Nine Inches Page 8

  •••

  THE LONGER Gus contemplated the album cover, the more puzzled he became. There must have been some kind of reasonable explanation for how it migrated from his TV room to Lonny’s garage, but for the life of him, Gus couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  One thing was certain: there was no way Lonny had purchased his own copy of Bouquet. From the beginning, he had mocked Gus’s fuddy-duddy taste in “elevator music” with every bit as much disdain as Gus’s own children had. No, Lonny must have borrowed the Percy Faith album at some point in the misty past, but when? And why? And even if he had — which in itself seemed pretty unlikely — why hadn’t he returned it? Why was it sitting out on a table in the garage, along with a bunch of country-and-western records?

  While he pondered these questions, Gus tipped the album cover, letting the record come sliding partway out of its sleeve, as if the grooved black vinyl might offer some helpful clues. But something else fell out as he did so, a Polaroid that landed faceup on the table, an image so utterly unexpected that Gus barked a harsh chuckle of amazement at the sight of it.

  In the photo, Martha had been surprised in the act of clipping a pink rose from a bush in their backyard. She looked radiant, but this effect wasn’t a product of youth (she appeared to be around fifty in the picture) or beauty (though she’d aged well, Martha had never been the kind of woman a stranger would have described as “pretty”) but of surprise itself. Her eyes were bright with pleasure and her mouth was slightly open. Gus could almost hear her saying Hey! in a playfully scolding tone.

  You could see the chain-link fence in front of her and Gus’s toolshed in the back, which meant that the picture had to have been taken from the Simmonses’ backyard. Gus’s hands trembled as he turned the photo over. What he saw on the flip side was somehow even harder to fathom than what was on front: a simple invitation in his wife’s graceful Catholic-school cursive, the same handwriting he saw when she sent him to the store to buy broccoli, flank steak, Grape-Nuts, Lysol.

  Gimpy, she had written. Will you dance with me?

  He studied the photograph for a long time, absorbing the unpleasant truth in his wife’s joyfully startled expression. Once again his mind was forced back fifteen years, to that tense, awkward summer when Martha had lost her job and Lonny had undergone surgery for a torn ligament. It was humiliating to think that the betrayal was already under way on those nights when Gus had bared his soul in the garage, but even more awful, in a way, to think that it wasn’t, that “Gimpy” had made overtures to Martha only after learning of Gus’s inability to perform in the bedroom.

  But if that was when it started, when had it ended?

  They must have broken it off at some point before the oak-tree dispute, he thought, because Martha had stood by his side through the whole ordeal. If anything, she’d seemed angrier at the Simmonses than he had. The memory of Lonny’s death was still fresh in Gus’s mind, and he had no recollection of Martha’s reacting like a heartbroken lover. She’d been shocked and saddened by the news of their neighbor’s passing, but not excessively, and no more than Gus had. They had decided, as a couple, not to attend the wake and had instead written a polite note of condolence to Peggy. It was Gus — not Martha — who had woken up on the morning of the funeral overcome by feelings of guilt and sadness. At breakfast he told her they really should go to the cemetery to pay their respects.

  “It’s the least we can do,” he said. “He was our friend for a long time.”

  “You go ahead,” she told him. “I just don’t feel like I’m welcome there.”

  Gus considered making an appearance on his own, but in the end he stayed away, haunted all day by the feeling that he was in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing. He burst into tears twice, once in the shower, and again at CVS, while waiting for a prescription to be filled. Martha, on the other hand, seemed strangely composed, as if it were a day like any other. Gus had felt almost relieved that evening, stepping into the house after his ritual two-mile walk around the high school track, to find her sobbing like a lost child at the kitchen table, a half-peeled potato in her hand. He tried to embrace her and tell her it was okay, but she asked him not to touch her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Please just leave me alone.”

  THE RAIN was coming down full force now, battering the garage from all sides, as if someone were spraying a fire hose against the walls and dropping bucketloads of gravel on the roof. He’d been so distracted by the Polaroid that he’d forgotten all about the kiddie pool, which was still lying outside the garage, awaiting inflation. He opened the door, startled by the force of the storm, and began hauling it in, flapping the plastic to drain the rainwater that had puddled on its surface. It seemed amazing to him now — amazing and pathetic — that all he’d wanted from this night was to fill the damn thing with air while no one was looking.

  He folded the liner as carefully as if it were a flag, then laid it back in its box, thinking as he did so that what really got to him wasn’t that he’d been cheated on by his wife — that could happen to anyone. What really bothered him was that he could have spent so much time on earth — he was sixty-eight years old, for God’s sake — and understood almost nothing about his own life and the lives of the people he was closest to. It was as if he were still a child, a little boy sitting at the big table, listening to the grown-ups talk in their loud voices, laughing whenever they did, without having the vaguest idea of what was supposed to be so funny.

  Well, at least now he knew the right questions to ask. All he had to do was go home and wait for Martha to wake up and come downstairs. He could show her the picture and demand that she tell him everything, the whole sorry history of her deception. But the thought of doing that just then — of leaving the garage and trudging back across Lonny’s yard in the pouring rain to have a conversation that was going to break his heart — suddenly seemed impossible, way beyond his strength. It was close to five in the morning, and he was just too tired.

  Instead of going home, he turned off the light and climbed into the sofa bed. The mattress was thin and lumpy, but it felt good to be off his feet. He didn’t mind that this was the bed on which Lonny had died, the bed his wife had shared with another man. Right now, it was just a place to rest. He drew the sheet up to his chin, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.

  Everything would have been fine if it weren’t for the oak tree rustling and scraping overhead, groaning as though in pain. A few times Gus thought he heard a distinct cracking sound, as if one of the big limbs were splitting off from the trunk, about to come crashing down through the roof. He pulled the sheet all the way over his head and began humming to drown out the noise. It wasn’t a song, just a random succession of notes — hum dee dum dee dee dee do — and he couldn’t help wondering if Lonny had done something similar near the end of his own life, on those nights he’d spent in the garage. Because he was an old man, and he was scared. Because he was alone out here, and no one was coming to comfort him.

  NINE INCHES

  ETHAN DIDN’T WANT TO GO TO THE MIDDLE SCHOOL dance, but the vice principal twisted his arm. He said it was like jury duty: the system only made sense if everybody stepped up and nobody got special treatment. Besides, he added, you might as well do it now, get it over with before the new baby comes and things get even crazier.

  Ethan saw the logic in this, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty about leaving the house on Friday evening with the dishes unwashed and Fiona just getting started on her nightly meltdown — apparently her busy-toddler day wasn’t complete unless she spent an hour or two shrieking her head off before bedtime. Donna smiled coldly at him from the couch, as if he’d volunteered to be a chaperone out of spite, just to make her life that much more difficult.

  “Don’t worry about us,” she called out as he buttoned his coat. “We’ll be fine.”

  She had to speak in a louder-than-normal voice to make herself heard over Fiona, who was standing in the middle of the
living room in yellow Dr. Denton’s, her fists balled and her face smeared with a familiar glaze of snot, tears, and unquenchable fury.

  “No, Daddy!” she bellowed. “You stay home!”

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan said, not quite sure if he was apologizing to his wife or his child. “I tried to get out of it.”

  Donna scoffed, as if this were a likely story. She was usually a more understanding person, but this pregnancy wasn’t bringing out the best in her. Only five months along, she had already begun groaning like a martyr every time she hoisted herself out of a chair or bent down to tie her shoe. She was also sweating a lot, and her face had taken on a permanent pink flush, as if she were embarrassed by her entire life. Ethan couldn’t say he was looking forward to the next several months. Or the next several years, for that matter.

  “Love you guys,” he said, inching toward the door.

  HIS SPIRITS lifted as he got into his car. It was a crisp March night with a faraway whiff of spring sweetening the breeze, and he couldn’t help noticing what a relief it was to be out of the house, going somewhere — anywhere — in the dark on a weekend. He just wished his destination could have been a little more exciting.

  When Ethan first got hired at the Daniel Webster Middle School, teachers weren’t expected to babysit the kids at social functions. But that was back in a more innocent time, before the notorious Jamaican Beach Party of 2009, a high school dance that degenerated into a drunken brawl/gropefest and scandalized the entire community. Six kids were arrested for fighting, three for misdemeanor sexual assault, and two for pot; eight more were hospitalized for alcohol poisoning. Cell-phone videos of some shockingly dirty dancing made their way onto the Internet, causing severe embarrassment for several senior girls-gone-wild who had stripped down to bikinis during the festivities and become the focus of unwanted attention from a rowdy group of varsity lacrosse and hockey players. Dances were canceled for an entire year, then reinstated under a host of strict new rules, including one that required the presence of faculty chaperones, who would presumably impose the kind of professional discipline that had been lacking in the past.

  Ethan thought the new rules made sense for high school, where the kids were old enough and resourceful enough to get into real trouble, but it felt like overkill to extend it to the middle school, one more burden added to a job that already didn’t pay nearly enough, though he knew better than to complain to anyone who wasn’t a teacher. He was sick and tired of people reminding him that he got summers off and should therefore consider himself lucky.

  Yeah, he didn’t have to teach in July and August, but so what? It wasn’t like he got to while away eight weeks at the beach or lounge in a hammock by the lake. He didn’t even get to sit home reading fat biographies of the founding fathers or take his kid to the playground. He was a thirty-two-year-old man with a master’s degree in history, and he still spent his summer vacations the same way he had when he was sixteen — standing behind the counter of his father’s auto parts store, ringing up wiper blades and air filters to make a little extra cash.

  •••

  FOR THE second time in less than twelve hours, he parked in the faculty lot and made the familiar trudge around the side of the building to the main entrance, where a crowd of boisterous seventh- and eighth-graders had already begun to gather; there was no such thing as being fashionably late to a dance that went from seven to nine-thirty. Ethan was popular with the kids — he was, he knew, widely considered to be one of the cool teachers — and a number of them shouted out his name as he passed: Mr. Weller! Hey, it’s Mr. Weller! Oddly gratified by the recognition, he acknowledged his fans with a quick wave as he approached the double doors, onto one of which someone had taped a single sheet of red paper, its message printed in big black letters: THIS IS HOW WE PARTY.

  The main hallway was deserted, faintly ominous despite — or maybe because of — the Mylar balloons taped to classroom doorknobs and the festive hand-lettered signs posted on the walls to mark the big occasion: DREAM BIG! THE SKY’S THE LIMIT!! PREPARE TO MEET YOUR FUTURE!!! Ethan was a little puzzled by these phrases — they seemed off-message for a dance, more like motivational slogans than manifestos of fun — but he wasn’t all that surprised. The kids at Daniel Webster were products of their time and place, dogged little achievers who were already taking SAT prep courses and padding their résumés for college. Apparently they were ambitious even when they danced.

  As far as he knew, the other chaperones on duty were Rudy Battista and Sam Spillman, so he wasn’t sure what to make of it when he spied Charlotte Murray checking her reflection in the glass of a vending machine outside the cafeteria. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, looking unusually pleased to see him. Her expression changed as he got closer, her mouth stretching into a comical grimace of despair.

  “Help,” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck as if he were a long-lost relative. “I’m trapped at an eighth-grade dance!”

  Charlotte was an art teacher, a bit of a Bohemian, one of the more interesting women on the faculty. Ethan patted her cautiously on the upper arm, struck by how pretty her reddish-gold hair looked against the green of her sweater. There was a nice clean smell coming off her, a humid aura of shampoo and something faintly lemony.

  “I’m filling in for Sam,” she explained upon releasing him. “His father’s back in the hospital.”

  Ethan nodded solemnly, trying to show the proper respect for his colleague’s ailing parent. Secretly, though, he was delighted. Sam was a social black hole, the kind of guy who could buttonhole you in the teachers’ lounge and kill your whole free period telling you about the problem he was having with his dishwasher. Trading him for Charlotte was a major upgrade.

  “It’s your lucky day,” she said, as if reading his mind.

  “No kidding.”

  They smiled at each other, but Ethan couldn’t help noticing a slight awkwardness in the air. He and Charlotte had been good friends during his first year at Daniel Webster. He was single back then, always up for a movie or a drink, and she was separated from her husband. For a little while there — this was five years ago, ancient history — they seemed on the verge of maybe getting involved, but it didn’t happen. She went back to Rob, he met Donna, and their lives headed off on separate tracks. These days they only saw each other at school and limited their conversation to polite small talk.

  “So how are you?” she asked.

  “Okay.” Ethan pronounced the word with more emphasis than it usually received. He was suddenly conscious of his thinning hair, the weight he’d put on since knee surgery had ended his pickup-basketball career. He was three years younger than Charlotte, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from looking at them. “You know, not bad. How about you?”

  “Great,” she replied, making a face that undercut the word. In the past year or so, she’d taken to wearing oval, black-framed eyeglasses that made her look like a college professor in a Van Halen video. “Nothing too exciting. How’s your little girl?”

  “Adorable. When she’s not screaming.”

  Charlotte took this as a joke; Ethan didn’t bother to correct her.

  “And you’re having another?”

  “Yeah, figured we should do it now, before we get used to sleeping through the night.”

  She said she was happy for him, but he could see it took some effort. Kids were a sore spot in her marriage. She wanted to start a family, but her husband — he was a struggling scrap-metal sculptor, deeply devoted to his art — refused to even consider the possibility. This had been the cause of their separation, and nothing seemed to have changed since they’d gotten back together.

  They were saved from this tricky subject by the arrival of Rudy Battista, barely recognizable in khakis, a brown turtleneck, and a checkered blazer, a far cry from the crinkly nylon sweatsuits he wore to teach gym every day.

  “Look at you,” Charlotte called out. “Got a date?”

  Rudy adjusted his lapels, his face shinin
g with health and good humor. “It’s a special occasion. I believe it calls for a certain elegance.”

  “I wish you’d told me that an hour ago,” Charlotte complained, but Ethan thought she looked just fine in her simple skirt-and-sweater combo, the black tights and ankle-high boots adding a slightly funky touch to the ensemble. He was the slacker of the group in his relaxed-fit jeans and suede Pumas. At least his shirt had buttons.

  “I brought you guys a present.” Rudy reached into his pocket and produced two identical strips of soft yellow measuring tape, the kind favored by tailors. He handed one to each of his colleagues. “Exactly nine inches long.”

  “Are you serious?” Ethan asked. The vice principal had briefed him on the Nine-Inch Rule a couple of days ago — it stipulated that students had to keep their bodies at least that far apart while dancing — but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing that was meant to be taken literally. “We’re actually supposed to measure?”

  “Just during the slow songs,” Rudy explained. “The kids think it’s funny.”

  Charlotte shot a skeptical glance at Ethan, who shrugged and stuffed the measuring tape into his pocket. She pulled her own piece taut in front of her face and pondered it for a couple of seconds.

  “If that’s nine inches,” she said, “someone’s got some explaining to do.”

  •••

  ETHAN SPENT the first half hour of the dance manning the table outside the cafeteria, taking tickets, checking IDs, and crossing names off a master list, while a uniformed cop hulked in the doorway behind him, scrutinizing the kids for signs of drug or alcohol abuse. Lieutenant Ritchie was an older guy — he had to be pushing sixty — with a brushy white mustache and none of the mellowness you might have expected from a small-town cop coasting toward retirement. He introduced himself as a special departmental liaison to the school board, appointed to oversee security at dances and sporting events. He said the position had been created specially for him.