T.C. Boyle Stories II: Volume II Read online

  She answered the door in an oversized sweatshirt and shorts, barefooted, and with the half-full pitcher from the blender in her hand. She looked surprised, all right, but not pleasantly surprised. In fact, she scowled at him and set the pitcher down on the bookcase before pulling back the door and ushering him in. He didn’t even get the chance to tell her he loved her or to wish her luck before she started in on him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You know I can’t see you tonight, of all nights. What’s with you? Are you drunk? Is that it?”

  What could he say? He stared at the brown gloop in the pitcher for half a beat and then gave her his best simmering droopy-eyed smile and a shrug that radiated down from his shoulders to his hips. “I just wanted to see you. To wish you luck, you know?” He stepped forward to kiss her, but she dodged away from him, snatching up the pitcher full of gloop like a shield. “A kiss for luck?” he said.

  She hesitated. He could see something go in and out of her eyes, the flicker of a worry, competitive anxiety, butterflies, and then she smiled and pecked him a kiss on the lips that tasted of soy and honey and whatever else was in that concoction she drank. “Luck,” she said, “but no excitement.”

  “And no sex,” he said, trying to make a joke of it. “I know.”

  She laughed then, a high girlish tinkle of a laugh that broke the spell. “No sex,” she said. “But I was just going to watch a movie if you want to join me—”

  He found one of the beers he’d left in the refrigerator for just such an emergency as this and settled in beside her on the couch to watch the movie—some inspirational crap about a demi-cripple who wins the hurdle event in the Swedish Special Olympics—but he was hot, he couldn’t help it, and his fingers kept wandering from her shoulder to her breast, from her waist to her inner thigh. At least she kissed him when she pushed him away. “Tomorrow,” she promised, but it was only a promise, and they both knew it. She’d been so devastated after the Houston thing she wouldn’t sleep with him for a week and a half, strung tight as a bow every time he touched her. The memory of it chewed at him, and he sipped his beer moodily. “Bullshit,” he said.

  “Bullshit what?”

  “Bullshit you’ll sleep with me tomorrow. Remember Houston? Remember Zinny Bauer?”

  Her face changed suddenly and she flicked the remote angrily at the screen and the picture went blank. “I think you better go,” she said.

  But he didn’t want to go. She was his girlfriend, wasn’t she? And what good did it do him if she kicked him out every time some chickenshit race came up? Didn’t he matter to her, didn’t he matter at all? “I don’t want to go,” he said.

  She stood, put her hands on her hips, and glared at him. “I have to go to bed now.”

  He didn’t budge. Didn’t move a muscle. “That’s what I mean,” he said, and his face was ugly, he couldn’t help it. “I want to go to bed too.”

  —

  Later, he felt bad about the whole thing. Worse than bad. He didn’t know how it happened exactly, but there was some resentment there, he guessed, and it just snuck up on him—plus he was drunk, if that was any excuse. Which it wasn’t. Anyway, he hadn’t meant to get physical, and by the time she’d stopped fighting him and he got her shorts down he hadn’t even really wanted to go through with it. This wasn’t making love, this wasn’t what he wanted. She just lay there beneath him like she was dead, like some sort of zombie, and it made him sick, so sick he couldn’t even begin to apologize or excuse himself. He felt her eyes on him as he was zipping up, hard eyes, accusatory eyes, eyes like claws, and he had to stagger into the bathroom and cover himself with the noise of both taps and the toilet to keep from breaking down. He’d gone too far. He knew it. He was ashamed of himself, deeply ashamed, and there really wasn’t anything left to say. He just slumped his shoulders and slouched out the door.

  And now here he was, contrite and hungover, mooning around on Ledbetter Beach in the cool hush of 7:00 a.m., waiting with all the rest of the guppies for the race to start. Paula wouldn’t even look at him. Her mouth was set, clamped shut, a tiny little line of nothing beneath her nose, and her eyes looked no farther than her equipment—her spidery ultra-lightweight bike with the triathlon bars and her little skullcap of a helmet and water bottles and what-not. She was wearing a two-piece swimsuit, and she’d already had her number—23—painted on her upper arms and the long burnished muscles of her thighs. He shook out a cigarette and stared off past her, wondering what they used for the numbers: Magic Marker? Greasepaint? Something that wouldn’t come off in the surf anyway—or with all the sweat. He remembered the way she looked in Houston, pounding through the muggy haze in a sheen of sweat, her face sunk in a mask of suffering, her legs and buttocks taut, her breasts flattened to her chest in the grip of the clinging top. He thought about that, watching her from behind the police line as she bent to fool with her bike, not an ounce of fat on her, nothing, not even a stray hair, and he got hard just looking at her.

  But that was short-lived, because he felt bad about last night and knew he’d have to really put himself through the wringer to make it up to her. Plus, just watching the rest of the four hundred and six fleshless masochists parade by with their Gore-Tex T-shirts and Lycra shorts and all the rest of their paraphernalia was enough to make him go cold all over. His stomach felt like a fried egg left out on the counter too long, and his hands shook when he lit the cigarette. He should be in bed, that’s where he should be—enough of this seven o’clock in the morning. They were crazy, these people, purely crazy, getting up at dawn to put themselves through something like this—one mile in the water, thirty-four on the bike, and a ten-mile run to wrap it up, and this was a walk compared to the Ironman. They were all bone and long, lean muscle, like whippet dogs or something, the women indistinguishable from the men, stringy and titless. Except for Paula. She was all right in that department, and that was genetic—she referred to her breasts as her fat reserves. He was wondering if they shrank at all during the race, what with all that stress and water loss, when a woman with big hair and too much makeup asked him for a light.

  She was milling around with maybe a couple hundred other spectators—or sadists, he guessed you’d have to call them—waiting to watch the crazies do their thing. “Thanks,” she breathed, after he’d leaned in close to touch the tip of his smoke to hers. Her eyes were big wet pools, and she was no freak, no bone woman. Her lips were wet too, or maybe it was his imagination. “So,” she said, the voice caught low in her throat, a real smoker’s rasp, “here for the big event?”

  He just nodded.

  There was a pause. They sucked at their cigarettes. A pair of gulls flailed sharply at the air behind them and then settled down to poke through the sand for anything that looked edible. “My name’s Sandra,” she offered, but he wasn’t listening, not really, because it was then that it came to him, his inspiration, his moment of grace and redemption: suddenly he knew how he was going to make it up to Paula. He cut his eyes away from the woman and through the crowd to where Paula bent over her equipment, the take-no-prisoners look ironed into her face. And what does she want more than anything? he asked himself, his excitement so intense he almost spoke the words aloud. What would make her happy, glad to see him, ready to party, celebrate, dance till dawn and let bygones be bygones?

  To win. That was all. To beat Zinny Bauer. And in that moment, even as Paula caught his eye and glowered at him, he had a vision of Zinny Bauer, the Amazing Bone Woman, coming into the final stretch with her legs and arms pumping, in command, no problem, and the bright green cup of Gatorade held out for her by the smiling volunteer in the official volunteer’s cap and T-shirt—yes—and Zinny Bauer refreshing herself, drinking it down in midstride, running on and on until she hit the wall he was already constructing.

  —

  Paula pulled the red bathing cap down over her ears, adjusted her swim goggles and strode across the beach, her heart
beat as slow and steady as a lizard’s. She was focused, as clearheaded and certain as she’d ever been in her life. Nothing mattered now except leaving all the hotshots and loudmouths and macho types behind in the dust—and Zinny Bauer too. There were a couple of pros competing in the men’s division and she had no illusions about beating them, but she was going to teach the rest of them a hard lesson, a lesson about toughness and endurance and will. If anything, what had happened with Jason last night was something she could use, the kind of thing that made her angry, that made her wonder what she’d seen in him in the first place. He didn’t care about her. He didn’t care about anybody. That was what she was thinking when the gun went off and she hit the water with the great thundering herd of them, the image of his bleary apologetic face burning into her brain—date rape, that’s what they called it—and she came out of the surf just behind Zinny Bauer, Jill Eisen, and Tommy Roe, one of the men’s pros.

  All right. Okay. She was on her bike now, through the gate in a flash and driving down the flat wide concourse of Cabrillo Boulevard in perfect rhythm, effortless, as if the blood were flowing through her legs and into the bike itself. Before she’d gone half a mile she knew she was going to catch Zinny Bauer and pass her to ride with the men’s leaders and get off first on the run. It was preordained, she could feel it, feel it pounding in her temples and in the perfect engine of her heart. The anger had settled in her legs now, a bitter, hot-burning fuel. She fed on the air, tucked herself into the handlebars, and flew. If all this time she’d raced for herself, for something uncontainable inside her, now she was racing for Jason, to show him up, to show him what she was, what she really was. There was no excuse for him. None. And she was going to win this event, she was going to beat Zinny Bauer and all those hundreds of soft, winded, undertrained, crowing, chest-thumping jocks too, and she was going to accept her trophy and stride right by him as if he didn’t exist, because she wasn’t soft, she wasn’t, and he was going to find that out once and for all.

  —

  By the time he got back to the beach Jason thought he’d run some sort of race himself. He was breathing hard—got to quit smoking—and his tequila headache was heating up to the point where he was seriously considering ducking into Clubber’s and slamming a shot or two, though it was only half past nine and all the tourists would be there buttering their French toast and would you pass the syrup please and thank you very much. He’d had to go all the way out to Drake’s place and shake him awake to get the Tuinal—one of Drake’s mother’s six thousand and one prescriptions to fight off the withering aches of her seventy-odd years. Tuinal, Nembutal, Dalmane, Darvocet: Jason didn’t care, just so long as there was enough of it. He didn’t do barbiturates anymore—probably hadn’t swallowed a Tooey in ten years—but he remembered the sweet numb glow they gave him and the way they made his legs feel like tree trunks planted deep in the ground.

  The sun had burned off the fog by now, and the day was clear and glittering on the water. They’d started the race at seven-thirty, so that gave him a while yet—the first men would be crossing the finish line in just under three hours, and the women would be coming in at three-ten, three-twelve, something like that. All he needed to do now was finesse himself into the inner sanctum, pick up a stray T-shirt and cap, find the Gatorade and plant himself about two miles from the finish. Of course there was a chance the Amazing Bone Woman wouldn’t take the cup from him, especially if she recognized him from the other night, but he was going to pull his cap down low and hide behind his Ray-Bans and show her a face of devotion. One second, that’s all it would take. A hand coming out of the crowd, the cup beaded with moisture and moving right along beside her so she didn’t even have to break stride—and what was there to think about? She drinks and hits the wall. And if she didn’t go for it the first time, he’d hop in the car and catch her a mile farther on.

  He’d been watching one of the security volunteers stationed outside the trailer that served as a command center. A kid of eighteen maybe, greasy hair, an oversized cross dangling from one ear, a scurf of residual acne. He was a carbon copy of the kids he sold wetsuits and Killer Beeswax to—maybe he was even one of them. Jason reminded himself to tread carefully. He was a businessman, after all, one of the pillars of the downtown community, and somebody might recognize him. But then so what if they did? He was volunteering his time, that was all, a committed citizen doing his civic best to promote tourism and everything else that was right in the world. He ducked under the rope. “Hey, bro,” he said to the kid, extending his hand for the high five—which the kid gave him. “Sorry I’m late. Jeff around?”

  The kid’s face opened up in a big beaming half-witted grin. “Yeah, sure—I think he went up the beach a ways with Everardo and Linda and some of the press people, but I could maybe look if you want—”

  Jeff. It was a safe bet—no crowd of that size, especially one consisting of whippets, bone people and guppies, would be without a Jeff. Jason gave the kid a shrug. “Nah, that’s all right. But hey, where’s the T-shirts and caps at?”

  Then he was in his car, and forget the D.U.I., the big green waxed cup cold between his legs, breaking Tuinal caps and looking for a parking space along the course. He pulled in under a huge Monterey pine that was like its own little city and finished doctoring the Gatorade, stirring the stuff in with his index finger. What would it take to make her legs go numb and wind up a Did Not Finish without arousing suspicion? Two? Three? He didn’t want her to pass out on the spot or take a dive into the bushes or anything, and he didn’t want to hurt her either, not really. But four—four was a nice round number, and that ought to do it. He sucked the finger he’d used as a swizzle stick to see if he could detect the taste, but he couldn’t. He took a tentative sip. Nothing. Gatorade tasted like such shit anyway, who could tell the difference?

  He found a knot of volunteers in their canary-yellow T-shirts and caps and stationed himself a hundred yards up the street from them, the ice rattling as he swirled his little green time bomb around the lip of the cup. The breeze was soft, the sun caught in the crowns of the trees and reaching out to finger the road here and there in long, slim swatches. He’d never tell Paula, of course, no way, but he’d get giddy with her, pop the champagne cork, and let her fill him with all the ecstasy of victory.

  A cheer from the crowd brought him out of his reverie. The first of the men was cranking his way round the long bend in the road, a guy with a beard and wraparound sunglasses—the Finn. He was the one favored to win, or was it the Brit? Jason tucked the cup behind his back and faded into the crowd, which was pretty sparse here, and watched the guy propel himself past, his mouth gaping black, the two holes of his nostrils punched deep into his face, his head bobbing on his neck as if it wasn’t attached right. Another guy appeared round the corner just as the Finn passed by, and then two others came slogging along behind him. Somebody cheered, but it was a pretty feeble affair.

  Jason checked his watch. It would be five minutes or so, and then he could start watching for the Amazing Bone Woman, tireless freak that she was. And did she fuck Klaus, or Olaf, or whoever he was, the night before the big event, or was she like Paula, all focus and negativity and no, no, no? He fingered the cup lightly, reminding himself not to damage or crease it in any way—it had to look pristine, fresh-dipped from the bucket—and he watched the corner at the end of the street till his eyes began to blur from the sheer concentration of it all.

  Two more men passed by, and nobody cheered, not a murmur, but then suddenly a couple of middle-aged women across the street set up a howl, and the crowd chimed in: the first woman, a woman of string and bone with a puffing heaving puppetlike frame, was swinging into the street in distant silhouette. Jason moved forward. He tugged reflexively at the bill of his hat, jammed the rims of the shades back into his eyesockets. And he started to grin, all his teeth on fire, his lips spread wide: Here, take me, drink me, have me!

  As the woman closed, lopi
ng, sweating, elbows flailing and knees pounding, the crowd getting into it now, cheering her, cheering this first of the women in a man’s event, the first Iron-woman of the day, he began to realize that this wasn’t Zinny Bauer at all. Her hair was too long, and her legs and chest were too full—and then he saw the number clearly, No. 23, and looked into Paula’s face. She was fifty yards from him, but he could see the toughness in her eyes and the tight little frozen smile of triumph and superiority. She was winning. She was beating Zinny Bauer and Jill Eisen and all those pathetic jocks laboring up the hills and down the blacktop streets behind her. This was her moment, this was it.

  But then, and he didn’t stop to think about it, he stepped forward, right out on the street where she could see him, and held out the cup. He heard her feet beating at the pavement with a hard merciless slap, saw the icy twist of a smile and the cold, triumphant eyes. And he felt the briefest fleeting touch of her flesh as the cup left his hand.

  (1995)

  Killing Babies

  When I got out of rehab for the second time, there were some legal complications, and the judge—an old jerk who looked like they’d just kicked him out of the Politburo—decided I needed a sponsor. There was a problem with some checks I’d been writing for a while there when all my resources were going up the glass tube, and since I didn’t have a record except for traffic infractions and a juvenile possession when I was fifteen, the court felt inclined to mercy. Was there anybody who could speak up for me, my attorney wondered, anybody financially responsible? Philip, I said, my brother Philip. He’s a doctor.