September 1993 #4
Mike sized him up before answering, as any good military brat learns to do.
He felt an instant stab of jealousy that Zane was sporting the greaser look, while he hadn’t been allowed to stray farther than a flattop from a typical buzz cut.
But other than the offending hair, he seemed harmless enough. “Zane, as in Zane Grey?”
The other boy nodded. “My father’s favorite author.”
“I’m Mike, after my father’s favorite person—himself.”
If Zane listened to his reply, it was hard to tell because he was already craning his neck to look at their teacher. “Do you think he’d let me switch instruments?”
“Nope,” Mike answered, eyeing Mr. Monds, who was passing a flute to a girl in a plaid skirt. “Not a chance.”
“Yeah, probably not.” Zane flipped up the locks and opened the black case to reveal a tarnished old trumpet that definitely had a multitude of lips pressed against its mouthpiece over the years. “I really wanted a saxophone.”
“I’m more of a sax guy myself. Ladies love saxophone players.” The truth was Mike had never even held a musical instrument before, so he had no idea what kind of guy he was. And his knowledge of what ladies loved was even lower. “I don’t want to take this stupid class. Band is for nerds.”
The conversation paused there because at that moment, the prettiest girl either of them had ever seen sat down in front of them.
She had long, blonde curls that she flicked over her shoulder, nearly smacking Mike in the face.
He and Zane grinned at each other, both far too excited about a girl who towered over them.
Zane leaned in and whispered, “Would you get a load of her?”
“I think I’m going to like music class.”
That afternoon, the pair walked home together under the afternoon sun, their palms sweaty and sore from carrying their tattered trumpet cases.
When they had worn out the topics of the pretty blonde girl, the kid who got caught with chewing gum, and the terrible cafeteria food, the conversation led to where Mike knew it would.
“How’d you get that fat lip?”
“Had a tussle with a grizzly,” Mike said, ashamed to tell his new friend the truth. He could tell Zane’s dad didn’t hit him because if so, he wouldn’t have asked. “But don’t worry, I let him live.”
Zane laughed at his answer then got quiet, and Mike knew he was putting it together. After a minute, Zane’s face lit up. “Hey, do you want to come over to my house? My mom’ll let you stay for supper. I think it’s roast chicken night. Or maybe tuna casserole.”
“Either is great with me.”
Zane’s house was exactly what Mike knew it would be—clean, safe, and better than his in every way.
Zane’s mom, June, was the type of housewife they’d cast in an Ovaltine commercial, one with an unending supply of home-baked chocolate chip cookies in a jar on the counter and fresh, cold milk in the fridge.
Her smile faltered when she saw Mike’s lip, but she didn’t say a word about it.
When Zane asked if he could stay for supper, she said yes without hesitation.
“You should call home and ask your mother if it’s all right. ”
“Yes, ma’am.” He would pretend to call and get her permission. Donalda would be passed out on the couch by now.
Over the coming months, going to Zane’s became the best part of Mike’s week.
A refuge. Sometimes he’d have a black eye or a bruised arm.
Sometimes his clothes were stained and smelly.
Other times, he’d be clean and unmarked.
Whatever condition he arrived in, June smiled brightly and pretended everything was fine (although occasionally, her eyes watered).
Sometimes, she’d find an excuse to wash his clothes, like if their dog, Jupiter, jumped up and put paw prints on his pants that only she could see.
Once, when it was particularly bad, she ‘accidentally’ spilled a glass of milk on him, then said, “Oh my heavens, Mike. I am so sorry. Zane, go get Mike some clothes and I’ll wash these. ”
Zane’s father, Phillip, was easy to be around.
He had a relaxed air about him, often teasing the boys, and occasionally throwing a football around with them in the backyard.
He didn’t even get annoyed and call them butterfingers when they failed to catch the ball.
Phillip was the owner of a thriving appliance store (McCreight’s Reliable Appliances), and like any successful man, he came home content with his place in the world.
He introduced Mike to astronomy, hauling his telescope out one night during the Lyrids meteor shower and letting Mike have the first look through the lens.
Zane got bored and went back inside to read Archie comics, but Mike stayed outside with him for a full hour while Phillip pointed out various constellations and planets.
He said something that gave Mike hope for the first time in his young life.
“Whatever I’m going through, no matter how bad, I can look up at the stars and know that there’s a whole universe out there, filled with possibilities for each of us.
We don’t have to stay stuck, Michael. We can always move forward or move on. ”
Two months later, Mike slept over on a Friday night.
The boys watched an episode of The Twilight Zone on which an Air Force pilot from 1917 goes missing into a strange cloud, only to reappear forty-two years later.
Mike, without thinking about it, muttered, “I wish my dad would fly into that cloud.”
“I wish he would too.”
They were both silent for a minute, then Zane said something that caused tears to spring into Mike’s eyes. “You’re part of our family now. You’re the brother I don’t have. And I promise you, none of us will ever hurt you like that.”
From that point on, Zane’s house felt like Mike’s real home—a reprieve from his father’s rage and from trying to prop up his mother, who had what she called ‘the blues’ again.
On the days when he did have to go home, he’d put on her favorite Everly Brothers album.
As soon as ‘All I Have to Do is Dream’ came on, it would rouse her from her boozy afternoon nap.
It was risky. He never knew what version of her he’d get.
Some days, she swore under her breath while she stumbled to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder for him to ‘shut off that racket.’ On other days, she’d pretend nothing was wrong.
She’d smooth out her hair and ask him how school was, then pour herself a drink while saying, “I did so much housework today, I wore myself out,” even though it only took a quick glance around to see it wasn’t true.
The worst days, though, were the ones when she’d smile, teary-eyed, and hug him too much while she said she was sorry.
He’d tell her it was okay and that he understood, which he already did to a certain extent.
He was too young to know how awful it was to live a life that wasn’t meant for you, but he did know how he felt soothed after a big, long glug of vodka that went straight to his head.
After her sloppy apology, she’d set to work making something for supper—macaroni and cheese if she was up for it, or fun little Spam sandwiches with the crusts cut off and toothpicks sticking out of the tops.
She’d sing along while she prepared their dinner, swaying to the music, and while they ate, she’d recite a poem or a meaningful passage from a novel she’d studied in school.
It amazed him that she could remember all those words in the right order after all those years.
“I was really something, Mike. I could’ve been a professor,” she’d say, even though she’d told him that a thousand times already.
He would nod and smile at her. “You bet you could’ve, Mom.”
His young heart would squeeze so hard it felt like it was in danger of bursting and he would wish to God that there was something he could do to fix this sad woman.
Deep in his bones, he knew it was his father’s fault.
When Mike climbed into his bed (with Charlie already asleep on the other side of the small room), he’d pray his father would be killed soon.
A plane crash, a nuclear bomb mishap (although that might take out the entire town), or maybe a car accident on the drive home.
Mike knew his mom would get better if his dad never came home again.
But his dad kept coming home, and his mom kept drinking, and Mike spent more and more nights at Zane’s.
One evening in the late spring, they had a camp-out in Zane’s backyard.
They lay in the small canvas tent on top of their sleeping bags, trying to figure out how they could find a couple of girls to go steady with them.
The situation was getting desperate. Their freshmen year was nearly over and neither of them had even kissed a girl, let alone copped a feel.
It was getting downright embarrassing. “The problem is they only want jocks.”
Zane turned on his side to face his friend. “Maybe we could train super hard all summer and come back to school in the fall ready to play something.”
Mike stayed on his back and looked over at Zane. “Like what?”
“Football?”
“Nah, we’re both too small.”
“Swimming?”
“Can you swim?”
“A little. You?”
“Doggie paddle, but I don’t like it when my hands get all wrinkly like raisins.”
“Hmph. What about tennis… or track?”
“Girls don’t care about tennis. Track, though…”
They lay there quietly, each reliving the recent track meet, at which they both came in near the bottom of the pack. Then Zane said, “All right, forget that. What else do girls like?”
“Elvis,” Mike said. “But I don’t think we can turn ourselves into The King.”
“Especially you with that buzz cut.” Zane stood up in the middle of the tent, hunched over while he moved his hips around. Putting on his best Elvis voice (which wasn’t even close to the real deal), he said, “But maybe I could.” Then he started singing ‘Hound Dog,’ which sounded a whole lot better.