Red - Jack Ketchum [3]
Stilled by the crash of waves.
TWO
“Knock it off, Roger!”
It was the second time he’d splashed her and the third was the charm. One more time and she’d wade into the pool and drown the little shit.
Teenage boys. Good god.
“Aw, hell, Peg. Come on in. It’s blazin’ hot out there.”
He was right of course. It was hot. And she’d probably rather be anywhere than at this stupid franks-and-burgers lawn party where she was going to get lemonade instead of beer while her mom and dad, their neighbors and so-called friends guzzled the afternoon away. She felt trapped here. Seemed like she always felt trapped these days. And it was hotter than hell inside the hoodie. But she was not taking it off and she was not going into the damn water.
Certainly not at the urgings of Roger Kaltsas, hanging on the edge of the pool next to her dangling long tanned legs with a boner in his eyes.
“I’m fine, Roger, thank you.”
Roger was fourteen to her sixteen, had probably never read a book in his life that wasn’t assigned in class — if then — and had not yet learned the words sotto voce.
“Bitch,” he muttered and kicked off poolside.
“Heard that, asshole,” she said. But by then his ears were probably filled with chlorinated water.
It did feel good on her legs though.
At least her mom and dad weren’t pressing her to go in anymore. It wasn’t that long ago in the scheme of things that she was thirteen and just starting to fill out as her mom said — why the hell were adults so fond of euphemisms? — and Belle had insisted she do so. That one turned out to be a pretty good row. Belle said she shouldn’t be ashamed of becoming a lady. Peggy said she wasn’t ashamed, but her nipples were bigger than her breasts at the moment and she was going to wait until they caught up a bit, is that okay with you?
Her father had sided with her mother at first. But back then, he always came around for Peggy. She could count on it. So that summer and the summer after, no swimming pool. Then at fifteen she was completely ready and quite happy to slip into her black low-cut one-piece spandex.
Now that had changed too.
She wiped a thin line of sweat off her upper lip. Time for that lemonade, she thought.
She pulled her legs out of the water and hoisted herself up. She saw that across the yard beyond Mr. and Mrs. Sims working the hibachi and the grill her mother was walking toward her father, her father smoking a Winston beneath a birch tree, with two beers in her hand, one for herself and one for him.
It wasn’t fair, dammit.
Lemonade.
~ * ~
“Chris?”
“Yeah, babe.”
She handed him the cold Michelob.
“You’re a lifesaver, Belle. You know that? Thanks.”
She could always anticipate him. He knew it gave her pleasure to do so.
He took a long pull on the bottle and watched her tilt back her own. It was her first of the day. She’d have one more with lunch. Belle was reliable and steady as a clock and two was her absolute limit. Two beers or two glasses of wine and no hard liquor at all. While he himself was a scotch man.
On a scorcher like this though, Mich was the ticket.
“Dean wants to talk to you,” she said.
He looked past her to the picnic tables. Dean was sitting alone nursing a Budweiser. His bald head in serious danger of sunburn. He was wearing khakis and suspenders over a white t-shirt and his usual hangdog look. And he was glancing in his direction. And he did look ready to talk.
Christ on a crutch. It was about time.
He smiled at her. “What makes you say that, Belle?”
His tone flustered her, he could see that. But then Belle flustered easy.
“He just…”
“Dean wants to talk to me, he’ll come over and talk. I’ll take a burger when the burgers are ready. Are they ready yet, Belle?”
She took another quick hit on the Michelob. It almost looked involuntary. Like a twitch.
“I don’t…I’ll check.”
“Good. And keep an eye on Darlin’ over there, will you? She’s at that Clapp boy again. She‘s got to cut that out. Am I right or am I right?”
His daughter was all over the poor kid. Danny Clapp was six years old, with two years and maybe six inches