* * *
Just for the hell of it, Russell practiced spinning crescent kicks in the driveway while Pete scrounged for his bow in the garage.
"Here it is," Pete called out ten minutes later. "My mom’s always hiding it from me. She thinks I’m going to bring it inside and shoot it off or something."
"Don’t forget the arrows," Russell reminded.
With a mustard-yellow compound bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows in the other, Pete stepped onto the driveway.
One early morning last summer, Pete had brought Russell along to target shoot in the country. There had been a thirty minute lesson beforehand on proper handling of the weapon, safety do’s and don’t’s, and Pete’s favorite: the mechanics of the weapon’s surprisingly simple power. All Russell had taken away from that day, however, were sore shoulders, a few blistered fingertips, and the memory of Pete’s bony arm pulling steadily on the draw.
If he still has that kind of control…Russell thought.
"Who do you think you’re talking to? O’Brien?"
Russell laughed heartily at the easy jab while also noticing the odd look Pete had shot him.
"No. I knew you’d remember," Russell responded casually. "I was just messing with you."
Pete shook his head. "If that was supposed to be a joke, Rusty, it was a bad one. Hey, do you think I could get in some target practice afterwards? After you show me whatever it is you want to show me?"
The familiar peach pit began to spiral a wobbly orbit inside Russell’s stomach. He couldn’t believe they were actually going through with it. Of course, the final choice would be Pete’s to make. Russell could persuade, reason, and trick, but if Pete didn’t want to follow through, then it wouldn’t happen. The idea was to get him into the best mood possible. Then he’d almost certainly do it. But if Pete started wimping out—which was entirely possible—or feeling the familiar pangs of empathy, Russell would have to guilt him into doing it—something he really didn’t want to do.
"We’ll see," Russell answered. "Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this: I’ll back my truck up the driveway, you’ll throw your bow in the back seat, then we’ll—"
"What if my dad comes home and sees that it’s gone?"
Russell sighed. "What if, what if, what if—it’s always what if with you. With all the crap in your garage, he’s never going to notice."
Pete thought it over and said, "You’re right. I guess he won’t."
"That’s better. Now I’ll go get the truck, while you go tell your mom you’re going to Keller’s with me."
"Okay."
When Russell returned with the truck, backing it up the driveway, Pete was right where he had left him. Pete opened the back door, carefully placed the bow and arrows on the floor between the front and back seats, then got into the passenger seat.
"What did you tell her?" Russell asked.
"That we’re going to Keller’s, like you said."
"Good boy."
"Hey, I’m not your stupid dog," Pete said, peeved.
Get him in a good mood, Rusty. Turn on that charm of yours.
Russell chuckled amiably. "I know you’re not Apollo. You’re a lot taller than he is, for one thing—but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s got at least fifty pounds on you."
"Funny," Pete said flatly.
"Teasing, Pete. I’m only teasing. How’s the SAT studying going?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Curious."
Pete cranked the AC up a notch. "Good, I guess. Have you found any more dead ladies at work?"
Russell’s chest caved in. This wasn’t going good at all. "No. I quit today."
"What?!"
"Yeah. Busby’s been riding my ass lately, so I marched in there this morning with both middle fingers waving in the air, yelling, ‘Listen up, motherfucker, I’m sick and tired of doing all your stupid work for you. Fuck you! I quit!’ Then on my way out, I pushed over a shelf, which started all these other shelves falling over…"
Pete twisted toward Russell. "Nuh-uh!"
"Okay, I’m kidding about the yelling part—and the knocking the shelf over part—but I did quit."
"Why?"
Russell shrugged. "It’s complicated. It’s just that there’s been so much going on lately, with the way this summer has turned out and all, that I decided to take a break before school started back up. Besides, I had only planned on working the summer anyway. It’s not like I quit in the middle of June."
"Good," Pete said, watching the world go by. "I never understood why you wanted to work there in the first place. You’re a musician, right? Shouldn’t you focus on that?"
Russell’s soul melted. The peach pit rolling inside his belly stopped spinning and settled low in his gut. "Pete, I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that right now. Seriously, I can’t."
They turned onto Highway 71.
"Sure. No problem," Pete responded uneasily before adding, "Hey, are we really going to Keller’s? If we are, we’re on the right road."
"No, I’m taking you to see something, like I told you. It’s on the way, though. If you want, afterward, we can stop by and see what’s doin’ in that fucked-up discount bin."
"Yeah, maybe."
Cracking a smile, Russell said, "Hey, remember the time I found that baggy of baby teeth?"
Smiling with him, Pete answered, "Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact. That was weird."
"What was weirder was that I bought it. I paid for a bag of fuckin’ teeth, man. Remember how I haggled with old Hansel?"
Pete laughed, recalling that bucolic, early June day. "That was hilarious! Hansel—he wouldn’t let them go for less than a dollar. And you wanted to pay fifty cents."
"They were only baby teeth. What was I gonna do with them?"
"EXACTLY!! I remember! You said the exact same thing to Mr. Keller: ‘They’re only baby teeth. Seems pretty steep for baby teeth. I’ll give you fifty cents.’ I laughed my ass off when you said that." Pete doubled over in his seat, hugging his stomach with his forearms.
With tears streaming down his cheeks, Pete gasped, "And he…and he said…‘It’s a dollar, son. I’m trying to make a living here.’ And then you…you…" From there, he trailed off in tittering, nonsensical consonants. Russell couldn’t help but to join in.
When their giggles died down a bit, Pete went on: "And you said ‘I can’t use them—my head’s too big—but when I have kids, and their teeth start falling out, these might come in handy!’"
And Pete was off again, laughing uncontrollably in a way few people ever got to witness.
You’ve got him going good. He’ll do it now. He has to.
When Pete had settled again, Russell risked asking, "What kind of psychotic person collects their child’s teeth anyway?"
"More to the point," Pete responded, suppressing an errant giggle, "what kind of person sells them?"
"What kind of person buys them?" Russell fired back.
"You," Pete answered. "You’re the type of person."
Russell saw the expansive field opening to their right and slowed the truck. "I did it as a goof, Pete, because I knew that you, Hector, and Mike would get a kick out of me haggling over a bag of baby teeth. You see, there’s a certain irony in bargaining over something so useless. And judging by the color of your face right now, I’d say it was worth it."
Gazing out his window, at the neck-high summer grass, Pete said, "You’re crazy, Rusty. You know that?"
To which Russell responded: "That’s what they tell me."
"Hey, why did we stop?"
"We’re here," Russell said.
"Uh…we’re nowhere," Pete corrected.
Russell stepped out of the truck; Pete did the same. Walking around the hood to Pete’s side, Russell nodded at the cabin and said, "Grab you’re bow and follow me."
"We’re not going in there, are we?" Pete asked, pointing at the thick field. "Do you know how easy it is to get lost in one of tho
se?"
"Relax. We’re not going in there. We’re going to stand in the back of the truck and look in there. But you’ll need your bow—just in case."
"In case of what?"
"Don’t worry about it. Just do as I say and everything will be fine."
While Pete grabbed the bow and quiver from the back seat, Russell lowered the tailgate and climbed onto the bed. A few seconds later, Pete joined him.
Together, they looked out over the tawny sea of wild grass and weed to the scrim of pines beyond. The gentle hills resembled waves so uncannily that Russell had to rub his eyes in order to convince his brain that what he was seeing wasn’t undulating. After a while, they both began to view the unincorporated track of fallow land as a rustling, tan ocean of limited size.
"What am I supposed to be looking for?" Pete asked, peering into the distance.
"Shhhh…" Russell whispered. "Listen."
"For what? I don’t hear anything."
"Shhhhh…" Then: "You hear that? Dogs."
Pete’s face contorted ever so slightly. "Rusty, I don’t know about this. Dogs?"
"Don’t worry. They’re far away. They can’t hurt you. Get one of those arrows ready. I’ll let you know when."
Pete did as he was told and notched an arrow. Then he whispered: "Are they rabid? Is this what you brought me here to see?"
"No. I’m still waiting for that."
"I don’t like this, Rusty."
"I know. But I’ve got a feeling…"
"What? A feeling about what?"
As soon as Pete asked, Russell saw it: the thing he had discovered earlier while he had been looking for the other thing. It was about a quarter of a mile away (distance was difficult to judge with all the waves—grass; it’s just grass—distracting him), moving at a clip through the field. Occasionally, it would stop and change directions—a roving, oblong spot floating atop heavy, pregnant straw.
"You see it?" Russell asked.
Pete squinted at the dot and said, "What is that? A deer?"
Russell didn’t answer his question. "Do you think you can hit it?"
"Not from this far away. I’m out of range."
"Maybe if you lifted it up a little." Russell raised Pete’s bow for him.
"It’s impossible."
"Nothing’s impossible. Shoot it."
"I can’t," Pete said, "It won’t stop moving."
He was right. The dot kept mowing through the stalks—the Energizer Bunny in a fallow Alabama field. They waited a couple of minutes until it finally ground to a halt.
"There. It stopped," Russell whispered. "You can shoot it now. I believe in you."
"A deer? Why would I want to shoot a deer? Is it rabid?"
Russell looked at him. "How the hell should I know? Just shoot it already, before it starts running again.”
"Your vision is better than mine. What is it? Can you tell?"
Russell could tell. He knew exactly what it was.
"No," he lied. "Just shoot it."
The wind died suddenly; the barking grew louder.
"Now’s your chance. The wind’s gone."
Pete raised the bow to a forty-five degree angle and pulled back on the line. Minute adjustments in draw strength and trajectory angle were made as he took one last glance at his target. Then the dot rotated, causing its facial features to pop out in the afternoon sunlight. Pete took in a quick gasp of air.
"Is that O’Brien?!"
Still whispering in Pete’s ear, Russell said, "Don’t worry about it. Just shoot. Let the arrow go where it has to go."
"That is O’Brien!"
But he didn’t lower the bow. He kept it fixed toward the sky.
He’s going to do it! Russell’s brain yelled. He’s really going to shoot him! Stop him! He’ll do anything you say. You’re his only friend.
Russell reached out and, without saying a word, lowered Pete’s bow. He shook his head meaningfully as he did it, and Pete read the gesture in a variety of ways, none of them good. As Pete eased up on the draw, the hot breeze picked back up and made whistling noises across the apertures of his ears. Next to him, Russell’s hair fluttered. They stared past each other, neither one looking at the other. Russell’s mouth hung slack, his eyes gazing at the snaking road beyond Pete’s shoulders. Pete’s lips were pressed together; he stared at the shaded asphalt to the right of Russell’s body.
"I didn’t know it was him, Pete," Russell said at last, turning to look into the field. The dot was gone, as were the barking dogs. "I thought it was a deer."
"Well, it wasn’t," Pete said, almost forlornly. "It was O’Brien. Good thing you stopped me when you did."
He’s lying, Rusty. He knows you tried to trick him. [Tricks are for kids!] He’s only pretending it’s not a big deal, because he almost fired the arrow anyway. He’s just as bad as you are.
"I wouldn’t worry about it," Russell shucked. "You were out of range anyway."
"No, I wasn’t," Pete said. "I could have hit him. I know it."
Russell turned and hopped out of the truck bed. A few seconds later, Pete stepped down from the tailgate.
Removing his keys from his pocket, Russell said over the top of the truck, "You know what, let’s just forget about all of this and get the hell outta here."
Pete placed the bow on the back seat and took the quiver off his shoulder. He placed that on the floor between the front and back seats. Russell was already behind the wheel when Pete responded. "Sounds good to me. But, you know, he really did look like a deer from far away."
"I swear to God, I saw a rabid deer out there half an hour ago. I guess I was wrong—dammit, Pete, don’t look at me like that!"
Pete buckled his seat belt. "Like what? I was just thinking."
"Well, stop. Stop thinking so much."
Russell screeched onto Highway 71, pulled a U-ey, and sped back to Riley. In the silent cab, both pairs of knees trembled, and both pairs of palms grew clammy. Patches of sweat painted the underarms of both shirts, but the sweat wasn’t from the heat: the air conditioner was on high, and they had been outside less than five minutes. Neither spoke on the ride home, and later that evening, neither ate dinner. Both slept poorly that night.
And when the next day came, both could barely remember what they had almost become on the edge of that willowy field. It was as if it had all been a bad dream. A very bad dream.