Chapter 12
At one o'clock, Cory rang the doorbell of Tim Turner's house, surveying the front yard while he waited. What a mess! On the far side, an old '64 Ford F100 was on cement blocks. The paint was still on the truck, sort of, but was scratched and chipped and the roof of the cab was crumpled down. It looked like it wasn't running. The hood was up, and two cables trailed out of the engine and onto the ground. In the driveway, a trashcan was knocked over. The porch where Cory stood had boxes of empty beer cans scattered over it and a faded red couch, much like the one in his grandmother's house back in Utah. This one was against the house and rotting. There was even a lone spring shooting upward out of the seat section. The whole scene was depressing. He rang the doorbell a second time.
"Get the door, boy!" came a rough voice from somewhere inside. A couple of seconds later, the door swung open, a sharp squeal from the hinges.
"Towson. You showed up!"
It was Tim. But he looked different. He was dressed in dirty jeans, barefoot, and had a ripped T-shirt on.
"The match is starting," Tim said loudly as he walked away. "Shut the door behind you, will ya?"
"Get me a beer, boy!"
"Yes, sir," Tim answered. He flashed a sideways glance at Cory and quickly disappeared down the hall. Cory stayed at the front door, afraid to move. The source of the voice was in a room off to his right. He could hear the television blaring with voices shouting. It sounded like some backyard rumble.
"Where's my beer, boy?" came another shout from the side room.
Tim hustled by with a beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other. "Hold on!" Tim shouted over the din of the television. "I'm coming!"
Cory glanced around the front room. The inside of the house looked as messy as the outside. Clothes were thrown about. Food and empty beer and soda cans were sitting or overturned on tables and the floor. The smell of old grease mixed with burnt fish sticks and pizza hung in the air. He imagined the greasy smell clinging to his clothes.
"Towson!" Tim shouted from the television room. "Get in here. The match is startin'."
"Shut up, boy!" came the voice again. "I'm trying to listen."
Cory could not hear if Tim replied, but he followed the voices, wondering what to expect. As he entered, he saw Tim sitting on the edge of a grease-stained couch, his knees bumping a pinewood coffee table, and sipping a soda. On the far side was Tim's father. A massive stomach bulged up out of a dirty white T-shirt as he sprawled in a faded yellow recliner, beer in hand.
Cory moved to a chair next to Tim. He glanced at Tim's father to say hello, but the man never said a word or took his eyes off the television. Tim was quiet, too. Cory thought Tim looked like a younger copy of his dad, without the big belly. Both were staring at the antics of the muscle men on the screen. The wrestlers were threatening each other with big gestures and loud, hard voices. It would have been funny if Cory were more comfortable. But he couldn't relax. And he was afraid to touch anything.
"Wanna soda?" Tim suddenly asked, thrusting a can at Cory, his eyes glued to the television.
"Sure," answered Cory, afraid to refuse. The can felt greasy.
For the next hour and a half, Cory watched the crazy, loud wrestlers. In all that time, Tim's father never said a word to Cory. He only half shouted, half grunted for Tim to get him more beer. Both Tim and his father shouted at the TV during the matches, and Tim drank pop, as much as his father drank beer. But Cory noticed Tim wasn't so tough now. Not like at school. Cory marveled at the difference. Tim actually seemed to cower when his father grunted for a beer. He couldn't help wondering what it would be like to be in Tim's place. The thought made him shudder.
Finally, at 3:30, Cory had to get out of there. No more blaring TV, greasy furniture, sticky carpet, trash, shouting, or beer. Most of all, he couldn't take any more of the smell. Cory called over to Tim that he had to be home at four o'clock, but Tim didn't respond. Cory stood up cautiously, afraid to disturb the two as they shouted and jeered.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Cory said and, again, waited for a response. Suddenly, a loud SMACK! exploded from the television. Three hundred pounds of caped flesh had just flipped a brute in leopard skin tights.
"Aw, man, that was brutal!" shouted Tim.
"Kill 'im, Mad Dog!" belched Tim's father. "Rip his head off!"
"Um," Cory said quickly, before the noise started again. "See you later, Tim."
"Yeah, sure Towson," Tim said, still staring at the television. "We're gonna kick West's butt tomorrow, right?"
"You bet," Cory mumbled, hurrying out of the house.
Without stopping, he grabbed his bike from its resting place against the fence and jumped on. He sped down the street, the wind rushing past him. It felt good. Like it was cleaning away the grime of Tim's house. "Disgusting," Cory shouted into the wind as he coasted a little to catch his breath. "I can't believe Tim lives in a pig pen like that!"
He rode past Longview before he realized it, laughed, and turned on Jaywick Road. He'd gone several blocks and needed to backtrack to get home. It was okay, though. The air was crisp and he felt the soreness from the morning's practice leaving his legs. As the memory of Tim's house faded in the autumn sunshine, Cory began thinking about what Mr. Banks had said.
"He said I was ready," Cory thought, leaning left, then right. The bike zigzagged down Jaywick. He smiled, veering left onto Sholic Avenue to work his way back home. He glided the bike in a lazy arc to the left, then picked up speed, moving south. The next street cutting back east was Mandan. He still needed to get back a few blocks, so he turned. About a block down Mandan, tomorrow's game still on his mind, he saw it.
Ahead on the right, four houses down. Allen's red Corvette. Cory slowed his speed. He wondered if this was Allen's house. His mom might be inside, even now. He decided to ride by quickly, hoping to avoid seeing them. It was strange, though. Cory felt like he had stumbled onto something private, between his mother and Allen, and didn't like the feeling.
Pumping his pedals just before reaching the Corvette, he saw the screen door of the house swing open and out stepped Allen. Allen was half turned, talking to someone behind him. "Crap!" Cory thought. Probably his mother. He slowed his pedaling, feeling more like some spy, and braced for seeing his mom. He stopped and looked at Allen in the door frame. A second figure stepped out, partially hidden by Allen's bulky body. Cory had to admit, Allen was really built. An image flashed through Cory's mind of Allen in leopard skin tights, throwing down a hulking opponent in the ring. He started to smile and then gasped. Stepping around Allen was not his mother. It was Tony Banks!
Both men turned at the same time and saw Cory straddling his bike, out in the street. Everyone froze. Neither Tony Banks nor Allen said a word. They just stared. Cory stared back. Cory felt a hot, white sensation flash through his body. His breath came short. The next moment, he was furiously pedaling down Mandan. The wind whirled in his ears, and confused thoughts blasted his mind. Somewhere behind him, he was aware of his name being called. He ignored it and raced on. He realized his cheeks were wet. As he rode, the wind-pressed drops slid along his cheeks to the back of his jawbone. He sped through several neighborhoods, not paying attention, just riding. Hard riding. Riding to burn the anger. To burn the hurt that clamped on his chest like a vice grip, squeezing till it ached.