Crying Wolf

10

Saul Medeiros had an auto body place called Saul’s Collision on the outskirts of Fitchville. An auto body place, not a high-tech store: because of that, Freedy left the HDTV in the van-that rusted-out VW van of his mother’s, with the stupid flowers painted on the front-and went into the office.

An old son of a bitch with hairs growing on the top of his nose-no shit-sat behind a greasy desk, and a woman in a quilted parka stood on the other side.

“Will it be as good as new?” she was saying.

“Oh, sure,” the old guy told her, rubbing his chin, unshaven for three or four days. “Hunnert percent.”

“That’s a relief,” she said, leaning over the desk and signing some paper; the old guy’s eyes followed the movements of the pen. “I know it’s crazy, but I’m really attached to that car.”

“Yeah,” said the old guy, “it’s crazy.”

She left. Freedy lounged against the doorpost, cool. The old guy lit a cigarette, looked him over, dropped the match on the floor. It came down to who was going to talk first, although Freedy didn’t know why. He talked first.

“You Saul?” he said.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Says Saul on the sign on the roof.”

No answer. The old guy folded his stubby arms over his gut.

“Freedy’s asking,” said Freedy. “Me.”

The old guy nodded. “Ronnie mentioned you. My nephew, up the valley.”

“Right.”

“What d’ya think of him?”

“Who?”

“Ronnie. My nephew up the valley.”

“What I think of him? You know, he’s just… he’s Ronnie, right? We played football.”

“How was he?”

“Huh?”

“Ronnie. At football. Any good?”

“You know Ronnie. He’s a pussy.”

Saul Medeiros smiled; his teeth were the color of nicotine. “And you? Were you any good?”

“I was a fucking leg breaker, Mr. Medeiros.”

“Attaboy,” said Saul Medeiros. He took a deep drag from his cigarette. “What’s the story with this girl Cheryl Ann?”

“Huh?”

“You and Ronnie and this piece of ass, Cheryl Ann.”

“That was a long time ago, Mr. Medeiros. How do you even know about it?”

“One of those family legends. All families have them. Maybe it’s kind of a legend in your family too.”

“It’s not.”

“No? Don’t think I know your family, comes to that. Know a lot of families in the valley, but not yours.”

“We’re not really from the valley. I am, like. Born here. But my mom came from out of state, back in the sixties.”

“And your old man?”

“Fucked off.”

“He from here?”

“Don’t know where he was from. He was just some hippie, with one of those hippie names.”

“Like what?”

“Walrus. They called him Walrus.”

“Googoogajoob,” said Saul Medeiros.

Freedy, suspecting that Saul Medeiros had lapsed into Portagee, remained silent.

“Lot of hippies came here back then,” Saul Medeiros said.

“Must have been a fucked-up time.”

“Hell, no. Never got laid so much in my life.”

That surprised Freedy. Then came another surprise: a mental picture of this toad with the hair on his nose putting it to his mother. “What was your nickname back then?” he asked.

“Some people don’t get nicknames,” Saul Medeiros said. He stubbed out his cigarette. “That it, then?”

“What?”

“Just getting acquainted, or you got something for me?”

“The second one.”

“Thought so. Let’s go out back.”

Saul Medeiros offered him seventy bucks for the HDTV.

“What’s this,” said Freedy, “the Comedy Channel?” A good line, real quick, real cool, showing that California polish.

“Seventy bucks,” said Saul Medeiros. “Take it or leave it.”

Just what Ronnie had told him, probably where Ronnie had got it from. Freedy decided right then he didn’t like negotiating with the Medeiroses, didn’t like negotiating at all, when it came down to it. For a second or two there, he’d had enough, enough of negotiating, which always meant somebody-like the spics at A-1-cutting a piece out of him. Come to think of it, what was the difference between a spic and a Portagee? Not much, which had to be a brilliant observation, made him feel better and forget all about the speedy little movie that had just flashed through his mind, a movie that ended with Saul Medeiros on the floor. No matter what, bottom line, he himself was no spic or Portagee. He was… whatever the hell he was, kind of depended, it suddenly occurred to him, on who his father actually was. What the fuck: he could be any goddamned thing.

“In a coma or just thinking it over?” said Saul Medeiros.

“Another good one, Saul. I like a sense of humor.”

Saul checked his watch.

“Know what these things cost new?” Freedy said.

Saul shook his head. “Means nothing. Like with a car. Drive one off the lot, it’s worth half. What you pay for that new-car smell.”

“I don’t think it’s half.”

“Don’t tell me. I’m in the business.” He lit another cigarette. “But I’m a soft touch,” he continued behind a cloud of smoke, “so I’ll tell you what. Think you can get more?”

“More what?”

“Stuff.”

“Sure.”

“You got some kind of contact?”

“Trade secret, Saul.”

“Very smart. Thing is, if you’re in a position to get more stuff, then maybe we could build us a working relationship. You follow?”

“Yeah. A working relationship. I can get stuff. Don’t you worry about my end.”

“Good. Then what I’m going to do, an investment in goodwill like they say on Wall Street, is give you ninety for the goddamn TV.”

Freedy smiled. Didn’t actually smile on the outside, much too sharp for that, or if he did he wiped it off his face real quick, but, hey-here he was not just negotiating but negotiating the shit out of an operator like Saul Medeiros.

“Appreciate your sentiments, Saul. Sincerely. But you know what sounds better than ninety?”

Saul smiled that nicotine smile. “Some round number, Freedy?”

Freedy smiled back, on the outside this time. He himself had great teeth. “You got it.”

Which was how Freedy squeezed a C-note out of Saul Medeiros. He really was an amazing person.

On the way home, meaning on the way back from Fitchville to his mother’s place in the flats, all that talk about Cheryl Ann gave Freedy an idea. Cheryl Ann hadn’t made the cheerleading squad-lost by two or three votes, as Freedy remembered-and even then had been kind of chubby, and maybe a little annoying with that loud laugh of hers, showing the fleshy thing that hangs down at the back of the mouth and all, but none of that was important about her. What was important about her was that she’d meet him behind the field house after practice sometimes-and that she must still be around. The fact was that Cheryl Ann remained the only girl who’d given him a blow job; meaning by that a complete one and for free. And she’d still be around, for sure: Freedy’d done some growing up by now-hadn’t he carved out a place for himself across the country? — and knew that a girl like Cheryl Ann would never go anywhere.

Cheryl Ann didn’t live in the flats. Her place was actually on College Hill, on the dark side but still almost halfway up. What was her father? Plumber? Septic guy? Something like that, enough to put them on the Hill. Freedy drove past the Glass Onion, the last of the boarded-up buildings at the bottom, turned onto her street; no need to even think where he was going, not like LA. He parked in front of her house.

Only it was gone. And so were the houses around it, replaced by a huge rounded thing, all glass and smooth red-brown concrete. Freedy drove to the end of the block and checked the street signs. He was in the right spot; everything else was wrong.

Freedy got out of the VW van, walked up to the main entrance, read the bronze plaque: The Avner K. and Rita M. Budnoy Multicultural Studies Center. What was this? Some college shit where Cheryl Ann’s house used to be? Since when was the college on this side of the Hill? He crossed the snowy lawn to the first normal house and knocked on the door. An old bag answered.

“Lookin’ for Cheryl Ann,” Freedy said.

“You don’t mean Cheryl Ann Crane?”

“Why not?”

The old bag gave him a long look. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Nope.”

“But you’re looking for Cheryl Ann Crane?”

“Yup.”

She waved her hand at the new building. “Long gone. The Cranes sold out to the college, as anyone can plainly see.”

“Long gone where?”

“Florida. What with the money they got paid they set themselves up in Florida. Why couldn’t the college have planned that place just a tich bigger is what I want to know.”

“And Cheryl Ann, she went too?”

“She surely did. Climate must of agreed with her. Hadn’t been there more than three months but she married a doctor. One of those Cubans, but still, a doctor.”

“Cheryl Ann married a doctor?”

“They sent me a picture from the wedding. One of those real dark Cubans, but a doctor.”

“With that fat butt, she married a doctor?”

“Some men can’t resist a fat butt-don’t you know that by now?”

Freedy went home. Not home, but to his mother’s. On the way he sniffed up the last of his crystal meth. Tweak. Zing. Snow started falling, or maybe not.

This was all temporary. What he needed to do was put together one of those nest eggs, and then… start a business, say. Since pools were what he knew, why not a pool business? Had to be in a warm climate, not California, too superficial, like everyone said. Warm climate, not California: Florida! And would it hurt to look up Cheryl Ann while he was at it?

The kitchen was a mess: muffin tins everywhere, jars of ingredients with the tops off all over the counters, milk and eggs that should have been put back in the fridge left wherever she’d happened to put them down. He dug a muffin out of a tin, took a bite, threw the rest in the trash. Didn’t even taste like food.

Freedy stood over the trash, having smelled a familiar smell. He saw the stubbed-out end of a joint in a discarded tuna can. That meant she was in her bedroom, having one of her naps. Get fucked up, take a nap-part of her life cycle.

Freedy heard the mail falling through the slot, went to get it. Electric bill, phone bill, coupons, something about hunger in Guatemala, and a letter addressed to his mother. He held it up to the light, rubbed it between his thumb and index finger, thought he felt a little crinkling. Made him curious, like Curious Whoever-he-was, some monkey she’d always been reading to him about when she wasn’t painting nightmares on his walls. He was curious and she was napping-how the goddamn hippies lost the world.

Freedy had heard about steaming open envelopes but never actually tried. How hard could it be? He plugged in the kettle, always handy for tea-there were dozens of different teas on the shelves, chamomile, lemongrass, raspberry, banana, pick-me-up teas, relax-me teas, teas for thinking, teas for feeling, teas for wiping out cancer. Steam came boiling out of the kettle. Freedy held the envelope over the spout.

Nothing to it. The flap loosened all by itself, and Freedy peeked in the envelope, saw a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it: no writing on the paper, but C-notes inside. Two of them. Suddenly it was a C-note kind of day: had to be a good omen.

Two C-notes in an envelope and nothing else. Couldn’t be her welfare or her disability or whatever the hell it was: the government didn’t send cash. Some muffin buyer? With no statement, no name? Some pot thing? But drugs weren’t dealt like that. There was an exchange, this for that, at the same time. Still, with her, maybe a pot thing. What else could it be?

Freedy heard her in the hall. Before the kitchen door opened, he had the money resealed and on the counter with the rest of the mail. Moving at the speed of crystal meth.

“Hi, Freedy,” she said, yawning and scratching under her tit. “I had the most amazing dream.”

Freedy kept his mouth shut; he never wanted to hear another one of her dreams.

“What are you up to?” she said after a little silence.

“Just making tea.”

“You are?”

“Want some?”

“Why, sure, Freedy, that’s very thoughtful of you.” She sat down. “The mango-ginkgo would be nice-that orange box.”

Freedy had never made tea before, but how hard could it be? He opened the box, took out a handful of teabags, dropped a few into each cup, poured in the boiling water.

They sat at the table, drinking tea. “My goodness, Freedy,” she said after the first sip. “You’ve got a knack.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She smiled at him. “It’s nice having you home, Freedy.”

“Yeah.”

“Any idea how long you’re-any idea what your plans are?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. But it’s too early to say, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, Freedy. I know that one very well.” She turned her shadow eyes on him. “We have something in common after all.”

The fuck we do. “This, uh, father thing,” Freedy said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Walrus.”

“Walrus?”

“Wasn’t that what he was called? My father, I’m talking about.”

“I beg you not to raise your voice, Freedy. You know I can’t deal with violence of any kind.”

“I’d just like a few facts about him, is all. I’m not a Portagee or something, am I?”

“Please, Freedy, no discrimination.”

“But am I?”

“No. You come from bland ethnic stock, just like me.”

Freedy missed that one. “What was his real name, for starters?”

“Real name,” she said. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Like on the goddamn birth certificate.”

She leaned closer to him; he could smell the pot smoke trapped in all her hair. “I’ve told you before, Freedy. It was a one-time thing. Very special, of course, but one-time. He was a stranger, really, passing through. In a mental sense, more than physical. Try not to judge me too harshly. The times were different then, and the person that was me…” Her eyes focused on something distant. He heard music coming faintly from her bedroom: Cat Stevens, or some other artist of the first water, whatever that meant.

He finished her sentence for her: “No longer fucking exists.”

Later he thought of examining the envelope the money had come in, maybe checking the postmark or whatever that thing was called. By that time the kitchen was cleaned up, sort of, and the envelope gone.

Peter Abrahams

Crying Wolf