Chapter 40 Samson
I watch the heron glide and land gracefully on the water.
A creature from another epoch. It is a male, I can tell by the length of his bill.
I watch him wade and fish, monitoring the water, focused, composed.
There are no dragonflies buzzing around him at this time of year.
No bees or damselflies or tree frogs. He is completely alone.
Dominant and quiet. A bird with a wingspan to rival a golden eagle. Me watching him watching the water.
Mom is subdued. She thinks it’s her medication. The dosage is difficult to fine-tune, she says. She spends a lot of time alone in her bedroom.
I walk over to her by the sink.
“Can they change your tablets? Are there different kinds?”
She stops wringing out shirts and stockings and says, “They’ll adjust the dose, Sammy. We’ll find the right level.”
Through the glass I watch the heron bend and dip its neck. The windows are crystal clear after Dad and I washed them all with newspaper and white vinegar.
“I had a plan for us, Sammy,” she says in a hushed voice, almost a whisper. “Wanted to show you someplace else, another world. But that’ll have to wait now.”
“Outside the county?”
She smiles at me. “It’ll have to wait, my boy.”
“We could still do it? Dad says he’ll refill the tank from a jerrican and then fill the boat’s tank up at the marina, have us shipshape again.”
“That’ll be fine,” she says, but she sounds sad.
I polish my shoes and make sure I wear my one good shirt, no fraying, little discoloration.
It is almost white and I like the way it feels against my skin.
I smuggle an old toothpaste tube into my schoolbag.
They won’t know I stole it. I am careful when I take things.
Before I leave I find Dad’s cologne, he’s had the bottle for years and rarely uses it, and splash my cheeks.
“What’s all this?” says Mom, smiling.
“Nothing.”
“Come on.”
“What?”
“Is it a girl?”
“No.”
“You can tell me.”
I run out of the boat. “Bye, Mom. See you later.”
The heron flies away.
It is strange walking to the bus stop. The colors in the trees and the fallen leaves are sharper than usual.
The air is cool but I am perfectly warm.
I don’t even care anymore that Dad pawned my Walkman.
I should still be angry but today promises to be the turning point of my whole life so what is a Walkman to that?
The morning is fine. There’s a brawl near the school gates, three sixth graders with bad cuts, but I’m in no way involved. Nobody tried to push me into it. Nobody blamed me for it. I was just one of the crowd. Normal. Like the rest.
At recess I avoid the spicy corn chips I’d usually buy on a Friday and chew gum instead. I can’t risk bad breath. Not on a day like today.
Every time another kid is pushed, or a glue stick is thrown, I wait to be the next target.
Sometimes I am, briefly, but on the whole they’ve moved on.
It is strange how that can happen. Years of constant aggravation, in this school and the last, and then it switches.
They’re targeting Bower now on account of his lisp.
He went under the radar all this time but now they have him in their sights.
A pack moving on from one innocent creature to the next.
I don’t know if I will stay untouched for much longer. Maybe I will. I feel there’s been a sea change.
Chemistry. The periodic table. The teacher, Mr. Saunders, Tony Saunders, is shorter than most of the kids he teaches.
When he’s out of earshot we call him Shetland Tony.
I shouldn’t but I do. He drones on about inert gases and noble metals.
But I cannot see the blackboard, the atomic numbers; I can only see her face.
The shape of her fingers. I have never encountered a person like Jennifer.
Her pale nail polish. Her lashes. She might just be the most beautiful girl in the world.
But not only beautiful, her voice has a liquid quality.
A roundness. She has a sensibility rare in this town.
Jennifer is cool, much cooler than me, but also she carries herself in a certain way.
Good posture and an easy, generous smile.
“Jenkins. I said, what’s the chemical number of boron?”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Quit daydreaming. Chemical number of boron. Come on.”
I glance at my book.
“Fourteen, sir.”
He moves on to ask Gunner something about lithium.
After school I work in the library then walk to the park.
The town looks better than it ever has. The cars seem to have been upgraded and cleaned.
Waxed and polished. Brighter headlights.
More aerodynamic, somehow. My heart is larger in my chest, higher, closer to my collarbones.
I walk past the candy store, past the burned-out hair salon.
The park. Largest in the area after the old mine.
Clusters of teenagers huddle together acting nonchalant. There’s no way I’d have lingered in this place even a month ago. My life has changed completely.
It’s a gray day and their faces are lit sporadically by the orange tips of their cigarettes. Will Jennifer want me to smoke a cigarette? Oh, God. Why haven’t I practiced? Samson Jenkins, why have you never thought to practice? You’ll cough, you know you will.
She’s not here yet. I wander down to the swings and wait in the middle of the park. It’s not a huge space, it’s just some bushes and swing sets and a shallow pool they drain each fall.
My stomach is all over the place. Floating, stirring, bubbling. She’s meeting me here. She might bring vodka in a Gatorade bottle. Some kids do that. Others drink Sprite mixed with cough syrup. She asked me out. I have my toothpaste in my pocket just in case.
It’s getting dark.
A couple walk hand in hand toward the bushes. They disappear from view.
She’s not expecting…? Not right away, surely. No. I mean, I’ll need equipment. I must have that sorted for next time. They sell them in the drugstore. I can’t go in and ask them myself, they know me. I’ll find a machine. Paul will know where to find them. And then I’ll practice.
I shuffle from side to side to keep warm. She will be here soon. She’s ten minutes late. Playing it cool. Maybe I shouldn’t have arrived on time? Where do you learn about these things? I wish I’d asked Phoenix. He’d know.
The largest group in the park leave, kicking something across the ground, an empty can, and singing a Guns N’ Roses song.
Half past.
I squeeze a small drop of toothpaste onto my tongue.
Quarter to.
She’s not here yet. Probably had a detention or something.
I dreamed last night about holding her hand.
The warmth of it. We weren’t in the park in my dream; we were up the hill overlooking the town.
It was an excellent dream. We talked and there was some kind of aeronautical display team flying above the train station.
The Blue Angels, perhaps. We laughed and drank glasses of wine in the dream.
I woke up with a strange sensation. I was worried.
Maybe she’ll be able to tell when we kiss? To know my secret. Is that possible?
An hour goes by, but I am patient. I’ll wait for her. It’ll all be worth it. I will wait all night if I have to.
A group of older teenagers come, some with skateboards, and I move away from them. They sit down with a stereo and one of the boys has a basketball. I think they might be stoners.
Maybe she isn’t coming.
I’ll wait.
Dad says he’s never quit anything in his life.
I am cold now, so I walk around in circles.
A little more toothpaste on my tongue.
The threat of frost on the short grass.
She’s not here. She’s not coming, is she?
I understand that now. Other groups—smoking, drinking—laugh like hyenas all around me.
I can’t see their faces in the dark. They could be laughing at me.
This was some kind of mean prank, some kind of game.
Of course she never wanted to come here with me. Why the hell would she?
I walk north from the park, drawn unthinkingly toward Mr. Turner’s bungalow.
Chilled to the core, I break out into a pathetic run.
Why am I so gullible? I sprint as fast as I can to his bungalow.
Streetlights. Good old Bakersfield Avenue.
Cold feet. The corner grocery in the distance, lit, door always wedged open, freezing cold inside.
There’s a For Sale sign up outside number 34.
The garden looks neat and there are no lights on in the windows.
I’d have gone inside if he’d still been alive.
I’d have knocked and he’d have brought me in and made me hot milk or a mug of Campbell’s soup.
He made me cream of tomato soup one time when my uniform was soaked through.
A grilled ham and cheese to go with it. I look at the front yard, its mailbox stuffed with flyers.
“Jenkins?”
I turn.
Shit. “Mr. Davenport?”
“You know he’s not there anymore, Jenkins.”
“I know, sir.”
He walks out of his gate. Dennis Davenport, head of Lower School, wearing slacks and a sweater. I’ve never seen him dressed like this.
“Everything OK with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“I’m just out for a quick walk, sir. Heading back soon. I’m catching the bus home.”
“Clear night. Frost, I expect.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know we’re in for some meteor showers next week? I heard it on the Weather Channel. Best display for this time of year in over a century. You interested in meteors, Jenkins?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Your father has binoculars?”
“No, sir.”
He raises his eyebrows and then he sticks out his lower lip and breathes in.
“Wait there a second.” He walks into his bungalow on the opposite side of the street.
It looks like Mr. Turner’s except there’s an ornamental wishing well in the front yard and he has a two-seater porch swing painted white.
A minute passes.
I turn back to Mr. Turner’s bungalow. It looks so cold now. So lifeless.
“There you are.”
I turn and Mr. Davenport is holding out a pair of binoculars in a leather case.
“I couldn’t, sir.”
“Why on earth not? This is my old pair. I bought new ones last year, mainly for hunting whitetails. You can borrow these and drop them off at the teachers’ room when you’re done. It’s no problem.”
“You sure, sir?”
“Take them and don’t damage them, OK? Now, be off home with you.”