* * *
One by one, they nabbed their shirts from the porch banister—except Russell. He lingered under the tree, watching as the others pulled their dry shirts over their sweaty torsos. Mike was the first to get his shirt on and also the first to step inside, any semblance of lunacy gone. He turns it on and off, Russell thought, not for the first time.
They ate at the Graham’s kitchen table, a slab of oak stacked with so many side dishes (cole slaw, fried okra, sliced green beans, mashed potatoes, buttermilk biscuits…), there was barely room for their plates. The paucity of available table space only added to the general cramped feeling of the kitchen. Pulling a chair out from the table without hitting the stove or a wall was impossible. And the walls.…Decorated with ornamental wooden spoons and knitted pot holders on hooks, Deborah Graham had created a kitchen June Cleaver would have been proud to serve Wally and the Beav in. But the apparent perfection didn’t hold up to scrutiny. Upon closer inspection, a thin layer of yellow grease coated the blue-striped wallpaper, the result of years of deep fried cooking, and the table—when it was bare—bore gashes and dents and was most likely a second-hand acquisition.
"Well, boys, dig in!"
Ms. Graham (there was no Mr. Graham—not in the sense that he didn’t exist, but rather in the sense that he had conveniently chosen to locate himself to a place where he couldn’t be found) exuded false enthusiasm. At least it sounded false. Since every sentence she spoke ended in an upward lilt, no one knew when she was being sincere—if she ever was—and when she was merely being solicitous. Well, there was that smile—a very pretty smile that she always wore. Not a knowing or coy smile, but a polite, Southern belle type of smile, a learned smile, something that isn’t taught anymore, or easily described. A type of smile that, along with her still-slim body, could get men (and boys) into a whole heap-load of trouble.
Truly it was a wonder of genetics how a petite, pretty thing like Debbie Graham had managed to squirt a beast like Hector from her loins. Russell and Pete, in one of their private conversations together, arrived at the conclusion that Debbie must have shrieked in horror when Hector was born. Or, as Pete had put it: "She must have freaked like Geena Davis in The Fly when the doctors handed her that giant maggot." Often, when their conversations roamed around to the Grahams, the subject of Hector’s father would creep up. This topic couldn’t be mentioned around Hector for obvious reasons, but it was one that Pete and Russell took a secret pleasure in discussing behind his back, nonetheless
The instant he sat down, Hector began carving the brisket. He did so with agility and quickness—the sure sign of a seasoned barbequer, or maybe just the Pavlovian response of a hungry fat kid. When he deemed he had cut enough, he stacked his plate with the slices everyone assumed were for them, exchanged the large knife for a smaller one, and began subcutting the stack into bite-sized pieces. The others, meanwhile, continued passing around the side dishes and loading their plates with as much as they could politely get away with.
"Hector," Ms. Graham said docilely, "you really should serve your guests first."
"Why? They’re already serving themselves."
"The meat, dear. Serve them the meat. It’s the main course."
"But—" he began, before giving up with a heavy sigh and slumping of massive shoulders. He scraped the meat from his plate back onto the serving dish and moved it to the center of the table.
“Brisket’s up!” Hector said way too loudly, eyeballing his mother.
Ignoring her son and seeing Mike’s plate, Debbie gasped. "Michael!! Are you really going to eat all that? My Lord, you must have a hollow leg!"
Mike’s eyes darted to Pete’s and Russell’s. Emboldened, he said, "Yes, ma’am. I sure do. My lucky third leg."
Pete kicked O’Brien’s ankle; Russell lifted his napkin to stifle a laugh. Hector shot O’Brien and Russell an icy glare: a warning. Debbie continued to smile absently.
Russell took it upon himself to ease the tension accumulating in the tiny room. "Say, Hec, I don’t know how you do it, but you did it again. This might beat those burgers you grilled last week."
"Yeah," Pete chimed in. "This is great. And everything else is awesome, too, Ms. Graham."
"Thank you, boys. You know how I love to cook. Feel free to take some leftovers when you leave. We won’t be needing all this. Will we, Hector?"
"Naw," Hector mumbled through a crammed mouth.
Under the tabletop, Mike offered a piece of meat to Lola, who happily licked the morsel from his hand. He knew that he shouldn’t be feeding the old hound, that she might choke, but he did it anyway. He had a bulldog at home, and it had sort of become a dinnertime habit. A hint of a grin started on his face as he thought of Huey back at the house, rolling around under the porch."
"What are you smiling at, Mongoloid?"
"Hector!" Debbie said.
“C’mon, Ma. Don’tcha see what he’s doing?"
"He’s just eating his meal, sugar." Then to everybody else: “Would anyone like some more tea?"
"No thanks," Pete answered.
An enthusiastic nod from O’Brien.
"Yeah, sure," Russell added.
Debbie got up and made the short trek to the refrigerator. When she returned and leaned over to fill Russell’s spotted glass, her left breast brushed the side of his right shoulder and a wisp of auburn hair fell loose and grazed his neck. A surge of adrenaline shot down Russell’s body; a clammy chill settled in his arms and legs. This was nothing compared to what Pete was going through. He sat opposite of Russell and was actually getting to see what was going on.
"Sorry, dear," Debbie said, standing up and pulling a long brown strand from Russell’s shoulder. She stepped to the left to fill Mike’s glass and the show was over for Pete.
On her way back to the refrigerator, she asked, "Russell, what was that beautiful piece you were playing earlier?"
"That? That was one of the themes from Romeo and Juliet. The love theme."
"Well, it certainly sounded lovely."
"Thanks, Debbie. Nino Rota composed it. He did a lot of soundtrack stuff back in the sixties and seventies. In fact"—Russell turned to Pete—"he wrote the music for Godfather."
"Cool!" Pete said. "Can you play it?
"Yeah, sure."
"Wait a minute," Hector said, butting in. "I thought Romeo and Juliet was a play. How can it have a soundtrack?"
At that, O’Brien looked up and said, as if to an ignoramus too stupid for abstract thought, "They made a movie of it. They’ve made a whole bunch of movie versions of Romeo and Juliet, but the one Rusty was playin’ the music to came out in the Sixties. Nineteen sixty-eight, I think. It starred Olivia Hussey as Juliet. Am I right?" He turned to Russell, raising his blonde eyebrows inquisitively.
Dumbfounded, Russell, Pete, Hector, and Debbie gawked at Mike. To hear the kid say more than one short sentence at a time was startling enough, but for him to make a statement that was factually sound was downright unnerving. And the entire time they stared at him, Mike O’Brien smiled. Underneath the table, hidden from view, Lola licked his greasy fingers.
Finally, Russell nodded. "Yep. Nineteen sixty-eight."