December 1980
Lisa DeGrassi only went to the party because John Lennon was dead, and she was out of wine. Powell County was dry and she couldn’t face the night sober. The party was in a double-wide trailer out in the country, where Stacy’s Pinto rattled over ruts in the dirt road until Lisa thought her teeth would fall out.
Inside, the trailer was decorated like a penthouse: leather couches, glass coffee tables, and chandeliers. A trailer with chandeliers.
Walking into the party, Lisa expected the worst—bad music and people she knew. The Rolling Stones played at high volume, while people danced awkwardly. Stacy had been right about the refreshments on offer, though. There was a bar full of booze, free for the taking, and a coffee table cluttered with bongs and pipes and pills. The kind of party Lisa never went to, because she was always afraid of running into a student’s parents.
“It’s not even in Powell County. It’s in Belton County,” Stacy had said, like that made all the difference in the world. She came from a nearby town even smaller than Powell.
Lisa stood in the middle of the pounding music, downing free drinks, and when someone offered her a lit joint, she accepted. Later, when someone offered her a line of coke to snort, she thought, Who cares if someone sees me? Who fucking cares?
“Oops, watch that sleeve or you’ll make a mess,” said the man who’d cut the line of coke. He leaned over her, catching the loose sleeve of her peasant blouse so she wouldn’t drag it through the fine white dust. Then he said, “You wanna go easy. That’s meth, not coke.”
Lisa hesitated, and instead of snorting the line, she let the rolled bill slip out of her hand onto the coffee table. She stood up, confused, to find the man smiling at her. He was blond and tanned, with bright blue eyes and perfect white teeth. Powell County’s own Bo Duke. Or Belton County’s?
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“No, I don’t go out much.”
“You should.” He slipped his hand inside her sleeve to touch her bare arm. His fingers were warm, tracing hypnotic patterns.
She felt dizzy and nauseated. The bass line thundered in the bottom of her stomach.
“Excuse me, is there—where’s the powder room?”
“Just right on down that hallway, second door on the left.”
“Thank you.”
Lisa was already turning to go, but the man bent over and kissed her hand with a grin. Although she never trusted those kinds of men, there was something tempting about him. A handsome stranger on a lonely night. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Wobbling in her strappy sandals, Lisa worked her way through the party to the bathroom, where she broke down crying again. Mascara dribbled down her cheeks and left gray splotches on her pale blue blouse. She had to stop thinking about John Lennon bleeding to death on the sidewalk. If she’d been in Hartford, she could have taken the train into New York and laid flowers at the Dakota, or gone to the vigil in Central Park. She could have shared her grief, instead of tamping it down in some hillbilly drug dealer’s bathroom. When someone rattled the door, Lisa tore off some toilet paper and cleaned up her mascara as best she could.
After giving up the bathroom to a woman in a fringed cowgirl shirt and a raccoon’s mask of eye makeup, Lisa couldn’t face the party again. She worked her way down the hall, using the wall as support, and ducked into the kitchen.
In the middle of the room, stood a blond woman wearing short shorts and a halter top. She looked like nothing so much as a redneck Marilyn Monroe. In her hands she held a Rubik’s Cube that she was twisting furiously. Not trying to solve it, but scrambling it.
Liam Quinn sat at the kitchen table, taking a drag off a joint. So much for not running into any students’ parents. If anything, he was bigger, uglier, and greasier than he had been the day Lisa met him.
“Okay, okay,” the blonde said. She held out the cube and Mr. Quinn traded her the joint for it. Since he hadn’t seen her yet, Lisa was about to turn around and leave but the blonde caught her by the arm and said, “Have you seen this? You have to see this. It’s crazy.”
The Rubik’s Cube, Lisa assumed.
“My brother has one,” she said. “He had to take it apart and put it back together to solve it.”
“No, no, look. He can totally do it. Look!” The blonde pointed excitedly.
Lisa looked. The first thing that struck her was how ridiculously small the Rubik’s Cube was in Mr. Quinn’s hands. Then she realized he was actually solving the stupid thing. He had two sides done and was gaining on a third. Lisa and the blonde stood in rapt attention as he worked through it.
When he finished, he raised his head and blushed.
“Hey, Miss DeGrassi,” he mumbled.
“Hi.”
“Oh, you guys know each other?” the blonde said.
Lisa still hoped she could escape without being identified, but Mr. Quinn said, “This is Miss DeGrassi. She was Wavy’s teacher in third grade.”
“You can just call me Lisa. Since we’re not in school.”
The blonde giggled and said, “Oh how fun! I’m glad you came. Too bad Wavy’s not here.”
Presented with that horrific idea, Lisa stared at the blonde, trying to figure out if she should know her. There was no way she was Wavy’s mother. All the hair bleach in the world couldn’t bring about that kind of transformation.
“Okay, okay, you try it now,” the blonde said. She took the cube out of Mr. Quinn’s hand and gave it to Lisa.
For a moment, Lisa stared at it, feeling strangely disconnected from her own hands. Was that the marijuana? Because the blonde looked at her expectantly, Lisa turned the cube’s squares into random order. When she had it as mixed up as much as she could, she put it back in Mr. Quinn’s hands. It wasn’t a fluke. He solved the puzzle again in just a few minutes.
“Oh my god,” the blonde said. “I can’t believe how you do that.”
Against her natural instincts, Lisa was impressed, too. She’d spent hours on her brother’s at Thanksgiving and never managed to solve more than one side at a time. Just as she reached for the Rubik’s Cube, wanting to see Mr. Quinn solve it again, she heard the opening bars of “Bungalow Bill.”
A second later she was crying in a stranger’s kitchen.
She turned to leave, but bumped into someone in the doorway. Whoever he was caught her by the arms and said, “Hey, are you okay?”
“I just want to go home. I want to go home,” she said.
Abruptly, “Bungalow Bill” cut out and was replaced by the opening bars of “Another One Bites the Dust” at full volume, for the tenth time that night.
She plunged into the party, tears pouring down her face. If Stacy was there, Lisa couldn’t see her or her zebra-patterned off-the-shoulder blouse. It seemed like everyone had the same tall, frosted hair. Lisa turned a slow circle, scanning the room, until Mr. Quinn touched her elbow and said, “I’ll take you home.”
He held her arm all the way across the gravel drive. Two hours before, the tall strappy sandals had just been silly. Now that Lisa was drunk, high, and crying again, they were dangerous. The car he took her to was boxed in on all sides by other cars. She squeezed the bridge of her nose hard to cut off more tears.
“Damn it. I just want to go home,” she whispered.
“I guess we’re on the bike then.”
He led her out of the maze of cars to a metal garage, where half a dozen motorcycles were parked. Lisa hesitated. She’d ridden on the back of her brother’s cheap little Honda a few times, but this was something else entirely.
“Here.” Mr. Quinn pulled a leather jacket off the back of the bike and held it out for her. “If you really wanna go home, this is it.”
“I do.” She let him help her into the jacket and zip it up to her neck. It was an unexpectedly intimate act from a near stranger, and it hinted at what it might be like putting on a bearskin coat. Heavy, warm, and permeated by a wild, musky smell.
The cold was brutal, but exhilarating, too. She clasped her hands around his waist and curled her fingers against the warmth of his belly, which was only protected from the cold by a thin layer of cotton.
“Where am I taking you?” he said over his shoulder.
“I’m on Grove and Sixth in Powell.”
After that, they rode in silence. Maybe that was typical on a motorcycle, but it unnerved Lisa. She had forgotten about his impenetrable silence. He and his daughter both. Silence and worse was waiting for her at home.
“Can we stop and get a drink or something?” she said, raising her voice to be sure he could hear.
“You haven’t had enough?”
“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. Just take me home.”
“You know, I’m not really Liam Quinn.”
Lisa stared at the white line whizzing by. Was it a joke?
“Who are you if you’re not Liam Quinn?” she shouted into the rushing wind.
“I’m Jesse Joe Kellen. I work for Liam.”
“Wait. What? What does that mean?”
“I do some work for him. I’m not him. You saw him there. He’s the blond guy. Looks like a movie star. Wears them pointy-toed cowboy boots.”
The hand-kisser who’d offered Lisa a line of meth to snort.
“Do you still want another drink? Last one, this side of Powell.” He slowed the bike as a roadside tavern came into view.
“Yes,” Lisa said. There was probably never going to be enough liquor, but she was willing to try.
The bar was the party once removed. The same people, the same music. As they walked in, the bouncer at the door said, “Hey, Junior. I don’t want no trouble tonight.”
“Just here for a drink,” Mr. Quinn said. Not Mr. Quinn. Lisa didn’t know what to call him.
They sat at the bar and drank old-fashioneds that were long on whiskey and short on sugar. She didn’t care as long as they kept her drunk.
“So, Junior? Jesse Joe?”
“You can call me Kellen.”
“Okay, Kellen. Why would you pretend to be Mr. Quinn?” At least it was something to take her mind off John.
“Somebody has to. Not like Liam or Val is gonna go talk to Wavy’s teacher.”
“But why you?”
It was apparently a much larger question than Lisa realized, because he had to empty his drink and order another one before he could answer.
“Because Wavy’s my responsibility. I take care of her. We take care of each other.”
“Even though you’re not related to her?”
He laughed and drained his drink. “We’re friends is all.”
Lisa looked at him more closely, squinting against the pall of smoke that hung in the bar.
“How old are you?”
“I just turned twenty-four,” he said.
She stared at him, feeling stupid. He wasn’t old enough to be Wavy’s father. He was younger than Lisa. How had she mistaken him for an adult?
They drank another round without talking. He gestured for the bartender to keep them coming.
“What got you so upset tonight?” he said when the next drink came.
“John Lennon was killed on Monday. They shot him out in front of his apartment.” Lisa thought she might finally be drunk enough, because for the first time in days, thinking about it didn’t make her want to bawl her head off.
“Who’s that?”
“John Lennon? The Beatles?”
“Oh. Did you know him?”
“No, but—well, sort of. As a fan. I…”
He didn’t get it, and Lisa was too drunk to explain how John had narrated her whole childhood and most of her adulthood so far. No matter where she went, John had gone with her, even to this horrible little town. Now he was dead and she was alone.
“I’m sorry,” Kellen said.
To his left, a guy in a cowboy hat laid a hand on Kellen’s shoulder and said, “Can I squeeze in here for a sec, Cochise?”
Kellen knocked back the rest of his drink, set the glass on the bar, and said, “You know what? Seeing as how you don’t know me, why don’t you just call me sir?”
Until then, Lisa had only considered him a curiosity: some previously undiscovered species of redneck biker Indian. At that moment, there was a menacing quality to the way he said sir, with the whiskey still wet on his lower lip, that also made her consider him a possible solution to one night of loneliness.
The cowboy tipped his hat with a smirk. “Whatever you say, Chief.”
Kellen swung so fast that his fist whiffled the air beside Lisa’s ear. When the blow landed on the cowboy’s face, it was like a bomb going off. People jumped into the fight from all sides. Lisa was too stunned to do anything but put her head down over her drink and cover the back of her head with her hands.
“Goddamn it! Knock it off, you assholes!” somebody yelled, and then from that same corner of the bar came the sound of a pump shotgun being racked. The scuffle came to an immediate halt. When Lisa looked up, she saw half a dozen men clustered around Kellen. They were all bloodied and at their feet lay the cowboy, his hat trampled underfoot. Kellen’s hair was mussed and someone had torn his shirt and popped open half the snaps down the front, revealing a solid-looking gut and a giant tattoo on his chest.
The man with the shotgun waded through the crowd.
“Goddamnit. Junior, what’d I tell you? You gonna get yourself banned again.”
“Sorry, Glen. I was just trying to teach him some manners,” Kellen said, snapping his shirt up.
“Manners, my ass. Get outta here before I call the sheriff.”
“Will do.” Kellen pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and tossed a hundred dollar bill on the bar. He glanced at Lisa and said, “You ready to go?”
“I think so.”
She had never witnessed a bar fight, and she walked out on Kellen’s arm unsure whether she had yet. She hadn’t seen anything beyond the first punch, but she felt sure that was permanently imprinted on her brain. Powell in a snapshot: drunk hillbillies beating the crap out of each other.
When they pulled up in front of Lisa’s house, Kellen turned off the engine. Panic engulfed her. She had not in fact invited him to spend the night, but there he was getting off the motorcycle and reaching to help her down.
“I’m fine from here,” she said.
“Coulda fooled me. You couldn’t walk yourself outta the bar. You’re welcome to try, though.”
She leaned on him all the way to the front porch and, once the door was unlocked, she remembered how empty the house was.
“Do you want to come in? I could make you some coffee.”
“If you don’t mind,” he said, right before she kissed him. With all the whiskey, it was hard to tell where her mouth ended and his began. He pulled back after just a few seconds and said, “We should go inside.”
Of course, he was right. No sense advertising her shame and desperation to the whole town. She stepped backward into the dark entry and he followed.
“Let me go put some coffee on.” Turning toward the kitchen, she nearly wiped out, the floor going crooked under her. He caught her under the arms and brought her upright.
“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll put the coffee on.”
It was ridiculous, but she nodded. He steered her to the couch, and then went into the kitchen. She slumped there, listening to him rattle around in drawers and cupboards. A few minutes later, the smell of coffee wafted out to the living room. He came in from the kitchen, carrying two mugs and handed her one of them. Then he stood there, sipping his coffee, and looked around at the dirty wineglasses, empty bottles, and record albums spread all over the rug. Having him witness the messiness of her grief embarrassed Lisa, and it seemed to bother him, too. He seemed to be thinking about cleaning it up until she set her coffee mug aside and patted the spot on the sofa next to her.
“So, where are you from?” he said as he sat down.
“Connecticut. I went to school there, too. I’d never been west of the Mississippi until I took this job. How long have you lived in Powell?”
“Forever. I was born six blocks north of here. Just across from the grain elevators.”
“No offense, but I hate this town.”
His only answer was a shrug.
“There’s nothing to do. Nobody I have anything in common with. Stacy, the girl I came to the party with, we’re only friends because everybody else our age is already married with kids. And everybody knows everybody’s business. I can’t even go on a date without everybody knowing about it.”
Kellen leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table. Lisa scooted closer, so that when he sat back, their arms brushed together. She turned her head up to him as a hint, but he didn’t kiss her.
“Would you take some advice if I give it to you?” he said. Now that she knew how old he was, his tone of voice rankled. More paternal than he had any right to act. “You need to figure out how to live here or you need to get the hell out. I was you, I’d leave. Go on back to Connecticut.”
KELLEN
Miss DeGrassi asked me to stay the night, but I could see how she’d regret it as quick as she sobered up, and I’d likely regret it sooner than that. After I left her place, I shoulda gone home, as much as I’d had to drink. I shoulda taken my own advice, and got the hell outta Powell.
Except for Wavy. She kept me there. More than that. She kept me tethered, not just to Powell, but to being alive. In the whole world, she was the only person who cared whether I lived or died. If there was anybody who remembered tonight, it was her.
When I pulled into the drive at the farmhouse, there was a light on in the kitchen. I hoped it wasn’t Val, because I didn’t need that kinda grief. I was doing the best I could for Wavy, and Val always treated me like garbage.
I walked through the door, not sure what I was gonna find, but there sat Wavy reading a book. On the table in front of her was a chocolate cake with candles stuck in it.
“You made me a cake,” I said.
She put a finger up to her lips, so I reckoned Val and Donal must be asleep. I didn’t even know what time it was. While I took off my coat and pulled out a chair to sit, Wavy went to get the box of matches off the stove.
On the way back to the table, she stopped at the chair I’d put my jacket over. Leaning down ’til her nose was almost touching the collar, she took a long whiff of it. I started to laugh, until I figured out what she was doing. Wavy wasn’t sniffing my coat because it smelled like me. It musta smelled like Miss DeGrassi.
“I been down to Liam’s party,” I said.
She nodded and climbed up in the chair across from me. After she lit the candles, I let them burn for a while, just to look at them reflected in Wavy’s eyes. When the wax started to run down to the cake I blew out the candles in one big go.
The knife was there to cut the cake, but neither of us reached for it.
“You wanna know what I wished for?”
“Won’t come true if you say,” she said in this husky voice.
“I don’t believe that. Lean across here and I’ll whisper it to you.”
She got up on her knees in the chair and put her hands on the table to lean across. I put my hands on either side of the cake and met her half way. I put my mouth up to her ear, like I was gonna whisper something, but all I did was blow a big puff of air into her hair like it was more candles. She ducked her head down against my chest and started laughing, so I kissed the only part of her I could reach: the top of her head.
“It already came true. You remembered my birthday,” I said. “And I got cake.”