Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [234]
Suddenly he raised his voice. “Cops. Keep your glass down.”
I quickly lowered my Blue Nun and we drove on, acting cool as the state trooper passed on our left.
By now Scheer was doing the cop’s voice. “I know city slickers when I see ‘em and them thar’s two of the slickest of ‘em all. I’d wager they’re up to no good.”
To all this I responded with laughter, happy to be in league against the world of hypocrites and rulemongers.
When it began to grow dark, Scheer chose a steak house. I was worried it might be too expensive, but he told me, “Dinner’s on me tonight.”
Inside, it was busy, a popular place, the only table open a small one near the bar.
To the waitress Scheer said, “I’ll have a vodka martini, very dry, two olives, and my son here will have a beer.”
The waitress looked at me.
“He got any ID?”
“Not on me,” I said.
“Can’t serve you, then.”
“I was there at his birth. I can vouch for him,” said Scheer.
“Sorry, no ID, no alcohol.”
“Okay, then,” said Scheer. “Changed my mind. I’ll have a vodka martini, very dry, two olives, and a beer chaser.”
Through her tight lips the waitress said, “You gonna let your friend drink that beer I can’t serve it to you.”
“They’re both for me,” Scheer assured her. He deepened his voice a little, opened the tone a little, injecting it with an Eastern or Ivy League authority whose influence did not entirely dissipate even all the way out here in the steak house on the plains. The waitress, resentful, complied.
She walked off and Scheer leaned toward me. He did his hick voice again. “Nothing wrong with that gal that a good poke in the hay barn wouldn’t fix. And you’re just the stud for the job.” He didn’t seem drunk, but this crudeness was new; he was a little less precise in his movements now, his voice louder. “Yeah,” said Scheer, “I think she’s sweet on you. You and Mayella could be happy together.” I was feeling the wine strongly, too, my head like a mirrored ball, flashing lights.
The waitress brought the drinks, setting them demonstratively on Scheer’s side of the table. As soon as she disappeared, he pushed the beer toward me and said, “There you go.”
“Thanks.” I drank the beer in gulps, pushing it back across the table whenever the waitress passed by. It was fun to be sneaking it like this.
But I was not unobserved. A man at the bar was watching me. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, he looked as though he disapproved. But then his face broke into a big, knowing smile. The smile made me uncomfortable and I looked away.
When we came out again, the sky was completely dark. Before leaving, Scheer opened the hatch of the Nova to get Franklin out. The old dog could no longer walk, and Scheer had to lift him bodily out of the car. “Let’s go, Franks,” Scheer said, gruffly affectionate, and with a lit cigarette between his teeth, angled up in a patrician manner not unlike that of Franklin Roosevelt himself, in Gucci loafers and side-vented, gold-hued tweed jacket, his strong polo player’s legs braced under the weight, he carried the aged beast into the weeds.
Before going back to the highway, he stopped at a convenience store to get more beer.
We drove for another hour or so. Scheer consumed many beers; I worked my way through one or two. I was not at all sober and feeling sleepy. I leaned against my door, blearily looking out. A long white car came alongside us. The driver looked at me, smiling, but I was already falling asleep.
Sometime later, Scheer shook me awake. “I’m too wrecked to drive. I’m pulling over.”
I said nothing to this.
“I’m going to find a motel. I’ll get you a room, too. On me.”
I didn’t object.