twenty-one

“I can’t believe it,” Eddie Loa said, shaking his head. “What a weekend you had.”

Charlie nodded. “Thank Benevolent Creator it’s over.”

“Are you guys sure you’re up to this?” Eddie waved his hand toward the Evil Head. “I got a new crop of boils on my neck this morning, but I’m willing to wait them out if you need some time to recover.”

“That’s all right. My dad’s home now and we’re going to visit him later,” Verity said. A thoughtful look entered her eyes and she said, “You know, I made it through my fifteenth class reunion. I turned thirty-four years old. I’d like to banish a little evil now, if I can.”

Charlie fastened his yellow silk robe and arranged the herbs around him.

Verity said, “I liked that stuff you were waving around at my dad’s. Are you going to use any of that tonight?”

“No, that was rosemary. It means ‘remembrance’ in the parlance of herbs. I strung it up in Victory’s bedroom—I mean, the room your dad is going to remodel.”

Rosemary is for remembrance, for Victory’s remembrance. Verity liked that. She also liked the way he shoved phrases like “the parlance of herbs” into casual conversation.

“Nice urn,” Eddie said.

“Thanks,” Verity replied. “Once I dumped out Mother’s ashes, I thought it might make a nice receptacle to hold the dried plant stuff Charlie’s going to use in the exorcism tonight.”

Charlie said, “Balm of Gilead—for cure and relief. Bearded Crepis—protection. Calycanthus—benevolence. Just leave the urn on a table or something as long as you live here, and you’re good to go.”

One of the Loa cousins asked Verity, “You dumped out your mother’s burial ashes?”

She said, “It’s a long story.”

He looked at the other cousin in awe. “She’s cool.”

         

The group drove down to the lakefront at Oak Street, that stretch of beach with easy access to the piers and breakwaters. Between the five of them, they lugged the Evil Head out of Suzanne’s hatchback, wrapped it in a sheet, and trudged down to the beach. They had to stop every minute to regain their breath and shake out their aching biceps. Four hundred pounds of evil took its toll on five pairs of arms that had never lifted dumbbells. When they finally reached the end of the closest breakwater, they set the Evil Head on the ground and clasped their hands at Charlie’s urging.

He began. “I’d like to start with a speech. Ahem. Gods of fire and . . . what is it? Gods of something . . . hmm, I can’t remember this. Oh wait, it’s on my crib notes. Hang on a sec.” He struggled to read the page in the darkening twilight. His perspiring palms did not help clarify the print.

“What speech is this?” asked Eddie.

“It’s from one of the all-time great movies with a shaman role, The Conqueror.”

Eddie laughed. “The Conqueror? With John Wayne as Genghis Khan? That’s one of the worst movies ever made.”

Verity said, “I read about that movie. Didn’t a bunch of the cast members eventually die of cancer? Like seven or eight of them?”

Eddie nodded in enthusiasm. “Yeah! The film was shot on a site where A-bomb testing had been conducted, which was hushed up for years. If you could only hear the Duke utter the lines, ‘Dance! Dance for me, Tartar woman!’ in that twangy western accent. It’s the most unintentionally hilarious—”

Charlie said, “I’m trying to conduct an exorcism here.”

The group apologized.

“Oh hell, I can’t read this thing. I sweated all over my speech.” He crumpled it up and shoved it into his robe pocket. “Let me improvise. Hand me the blade bone.”

Eddie obeyed, withdrawing the slimy thing from the giant Ziploc bag in his chain-mail satchel. “You want the head, too? Because I brought it.”

“The head? Who told you to bring the head? We don’t need it. I never asked for the sheep’s head.”

“Well, now what am I gonna do with it? I don’t want it and I’m not lugging it all the way back to the car. Plus it stinks.”

“Oh, fine, just throw it into the water then. It doesn’t matter.”

“This doesn’t sound very scientific,” Verity complained. Eddie threw the sheep’s head off the pier. It floated for a few moments, then sank, whereby interested crappies moved in for a better look.

Charlie took the blade bone from Eddie, bonked the Evil Head with it, then dropped it into the chop of Lake Michigan. “Head, Head, Evil Head, I’m so glad the Head is dead. Now let’s toss this bastard in and go home.”

The five of them threw the Evil Head into the lake. Only a couple feet deep at the end of the pier, the water clearly showed its ghostly face peering up at them through the murk.

“That’s it?” asked one of the cousins.

“No biggie.” Charlie rubbed his hands together, divesting them of plaster dust. “All you need is the blade bone, a body of water, and belief. In researching this project, I’ve discovered that banishing evil is easy; it’s creating goodness that’s hard.”

“Well, if that’s it,” said Eddie doubtfully.

“Trust me, friend.” Charlie led them back to the car. “Hey. Your boils are gone.”

Eddie’s hand flew up to his neck. He touched here and there, but all he felt was smooth skin and a bit of stubble. “Thank you, shaman! You have a treat in store for you. My aunt made pea tunuvilivili; it kicks serious ass.”

“Mmm,” said Charlie, “is that the chicken in banana leaves?”

Eddie glanced at his cousins. “Um . . . similar. It’s awesome. There’s enough for all of us.” He said no more. Samoan cuisine was hard to explain. Not everyone liked the sound of chargrilled flying fox bats, but everyone liked the taste of them.

         

Laurel said, “There’s a haiku slam next week, and I’m reading. Wanna come with?”

“Really? There are haiku slams?” Stan asked. “I had no idea. You always think haikus are so gentle and otherworldly and, like, Asian. You don’t think of them getting slammed by people in a bar.”

She said, “The Chicago haiku scene is ruthless.”

“What about Sebastian?”

Laurel thought about her latest work of art, a haiku that might be a little too sentimental for Haiku Jew, yet pleased her nevertheless.

My son, the genius,
Throws his trains at my head, but
I’ve learned to catch them.

She said, “We’ll get a babysitter—your mom or my sister. Sebastian will be fine.”

Laurel suggesting a night out, just the two of them, without the kid? Stan hid his surprise. He never thought he’d say it, but he thanked God for poetry.

         

Craig and Will crafted a new tune in the Kickel basement. They’d write an easy bass line for it later, something even Stan could handle.

“I have to admit,” Will said, “I really like the lyrics he wrote for ‘Slippery Steps at the Old-Age Home.’ It’s kind of creepy that he dedicates it to his parents at every rehearsal, but I still like it.”

Craig said, “We need a real audience, though.”

“Fat chance of anybody hiring us. I mean, I like our Tears for Fears medley and the tribute to Gary Numan, and even the clarinet solo in ‘Turning Japanese,’ but what bar owner is going to pay us for that? We’d need to own the bar ourselves.”

The light turned green suddenly in Craig’s mind. “I have a healthy chunk of savings, Will. Between my cash, your bar connections, Stan’s new amp, and our combined cultural capital, I think we may have something here.”

Will considered this. “Owning our own bar, the three of us? Maybe it could work. I also have a little money saved, just sitting in the bank. Sad to say, we’d probably have more success in the ’burbs than the city. Property and insurance is too damn expensive in the city and the competition is rough.”

“Yeah, the suburbs. Who’s out here to compete with anyway, Shadows and Nightmoves? We’d crush them, the pansy dance clubs! Suburban rock clubs are where it’s at. Plus the Lousy Dates could play all the time!” Craig nodded in contentment. He felt compelled to add: “It’s a risky venture, of course. I don’t want to push you into anything.”

Will said, “I know it’s a risky venture, but so is life. And I’d like to try to have one.”

They rewrote that old Housemartins’ song, “The Light Is Always Green,” incorporating a clarinet part. At their bar, the men decided, they would have all-ages shows. It was important to show the youth of today the mistakes and successes of the previous generation, to show them that in spite of decades of failure, misery, and inertia, of karaoke and cube-dwelling, a light could shine at the end of the tunnel for even the most desperate of men.

         

Carolyn made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Kronos and Diana.

“Want more, sugarpants?” She held her hand out for her son’s dish.

“Mom, don’t call me sugarpants,” Kronos whined. “But yes, I’d like another one.”

Diana said, “Mrs. Kickel, I think it’s really cool how you respect Kronos’s vegetarianism. My mother made veal last night. I think she likes watching me gag and retch.”

Carolyn said, “As mothers, we have to get our enjoyment where we can.”

Kronos said, “The only reason she respects my vegetarianism is because she’s one, too.”

Carolyn argued. “Not true. If you wanted a steak, I’d grill you one right now. I’d submerge my hands in a bag of raw meat to make you hamburgers. I’d pluck a chicken for you. I’d make mutton.”

“You would?”

She considered this, somewhat surprised at the truth. “I would. You’re my son; I’d do anything for you.”

Kronos liked where this line of questioning had led. He had been shamed by his recent jonesing for greasy flesh and had kept it to himself.

Diana said, “Thanks again for letting me stay here the other night. To be honest, I kind of wanted to just keep on staying. Not run away, exactly. Just not go home again.”

“I know that feeling,” Carolyn responded. “Sometimes you think your real life would start if you could only ditch your interfering home life.”

Diana scowled. “You mean even middle-aged people think this way? How do you stand it? How do you go on, feeling like home is a prison?”

Carolyn heard the strains of “Slippery Steps” from down in the basement. Her daughter cooed in the bouncy seat, the vibrations from the drums jouncing her, a look of supreme satisfaction on her little face. Kronos, nonchalantly heating up a hot dog in the microwave, hummed “Turning Japanese” to himself. Craig bounded up from the basement then, kissed his children on their heads, and grabbed two beers out of the wine cooler.

“Nice! Blanche Steendonk!” he said in surprise, giving Carolyn a thumbs-up. His wide and silly grin caught even him off-guard; his wife had never bought him Belgian beer before.

She smiled in spite of it all. How to answer Diana’s questions? Really, you never get over the urge to flee. The trick is finding reasons to stay.

         

“Well? What do you think?” Verity modeled the leopard-skin poly wrap dress, executing what she imagined was the appropriate girlie-twirl.

Charlie drooled in appreciation. Sexy librarian types with glasses and red lipstick, twirling in femmy animal-print dresses? Ohhh . . .

“Three bucks. Hanging hem, but big whoop, I can fix that.” The silver glint from her new necklace caught her in midtwirl and she stopped in front of the mirror to admire it, a little silver house on a thin silver chain. “I love my birthday present, CB. It’s the best necklace I’ve ever seen.”

“And it’s not even from the thrift,” he said.

“I know, but I still like it.”

When he saw the necklace in the boutique window, he knew right away it was for Verity. A house is a home, right? And what’s “home” but a feeling, the security and happiness of belonging. When they had first started dating, right after meeting at Tex’s swinger party, he had asked that silly guy question, “How come a cool girl like you isn’t taken?”

She had said, “A bad relationship is like a bad house foundation—nearly impossible to fix once it’s in place.”

“Oprah?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Fortune cookie. But you know what I’m saying.”

This girl had made a home out of a rodent flat in the middle of gentry-ghetto blight. She kept a sense of home in her father’s house; stuck in the past maybe, but it still felt like home. A house, even a tiny silver one, was the right gift for such a fantastic woman.

Verity opened her bedroom closet door and a cache of crocheted beer-can hats fell on her head. She tried to push the hangers over to accommodate the few new treasures from Goodwill she had brought home, but she couldn’t gain an inch. “I don’t have enough room,” she pouted.

“Maybe if you ditched the portable bowling alley, you could stack up some trunks of clothes in the corner of the living room.”

She whirled about in frenzied dismay. “Ditch the bowling alley? Ditch the bowling alley? Are you out of your mind?”

“No, I’m just saying if you got rid of some stuff, you’d have room for more.”

Verity crossed her arms and shook her head. “No. No way. I’m not throwing out my beloved bowling alley or anything else. If you think I’ve spent the better part of twenty years amassing this crap just to throw it out, you—”

“No, I’m not suggesting you throw it all out. God knows we don’t need to relegate any more abandoned objects to the landfills. I was just thinking you could, you know, rethrift some of it.”

“Rethrift it?”

“Yes, take it back from whence it came. Actually, ‘whence’ means ‘from where,’ so it’s redundant to say ‘from whence,’ though—”

“Rethrift it,” she said again. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully and strolled out of the closet, musing to herself. “Bring it back to the thrifts so that others might get a chance to love it. Restore some decent thrift karma.” Suddenly she stopped and slapped her palms together in a eureka moment. “Of course! It’s so simple. Avoid the trash heaps for a while longer, spread some of my joy, my lovingly rescued items, to the rest of thriftdom. I don’t have to throw them away.”

“Set them free, Verity. Return them to the thrifts,” he said. “It’s the circle of life.”

He was the best goddamned boyfriend ever. She hugged him tightly, then settled him on the couch while she went off into the kitchen to whip up some homemade pudding. Not too much would have to go back to the thrifts. Just the stuff that no longer had meaning for her, the things that had served their purpose: appliances, knickknacks, and clothing that had been loved for a while, and then disregarded by their original owners, the stuff that she had eventually ignored, too. A loved thing should never be forgotten twice in life. She’d keep the bowl made out of the Allman Brothers record, naturally, and the bowling alley. And the Hallway of Strangers—she would never get rid of them, nor forget any of their faces. The worried-looking Boston terriers, the grim grandmas, the smiling infants, the houses that no longer stood, the roads that now went nowhere, the gardens paved over, the people who had gone, every fragment of frozen time, all of them would stay with her, a happy family in a happy home.