Into the Sun Read online

  You did all the work today. You took out most of them.

  Thanks, man.

  Silently, they met up with the others outside the junkyard. Willard said nothing as he got in his car.

  Justin had inherited his father’s Lincoln, and as he and Clay sat cooling themselves in the air conditioning, a sense of wariness grew in him the more he thought about how Clay seemed to plan every action. Maybe everything he did was premeditated.

  To break the silence, he made himself speak. That was real, he said.

  Clay barely smiled, his eyes inscrutable, almost contemptuous.

  Summer came. Clay explained that his job was at the docks, unloading bags of rice. Justin asked his father if he could work there too, but his father refused.

  You’re humping hundred-pound bags of rice all day. That’s for people who have nothing else.

  His father was finishing up his fried eggs, about to leave for work. He put his napkin on the table.

  I’m impressed Clay has lasted. I knew a few men who came back from the docks with sprained hands and missing fingernails. I’d find something else for him, but nothing will pay as well. That’s the thing about that place. No one will work there for minimum wage.

  After the one week of vacation his father allotted him, Justin started at his company, checking orders or washing the delivery vehicles. His duties changed depending on which regulars had days off, and he cycled through their jobs. His father told him youth was a time to try everything and build a wide skillset, but Justin envied Clay the hard labor.

  During weekday lunches, his father expounded on the importance of democracy for peace, how capitalism made people equal and allowed them to participate fully in society, and how the free market regulated itself, creating opportunity and rewarding ambition.

  When Justin saw Clay, he repeated all this, Clay nodding, saying little, only, Go on.

  That September, Justin played football and saw less of Clay, but on a long weekend in the fall, his father took them hunting. After waiting hours in the forest, they all aimed at a buck. His father shot, then Justin, then Clay. The buck fell, and Justin’s father insisted on doing a ritual for a first kill that he’d done with Justin a year before.

  Maybe you’ve killed up north, his father told Clay, but this is your first kill in the South.

  As he moved his finger over Clay’s cheekbones, Clay appeared absent, barely interested.

  They finished dressing the carcass, carried it to camp, and hung it from a tree before going out again. Justin’s father shot the next deer, and in the twilight, he walked out along the logging road to get the rental pickup. Clay and Justin waited with their kills, the moon new and the pine forest dark.

  I could just stay out here, Clay said. Imagine that. Or imagine living on an island. There are uninhabited islands off the coast of America. They have everything you need to survive.

  The gentleness in Clay’s words surprised Justin, and he liked the idea of living in a pristine world too. The long, smooth stones of the forest floor shone in the diffuse glow of the stars. Absent the contrivances of man, divine presence seemed to permeate the earth.

  Justin repeated the words of his pastor: Man chases the mystery of life and light. To his mind, only the first is real, yet he must turn toward the light.

  Clay slowly cleared his throat — a faint rale.

  It’s still life. You have to get food. He paused briefly before continuing in a hushed voice. And war won’t go away. We came out here knowing we were going to go home with a buck or empty-handed. But imagine if the question is whether you go home alive. Can you really become a man before you know what it’s like to be hunted?

  The perception made Justin uncomfortable. It indicated that Clay saw and thought far more than he shared — like those moments when his eyes divested themselves of restraint and dug into the people around him.

  A week later, before a football game, Justin was walking the edge of the field, searching the bleachers for his parents. Clay was there. He never came to games. Melody sat next to him, her head down. As Justin ran up, she stood quickly and walked away, tears glowing on her cheeks in the radiance of the floodlights.

  Is everything okay? Justin asked.

  Clay shrugged. Nah. I made the mistake of sleeping with her.

  Justin didn’t know what to say. Boys never considered sex a mistake, though his pastor railed against it, and in health class, his teacher had talked about pregnancy and diseases. At the end of the bleachers, Melody joined a few girls, who huddled close.

  Maybe I should try out for the team, Clay said. My old school didn’t have football.

  They were midway through the junior-year season, and Justin had never heard of anyone picking up football during senior year.

  I have to get geared up before Coach sees me, Justin said, and ran down the bleachers.

  He didn’t play much that night. From the bench, he occasionally squinted through the floodlights to where Clay hunched, elbows on his knees, like one of those older men who showed up during games or practices and sat alone in the bleachers.

  The next morning, in homeroom, Clay wasn’t there, nor the day after. Justin was doing his homework when the doorbell rang. He went downstairs, but his father had already answered. Clay’s mother stood on the porch in a black dress shirt with short sleeves.

  I know Clay likes hanging out with your son, she said, but please tell him I miss him.

  Clay’s not here. His father turned to where Justin stood on the stairs. Is Clay here?

  For the next two weeks, at home and school, speculation about Clay’s disappearance dominated conversation. Police spoke to students. They met with Justin. He recounted Clay’s words about the threat of kidnapping from his father, and about Melody. Students gossiped that she’d had an abortion, that Clay had run away because she was pregnant. Justin pictured him living in the wild, at peace with nature.

  Over dinner, his parents talked about Clay’s mother — they’d learned from Justin months before that she wasn’t his sister.

  She can’t pay rent, his father said. Clay was supporting them. She’s daft. It’s like she’s thirteen. But her boy went missing. It doesn’t sit well with me to put her out.

  So what are you thinking?

  It crossed my mind, he said, his voice oddly tentative, that we could use a maid.

  A maid?

  A cleaning woman. She’s very tidy. And she cooks. You’ve smelled her cooking. It would take the pressure off you.

  What pressure? I’m not sure I want another woman in my home.

  Well, think about it. It would be charity. We’d be doing her a kindness.

  Leaves withered and fell. Pecans plummeted, striking the metal roof of the carriage house with a sound like gunshots. Justin rarely saw Clay’s mother, never spoke with her other than to say hello the few times they passed in the driveway. New Year’s came, then spring. Milk cartons were printed with Clay’s yearbook photo, nothing innocent about his face.

  After school, Justin went to the carriage house and knocked. The smell of spices came from inside. The dwindling sun shone against the screen, barely revealing the spreading lines of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, her breasts inside a black tank top. The inside of her elbow uncreased as she pushed open the door.

  Bangs fringed her forehead, and there was a faint worried bite line on her bottom lip. Her skin was tight over narrow shoulders.

  I’m Justin, Clay’s friend. I wanted to ask how you’re doing.

  The color of her irises made him think of granite.

  Have you heard from him?

  No, ma’am.

  Please don’t call me ma’am. I’m still young.

  He apologized. Yes, you are.

  Would you like to come in?

  She backed away, and he put his fingers on the coarse screen. The dividing
wall of shelves was packed with books, the floors scrubbed, the bed made, no cobwebs on the ceiling.

  She offered him orange juice and invited him to sit on the couch, and then brought him a glass, one hand lightly supporting the bottom in a strangely formal way. His fingers brushed against hers as he took it. She sat, the threadbare fibers of her jeans parting on the white skin of her knees. A Celtic mesh tattoo circled her wrist, with some illegible script below.

  Are you worried about Clay? he asked.

  No. I knew his father would take him. There are things you can’t fight. Clay’s grown up. I’m thinking about me. Imagine you were only thirty and could start over. What would you do?

  Justin tried to hide his surprise, and she sighed, the corners of her mouth dropping.

  I’m not old. I’ve had a lot of cavities, but I could begin a whole new life. I love to read. Every book is full of lives, and I’m waiting to find one that helps me know what I should do.

  She spoke the way characters did in children’s books, as if everything were possible.

  I had my palm read, she told him. I found an ad in a magazine. For five dollars, I photocopied my palm and mailed it in.

  What did it say?

  That I’ll live many lives. That I’m more logical than creative. A lot of things that have nothing to do with me. So I got a book on palm reading. Can I try to read yours?

  Sure. His voice came out softly. His church judged things like this as Satanic. She took his hand and moved her fingertip over its lines. Instantly, he had an erection. He leaned forward, positioning his elbow on his crotch. She had short, unpainted nails and kept tracing the line from his wrist to the pad of his index finger.

  I guess I have to look at that book again. She rolled his fingers closed, holding his hand in hers. It’s nice to talk. If you ever want to, please come over. It matters that you’re Clay’s friend.

  She drew her fingers from his hand.

  Justin turned on the couch, careful to stand facing away from her, and pushed his penis up so his T-shirt hid it, its head just above his beltline, like a mouse peeking out from a pocket.

  At the door, she kissed his cheek.

  Thank you, she said.

  You’re welcome, he mumbled. Squinting into the slanting light, he crossed the yard and ran for the laundry hamper.

  In gritty army memoirs and films, sexual adventure was part of a man’s coming of age — prostitutes or crazy girlfriends, unrestrained lovemaking and heartbreak. Though the pastor called sex the devil’s snare, a lot of the seniors had lost their virginity. Justin’s father once said Justin hadn’t needed many rules because he had an innate moral compass, but he was simply wary of shame. In books, men lost themselves with violence and whores, but the genuine love of a woman had the opposite effect. Clay’s mother belonged in a soldier’s memoir, already used up. If she was really thirty, she’d had Clay when she was thirteen.

  His parents discussed her a few more times. His father no longer charged her rent, and finally his mother relented. Justin heard her speaking with Clay’s mother downstairs.

  What’s your name again?

  Elle.

  Hello, Elle. I’m Karen.

  The two of them sat at the table, his mother laying out the daily schedule. She must have been torn between wanting to supervise a stranger and not wanting to feel awkward as Elle cleaned. The second impulse won out. Elle would work until his mother got home.

  The first afternoon Justin came back from school and was alone with her, he asked about her name. He’d seen it on the cover of a magazine in the convenience store.

  It’s French. It just means her.

  I take Spanish. It’s sort of similar.

  She didn’t pause from scrubbing the wall behind the stove, but later, she lingered at a bookshelf and asked him which books he’d read.

  Those aren’t mine. Mine are in my room. I’ll show them to you.

  He let her go upstairs first, watching the movement of her hips. At his shelf, she traced her finger along the spines, but he still couldn’t make out the script inside her Celtic mesh.

  It’s all military, she said.

  Yeah. There’s history in there too. He considered adding that Clay had read a lot of the books, but he was trying to think of her as Elle, not as Clay’s mother. He talked about the misunderstood purpose of the American armed forces abroad, how it prevented a power vacuum that would be occupied by illegitimate forces. He said active service should be a duty for all men, and the way she looked at him — seeming to admire his passion — made him feel like a man, except that he blushed.

  Two weeks later, on the last day of school, Justin found a note in his locker — cursive handwriting faintly imprinted in pencil — from Andrea, a cheerleader in the grade below. Ur cute and nice. Wanna come over some time? She left her number. He went to throw it away but hesitated, conscious of summer’s emptiness spreading out before him.

  His father gave him the usual week off before starting work, and Justin read Atlas Shrugged and Ideas Have Consequences. While Elle cleaned, he described the books to her. She occasionally cooked for them now, food they ate only after she’d left.

  That evening, he lay on his bed with Barry Goldwater’s The Conscience of a Conservative. He could find no right or wrong in his desire. He’d soon be a senior and couldn’t wait any longer. He struggled to focus and, later, to sleep. He woke impatient for his parents to leave.

  Elle answered the door in a faded floral skirt, her white T-shirt stretched from having been slept in and her nipples showing through, as if she were used to him seeing her naked.

  Do you need anything? she asked, glancing at the house, and he told her he’d been wondering how she was.

  I’m fine, she said, and invited him to sit. He brought up palm reading, but she said she’d decided it was useless. She lifted her hand and put it against his cheek.

  How long are you planning on staying? he whispered.

  Until Clay comes back. Then maybe I’ll go to college.

  I guess I should leave.

  He stood and hurried out. In his desk drawer, he found the scrap of paper and dialed.

  Andrea?

  Justin!

  He made small talk for a few minutes, and by the end of the conversation she’d invited him over. He put on his rollerblades and skated to her house.

  She was petite, strawberry blonde, and they were in her room listening to music when he asked if her hair was her natural color. She said yes. He touched it, and she brushed his with her fingertips and said, How about you? Then she kissed him.

  Every thirty minutes or so they lost a piece of clothing. By the afternoon, they were in their underwear, their stomachs gurgling. Have you ever slept with anyone? she asked, breathing hard, patches of flushed skin on her breasts and belly. He admitted he hadn’t. She seemed to waver and then said she hadn’t either. I guess I’m not ready yet.

  I am if it’s the right person.

  That’s sweet, she said, and they kissed for another hour as she rubbed his penis through his underwear. Then she told him her parents would be home soon.

  Tomorrow? she called behind him.

  Yeah, he said, turning on his rollerblades, his balls aching.

  In his driveway, he unlaced his rollerblades and went to Elle’s door in his socks. His parents wouldn’t be back for an hour. He knocked, and after a moment she answered in her bathrobe. She must have just come in from cleaning his house.

  Are you okay? she asked. He searched for words, bothered that his feelings were so obvious. She held his wrist, drew him inside, and took the rollerblades off his shoulder. She put her hands on his biceps. Her mouth tasted sweet, of oranges, like marmalade.

  She led him to the bed. The venetians were lowered, and the way she took off her bathrobe seemed the difference between a girl and a woman. There was a tattoo of
flames he’d never noticed before on her thigh. She undressed him, kissing his body, knelt in front of him, and looked up. She asked if this was his first time. He nodded, afraid he might cry, but her lips were on him, and he came. He was still hard, and she got a condom from a drawer. She lay back and slid him inside her, and he followed the rhythm of her hands on his hips.

  Across the yard, the garage door began to rumble.

  She rolled onto her belly, propping herself on her elbows, and pulled his wrist so that he was close. She put his hand on her chest, her body so small his palm held both of her breasts.

  Go slow, she told him and rubbed her cheek against his. It was a long time before he came, her fingers in his hair, his face against her throat.

  They lay side by side, the sounds in his house surprisingly loud, the closing of a door, voices in the kitchen, the yammering of the TV. Outside, cars glided along the street. A squirrel rummaged in the gutter and scrambled over the metal roof.

  I should go, he said. He raised the bathroom sash and slipped out. The dark was shrill with crickets, the air cool at last. He crossed the yard to the street, put on his rollerblades, and skated to the lake. The fishermen were there. He stopped, suddenly exhausted.

  When he got home, he apologized to his parents for missing dinner. He ate leftovers — an Indian chicken curry with orange chutney she’d made — and climbed the stairs like a man returning from an expedition. He collapsed into bed and pulled up the covers.

  Halfway through summer, he lost count of how many times they’d slept together. They rarely talked. She said it felt good to be with a man after so long, and confessed that cleaning his house was her first job. He avoided any conversation that might lead to her past, and he didn’t ask about the tattoos that had once fascinated him. He never answered Andrea’s messages. He worked until mid-August, took a week off, and began his senior year.

  The Tuesday the airliners flew into the World Trade Center, students gathered before the TVs in their homerooms. They cried or prayed. Some said this was the beginning of the Rapture, a sign of the End Times. When he got home, Elle was in the kitchen. Water pattered into the sink from the faucet, the elements ticking on the stove, heating up. She called his name as he ran upstairs, ignoring her. He knelt by his bed and prayed. The hinges on his door creaked.