In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [67]
“And Les, are you a classmate of Rick’s?”
“No, sir. I go to Tammany.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and added, “It’s an okay school, small enough to give the kids lots of time with the teachers.”
What in the hell was she talking about? She hated Tammany, called it a pissy little place. The father nodded, pleased with her mature evaluation. He offered her another sandwich, which she demurely declined.
The chat continued between Les and the parents as though they were country club pals. I couldn’t believe it. Not a word was said about the inappropriateness of the hour or why we found it necessary to throw rocks at their son’s window. They beamed their pride upon him and seemed to miraculously approve of us, and what I realize now is that they were both stone drunk.
I felt like I had that night beneath the blinding lights of the football field—as though I had stumbled into another dimension. When it became clear to us that we were not going to entice Rick into the streets, we wiped our fingers on the little napkins, said our thanks and were ushered to the door by Rick’s father, who waved to us as we darted down the alley. “You girls come back and visit us again anytime,” he called, his words echoing off the darkened houses.
We found our way back home and had just crawled through my bedroom window when we heard the sound of my mother’s footsteps at the stairs. By the time she eased open the door, we were buried to our necks in blankets, working with all our might to breathe in sleeplike fashion. I felt her gaze cover us, and then she was gone.
I wasn’t sure what I would do about the mud clinging to our shoes, smearing the sheets, but the near miss sent us into spasms of laughter. We hadn’t gotten what we wanted from Rick—something more daring than canapés with his parents—but there was nothing we couldn’t get away with. There would be other nights, and when we parted the next day we grinned with our secret and the promise of adventures ahead.
I think we craved destruction. Even with the awareness I have now of repression and its common, reactionary results, I’m not altogether sure what drove us to challenge our place in family, church and community. Rebellion is natural enough, as is the desire to establish independence, a sense of individuality. But that does not explain for me why my cousin and I embarked on such a dangerous journey. We drank ourselves into stupors—barely thirteen and wise to the ways of Annie Green Springs and Mad Dog 20/20. We craved nicotine with the earnestness of our fathers. One night my mother caught me in bed, puffing the last inch of an old Marlboro. Before she could switch on the light, I foolishly cupped the cigarette and stuck my hand beneath the covers. When she threw back the blankets and pried open my fingers, the fire had burned a black pit in my palm. “Well, Kim,” she said, looking at me with disgust. “Is it that bad?”
Yes, I thought, it’s that bad, and wallowed in the truth of it. I floated through my school days on bad marijuana highs, taking my paddlings with the nonchalance of a full-grown boy whenever the principal found me smoking in the bathroom. And even though I was whipped and grounded for my actions, I did not stop.
Les and I believed that as long as we had each other, we could endure—certainly we told each other so. Then one night when Les was spending the weekend we took too great a risk. We had a friend call, say she was baby-sitting and sick, and ask if we could take her place.
My mother smelled a rat. “Why doesn’t she just call the parents?” She eyed us skeptically, sounding our depths for truth.
“She tried. She can’t reach them. She’s throwing up and everything. The baby keeps waking up and crying and she’s too sick to rock him.”
I’d pushed the right button. My mother could endure a number of things, but the thought of a baby squalling pathetically in its lonely crib was enough to sway her judgment.
She dropped us off at the house, where