown my sorrows. I’m like Rooster Cogburn in True Grit. We both love to pull a cork.
CHAPTER 17
I drank too much last night, so breakfast is a bear. I’
m sweating more than the plump Jimmy Deans on my plate. But greasy chow is the best thing for a hangover. And ain’t no one better at dishing up greasy chow than porky nuns.
The only thing tougher than sitting up straight and keeping your elbows off the table when you’re hung heavy is Sunday Mass. And that’s next.
My limbs feel waterlogged, like they’re nailed to the pew. Tough to pay attention to some ignoramus preaching a bamboozling folly when your pores are secreting a boozeoozling jolly. I’d like to crawl up to the altar and chug the priest’s wine to exorcise my way to a miraculous healing. One of them hair of the dog that bit ya deals.
One cool thing about church is that you can close your eyes and snoozadoozle and the priests and nuns figure you’re praying extra hard. Well, I’m praying extra hard that I can summon up the courage to knock on Wynona’s front door when something the priest says drips a mystical intravenous prophecy into my pounding veins. It’s from Psalm 26, in the pre-Jesus section of the Big Black Book.
Expect the Lord, do manfully, and let thy heart take courage.
Holy guacamole, Batman! Did God just call me a pussy? Ain’t that a kick in the circumcised love staff? I hate to sound all religiously douchenozzled, but heck if the Old Man isn’t ordering me to grow some nads and get my ass over to Wynona’s house to apologize. At least, that’s the way I figure it.
But how can I get away? How can I escape my forty years in the desert of chores? How can I Moses my ass out of Egypt while Mother Maraoh Pharaoh has me chained to a wheelbarrow and rake all day? Mother Mary Mothballs, let thy orphan go!
Later that morning, the good Lord floats a solution from on high while I’m raking the backyard.
Humbly heeding the Lord’s merciful command, I lean my rake against the sacrificial boulder, gaze into His cloudy face, raise my boot heel to the heavens, and smite my mighty footwear upon the consecrated handle, thus snapping it in twoeth. The Lord hath spoken.
Oh my goodness. Whatever shall I do? I am rakeless in the Garden of Should and Needful. How in Heaven’s name shall I complete my chores like the repentant soul I am without my trusty garden staff? O Lord, why hast Thou forsnookered me? But wait. I hear the Lord guiding me again through the darkness of my trials and tribulations.
Driveth thee Prison vaneth to the raketh-changers in the Hardwareth Temple, sayeth the Lord, and purchaseth a neweth tooleth with the nuns’ sacred cardeth of credit.
The only problem is, I need the Lord to thrice blesseth my holy asseth because I don’t know where Wynona liveths. But I know someone who does.
Grubs is sitting in a lawn chair outside the auto repair shop when I pull up. He’s drinking a giant Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, which, knowing Grubs, probably doesn’t have a drop of coffee in it. His slippery grin confirms my suspicion.
“Nice van, Reverend Cricket. You come to convert me?”
“Even God’s given up on you.”
“You got that right.” He takes a huge sip and tosses a crooked glance at the orphanage van. “Must be tough to score chicks in that rusty hunk of shit.”
“It belongs to the Catholic Church. Chicks ain’t the objective.”
Grubs laughs and spits out some “coffee.”
A car pulls up to the pump. Grubs lumbers to the shiny silver Audi and jams the handle in the fill hole. He leans over to flirt with the middle-aged woman while the pump clicks. I can tell by the way he’s shifting his head around that he’s peeping down her blouse. After she drives away, he grabs his crotch and flicks his tongue like a lizard. That’s the universal gas station attendant signal for romantic interest in an attractive female customer. He sits down and chugs his drink.
“Wouldn’t mind taking that little MILF up to the love loft for a roll in the hay,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m sure she’d be impressed. Maybe afterward you could treat her to a corndog in the restroom.”
“Fuck you, Rockefeller. At least I got my own place.”
“You live in an attic above a garage.”
“You live in an attic above a cult of frigid nuns.”
I laugh. “Touché.”
Grubs gets up and goes inside. Probably to add more caffeine to his coffee.
I’m dying to ask him where Wynona lives so I can go see her before I lose my nerve, but I don’t wanna just blurt it out. Fortunately, I have a plan.
“Hey, that dude Billy Jo Bidaban lives around here, don’t he?” I ask when Grubs returns with a fresh “coffee.”
“Nah, he’s up in Bangor at community college.”
“Oh, yeah. But he used to live down by the ballpark, right?”
“Nah, he lived in that piss-yellow farmhouse near the sledding hill on Granite. The one with the big horse barn and shit.”
“Oh, right.” I feign interest in watching an old lady wrestling her walker down the sidewalk.
Grubs kicks my ankle. “What gives? You got something going on with Billy Jo behind my back, bro? You better not be motherfuckin’ me, dude. He ain’t around much, but he’s still my best customer.”
Shit. I don’t want him thinking I’m the kind of slimy prick who’d scam deals under the table. Guess I gotta let the fat out of the hag. “Hell no, I wouldn’t pull that shit. I’m trying to hook up with his little sister.”
Grubs starts aaaaaahhhhhhhh ing and banging his fist on his thigh. “No way. You tapping that ass?”
“Not yet, but I’m planning on it.” I’m not planning on it, but what am I gonna say? To be honest, the way he says it makes me wanna knock his fuckin’ head through a gas pump. But I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just being Grubs. Plus, what the hell do I care what he says about her?
“That little bitch is a hot hunka meat. I wouldn’t mind boarding that red caboose for a midnight ride to Brownsville Station.” He cracks up at his own joke.
Okay, that was a little much. “Easy, dude.”
“What the fuck, faggot? You soft on this bitch or something?”
“Shit no. She ain’t nothing to me.”
The brakes in my gut screech when I park the van in front of Wynona’s house. There’s no way she’ll talk to me after what I did. She’ll probably slam the door in my face before I can utter a single sorry. No, she won’t do that. She’ll punt me in the pigskin and then slam the door.
Her house is this wicked old farmhouse perched on a hill near downtown Naskeag, with Death Wish sledding hill on one side and a giant cell phone tower on the other. It’s pale yellow with brown shutters. A gross color combination if you ask me.
There’s a screened-in porch across the entire front of the house, which I realize I’m gonna have to enter to knock on the door. Damn. Her dad’s landscaping truck is parked in the driveway. Double damn.
One thorny splinter of hope keeps prickling my potato, though. She came to the Prison to apologize. She didn’t come for some flaky get-in-touch-with-nature walkabout. She came to see me. Now, maybe at first it was just to apologize, but there were definitely moments of sticky eye-canoodling between us. I didn’t imagine that.
Every time I think of that cut I sliced in her face, my stomach somersaults. There’s no way I can knock on that door. What if her stepmom answers? Or worse, her father.
Wynona, sweetie, the gentle lad who filleted your face is at the door. How do you do, Cricket? So nice to meet you. Would you like to come in? I have a lovely set of stainless-steel steak knives in the kitchen. Perhaps you’d like to lop off one of my wife’s breasts?
Oh man, I’m in Troubletown. But I gotta go. Face the music. Take my lumps. Be a man. Just like Mother Mary Maturity said. Grow up. End it before it starts. Exactly. That’s exactly it. No matter how bad it goes, at least I will have done one tiny thing right in my stupid, pathetic life. Do manfully, and let thy heart take courage. Jeez Louise! What the hell is that Holy Roller hullabaloo doing tickling my jigglies a Jehovah-loving mischief?
I jump out of the van and shake off the sillies like some epileptic vampire. The house sways as I get closer. N
uckfuggets. The whole family’s probably hunkered down beside a window watching me schlep my crazy ass up the gravel walk. For all I know, Mr. Bidaban’s unlocking his gun cabinet at this very moment.
No matter. Just apologize and go. Say sorry and bolt. Ding-dong, sorry, see ya. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing more.
The front steps are enormous pink and gray granite slabs that look like they were dumped there by a passing glacier. I tiptoe up them and open the screen door. It squeaks. I wince and freeze. I’m pretty sure I hear a pump-action shotgun being loaded.
I step forward. My fingers shake as bad as my legs, but I don’t stop. I press the doorbell. Like I’m pressing the On button to the electric chair I’m strapped into.
Please be Wynona. Please be Wynona. Please be Wynona.
A statuesque man opens the door. He’s huge and square, like the house. His head is bald and shiny, like a bowling ball.
He doesn’t say a word or budge an inch while I struggle to get my words out. He’s got Bluto forearms that could knead my noggin into a spinach quiche. I finally murder the frog choking my vocals. “Excuse me, sir, is Wynona home?”
He looks mad. “Who may I say is inquiring?”
“Cricket Cherpin.”
Now he moves. Not much, just a head twitch. Man, if I had a dime for every head twitch I got when I said my name.
“I’m sorry?”
I squeak out my name again.
He stiffens. “One moment, please.” He closes the door in my face.
I breathe for the first time since I got out of the van.
The door opens and Wynona appears, decked out in frilly Sunday fineries. All white and warm and whip creamy. Seeing her so clean and pretty makes me realize I’m wearing my work grubs. Shit, I should have cleaned up and changed.
Then I see it. The Band-Aid on her cheek. It’s not as big as I feared. I was expecting her whole head to be wrapped in gauze or something. A stratosphere of air vents from my chest.