TUESDAY'S CHILD

AuthorHouse

Contents

HEADLIGHTS OFF, HELMETS OFF.....................5THE TAMING OF BUCK WINSTED......................27FRIDAY NIGHT SOCIAL.............................43WARNER'S LAKE...................................59"SHOOT ME"......................................75LA LUNA.........................................93DIVA............................................101

Chapter One

"BUZ," "Buz!"

"I'm in the bathroom"

"You get your ass down here right now or this mut goes to the pound."

"Awright, awright, only how come he gets to pee before I do?

"Take a scarf, son, it's that cold again." His mother's voice was flat.

"How do you stand 'im, Ma?"

"Dunno, maybe it's the uniform."

Buz took a quick gulp of juice and grabbed a slice of bacon out of the stove pan, burning his fingers.

"Eat later" he said, jacket half on.

The door slammed behind them. Turk came alive in the slap of cold wind, bounding ahead, zig-zagging from scent to scent, his pointer body sleek in its element. Buz hunched down into the collar of his jacket, one hand bringing it up closer around his ears. No scarf. He walked fast past neighboring houses, obliquely aware of shades being pulled a little aside, even at that early hour. "It's barely light, for Chrissake!"

They headed toward the State Road, a magnet, drawn by its wide, endless anonymity. Turk leaped forward, snuffing through leaves just off the shoulder, his chain collar making dull clanking sounds in the scrub, snorts of hot breath coming from his nostrils.

Do you miss him, Turk? miss Rick and the bike, running with them? God, he was good, keeping that big mother slowed down just like he wanted, Turk running alongside, never gunning it, never scaring him, never veering the front wheel. You could tell it was revved up to bust out. Rick had that control. Great! Not like Pa, yell control, that's what he's got, yelling at everyone, army style. "You turkey!" How Turk got his name. Still, every Memorial Day, when the town lays its red and white wreath with the black leaves on the war memorial, "TO OUR FALLEN BOYS," Pa's the only veteran whose uniform still fits. Gotta give him that!

Where's your name, Rick, my fallen boy? Where did you go when you fell? Turk went to me. Scooter took your helmet, the strap's on his bike, your bike got scrapped. Where's your name on the State Road, chiselled in? Should be.

They headed home. Ma had breakfast ready. "You're going to be late again, Buz." He grabbed two pieces of toast and all the bacon. Way out the door he tossed a strip to Turk, got yelled at, forgot his scarf again.

Scooter lived four blocks away with short-cuts. That was wrong, too. More shades pulled aside. His Dad would hear about him jumping fences and flower beds, squeezing through carefully trimmed hedges, breaking them, couldn't help it.

Scooter, waiting in the driveway, fell into stride with Buz. A hand-slap, no talk. After awhile Buz said "Know what day this is?"

"Course I do." Scooter slammed a clenched fist onto a telephone pole, then fell silent, waiting for reality to dissolve, go back one year, just the few seconds it would take for things somehow to unhappen. They walked several blocks without talking.

"Thought I'd take the bike up tonight. Sort of tell Rick I'm thinking about him."

"Just you?"

"Dunno. Maybe see if Jim and Pete want to go."

"I could ride behind you."

"If your dad let's you get out."

Yeh, chances are I'm grounded. Someone will tell him they saw me trespassing again, breaking up their goddam hedges. Hear about that at dinner, "They're your neighbors, too, Buz, You've got to respect that. They have a right to the privacy of their property." "Yessir!" Last time Buz feigned a salute he got whacked on the ear. "You wild turkey. I'll show you respect." Whacked again.

Rick was what parents wanted a son to be. Dads who didn't trust their own kids trusted Rick. Anyhow that's how come Scooter got a bike, because Rick had one, Scooter's good friend, Rick. And Buz would have gotten one. His Dad even said so, soon as Buz earned enough to make the first payment, mowing lawns, and chores and stuff, his Dad would pay the rest. Rick died before that, and that ended it. Now nobody trusted their kids. All over town there'd been meetings, at school, at the State Troopers' Headquarters where the scout meetings were held, at church, support groups, parents supporting each other. Against their own kids! Buz pictured them, a parade of feeble old people holding onto each other, with wide fear in their eyes, and a bunch of kids standing around sucking lollipops. Guess Pa is right, guess I don't have respect, whatever that is. Whatever they teach you in the army.

"Pete had the same idea." Scooter said, way home after school. "Jim's not sure he can make it. Says his aunt's supposed to come over after dinner, bug him again about college. Doesn't think he can leave.

"We could make it real late, just get out."

"Maybe have to."

Buz knew Jim's aunt, lived alone, no kids of her own. Like his Uncle Everett, his Dad's brother. Said "I'll pay your second year of college, Buz, provided you get a B average in your first year. Shouldn't be too hard for a bright boy like you." And, that's always the clinker, "provided you put your bike money toward college." A hold-up. Buz' Dad would pay his first year, he said so. Way of keeping me from even thinking about getting a bike. Must of gotten together on that one, the two brothers.

The Four Horsemen, Rick, Scooter, Pete and Jim. That's what people called them, not particularly knowing what it meant, just the name. Buz wanted more than anything to be part of that. He would help Rick with his bike, polish it, groom it like a race-horse, scrape the mud off the tire rims, even put blankets over it. Buz would be a fifth horseman if there was such a thing. "Fifth wheel" Pete would say.

Rick said "There are eight wheels, so Buz would be nine and ten." Rick had that way.

Ma made dinner early. Buz' Dad was working on his annual report as treasurer of the Kinghts of Columbus, due the end of the year. "How was school, today, Buz?" he asked at dinner, then, not waiting for an answer, would have been non-commital anyway, he began a lecture on responsibility, the importance of his position as treasurer of the Kights of Columbus. "Trust," was his word, "It's a trust, Buz," "got to give it plenty of time and concentration" "not wait 'til the last minute like you do with your homework." "how mistakes are made." "Can't make mistakes when people put their trust in you." "Think about what you are doing" "Don't put things off, then have to rush." "How mistakes are made." "Are you listening, Buz?" Dinner talk was always for Buz' benefit. "What's for dinner, Ma?" "Correction and respect, Son." "Aw, we had that last night." "Will you have another helping, son?" Lecture leftovers!

After dinner Buz' Dad took his coffee into the den where papers were neatly spread out on a card-table, paper-clips, red pencil, a ruler and several open file boxes attesting to the seriousness of the endeavor. Buz helped his mother clear the table, rescuing the scraps for Turk. "Thought I'd go over to Scooter's awhile, Ma. Just sort of talk about Rick."

"I know how you feel, Son, you and Scooter. I called Dottie today, she wasn't holding up too well. Rick's dad didn't want to put her on. She'll call me in the morning I...