It was the summer after high school graduation. A time for new things, new memories. The Chiles’ cabin in Loveless had evolved for them. Their favorite spot had been under a knotty tree with lots of bends for climbing when they were kids. And if you took to the really high branches, you could see clear across the water, all the way to the court house and the church steeple. They could even sometimes spot the nuns—a speck of black cloth, from the great distance—floating toward the pick-up truck they used to deliver stuff to poor people. But since those tree climbing years, the church had mysteriously burned to the ground and was rebuilt into a shelter (the nuns still ran it), and by 1969, the lake they once loved to swim in now had warning signs posted against any such thing. Still, though, the way the lean moon would ride the trembling waters, the slope of the green grass that led to it, the rustling heads of the trees that stole your breath with its quiet beauty made the trip worth it. What better place was there to enjoy nature and some good weed?
So they threw some stuff in the back seat of Sweed’s car and headed there. They decided to cruise through the town a little, maybe pick up some munchies, but mostly (for Sweed, at least), to show off his new ride.
They saw this white girl, pixy small, walking their way down the cobblestone pavement, past the windows of dainty downtown shops.
“There she is, man,” Ricky said.
Sweed pulled over curbside, hearing the excitement in Ricky’s voice. It was obvious he was trying to control the smile that skipped along the corners of his mouth. The setting sun was behind the girl and made the fringes of her straw yellow hair glow; it hung in limp curls against her small head, framing her face, pale and round like a china plate. Ricky imagined the feel of her hair against him. He’d seen her before, fantasized about her before, but never a word spoken to her. That was about to change.
She adjusted herself in the hooded blue jacket that slid off her bony shoulders. The strap of her big crochet bag sliced across the front of her white blouse. It was knotted in the front, which gave way to a peek-a-boo sliver of Casper white midriff with the slightest move. When she swept her hair back just then, her blouse shifted enough to reveal the pink mole over her left tit, maybe by mistake. Anyhow, they saw it. And she smiled with strawberry lips. Ricky was checking out her thighs in those shorts, lean legs like a jack knife, walking right at them now.
He straightened himself. She bent at his open car window. The wind strung her hair across her face. She flicked the sloppy blond bangs away. This close, Sweed could see freckles under the pink rouge. She could be pretty, he thought, but he didn’t like the make-up. Too much. Ricky didn’t seem to care. He and the girl started out slow, but then were laughing as if they’d known each other forever. It wasn’t long before Ricky was talking about his daddy’s cabin, and how they were there for the weekend, and maybe she’d like to check it out, too. Tonight. She liked the idea, especially when he mentioned the weed. She even offered to by some goodies.
So she climbed into the back seat, littered with Sweed’s discarded clothes and junk food wrappers. She was giddy, and became downright shrill with happiness when Ricky decided to hop back there with her.
Sweed drove on, catching glances of them in his rearview mirror. All that laughing in each other’s faces, the touching: tender collarbone, forehead, wispy strains of hair, bare knees, moist palms, the man-curve of neck. If excitement had a scent it would be the musk of armpits and private parts quivering to be let loose. Sweed could smell it, could feel it tighten along the in-seam of his own jeans. The sensation frustrated him. In case it would bubble out, he kept quiet. The only time they acknowledged him is when the girl, Alison, threw her voice to give driving directions: left at the stop sign, no, um, right (tee-hee). Yeah, that’s it, straight ahead on the corner.
They pulled in front of a mom-and-pop store with a red door that jangled when Alison bobbed through it.
“Ooo-WEE!” Ricky exclaimed, slamming his fist against the car roof. He smacked Sweed on the shoulder. “Ain’t she something?”
Sweed shrugged, and to keep busy so he wouldn’t have to look at him, he dug a cig out of his pocket and lit up. Through a puff of smoke, he finally said, “I prefer my women the way I like my meat: well done.”
“Don’t give me that. You settle for what you can get!” Ricky laughed. Noticing the silence, he added, “Come’on, man, lighten up!”
“What’s taking her so long?” Sweed wanted to change the subject. He wanted to ignore the mocking that shriveled something in him—the way it always happened under the bear claw of Ricky’s privilege. Everything, it seemed, came so easily for him. For Sweed who’d endured it, and sometimes relished in it, the ease of Ricky’s life triggered both awe and acidic envy.
“Don’t know,” Ricky said, even though she’d only been inside for a few minutes.
Sweed looked at the big store window, where he could plainly see Alison’s backside as she picked up the large bag off the counter. The old man at the register scowled at him. A white man who clearly wasn’t comfortable with what he saw.