“Your boyfriend’s kind of an asshole,” Teddy says, the way only an old friend who’s also your drug dealer can say.
“I’m sorry,” Thad says. “It’s been a rough day. We saw something.” But he doesn’t want to talk about it, or wants to talk but doesn’t have the words. Better to get what he came here for and go.
“Saw?” Teddy says.
“A deer,” Thad says. “We saw someone hit a deer.”
The lie comes easy as exhalation. Teddy removes his cap. Beneath, white scalp, brown hair, a perfect Friar Tuck.
“Dude,” Teddy says. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s some heavy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Bambi, ‘your mother can’t be with you anymore.’ ” Teddy opens the box, and Thad relaxes into the familiarity of the transaction.
Thad needs a job, and he could do this. He could totally sell weed. More than once, his therapist’s suggested he find work. Not so much for the money—Jake has plenty—but because this is America. Because here, work equals self-esteem and self-respect. And, if Thad’s honest with himself, being a lightly published poet doesn’t exactly fill the hours of his days. The best reason, though, is this: He can’t count on Jake forever, and what becomes of him when that day comes?
At the very least, Thad needs routine. Something repetitious, like an assembly line. The satisfaction of fitting lids to miles and miles of shampoo bottles, or the calm familiarity of checking cuffs for stitching, then slipping your tag into a pocket: Inspector #5. Thad could be Inspector #5. No one to hassle Inspector #5. No one to check Needs Improvement under Work Habits, as Thad’s grade school teachers used to do.
Except, a pocket can’t converse with you. A shampoo bottle can’t trade its thoughts on the latest Spike Jonze flick. And Thad needs people. When he’s not with Jake, he’s high or he’s asleep. He’s never been good at being alone.
He could get serious about his writing. How does Jake do it, stand for hours, painting the same canvas day after day? Locked in a room alone, Thad would lose his mind. Plus, ten lines into a poem, he loses focus. Jake blames Thad’s habit, and maybe he’s right. Jake never smokes.
Thad should flush his system, go a week un-stoned. Except, without weed, he isn’t sure how best to wrestle with the world. He isn’t like the rest of them. He doesn’t have his father’s brilliance, Jake’s talent, Diane’s grace. He doesn’t have Michael’s cynicism to keep him warm at night, or his mother’s faith to fold into when things get rough. He wants to be happy. But how to get there without a joint in his hand? How to live without the love of someone else? How to be happy sober and alone?
The bucket under Thad has grown uncomfortable, the back room hot, but what’s in Teddy’s box is beautiful. Each compartment holds a canister, each canister a bud, each bud a promise: The world would miss you if you went. Thad needs to believe this.
His ice cream is softening fast, but he’s not really here for ice cream, so he lets it melt in the bowl.
“This Blueberry’s new,” Teddy says. He holds a canister at eye level, gives it a gentle shake. Through the glass lid, Thad glimpses the blue-green-purple plant matter inside. “It’s an indica, so we’re talking relaxi-taxi. There’s Northern Lights—classic—but you’ve had that before. On the sativa side, I’ve got a K2 and some pretty decent Kiwi Green. Then there are the blends: I’ve got Kushes, OG and Kandy. Some other hybrids over here.”
Teddy touches each canister as he talks. His fingers are long. His hands are huge.
“Now, this,” Teddy says, “this is Blue Cross. Enough sativa to keep you sharp, but not so much you’re checking your back for ghosts.”
“That one,” Thad says.
“Good choice. You want, I’ll roll you one right here.”
“Thanks, but, you know.” Thad hooks a thumb in the direction of the doors. By now, his family’s wondering where he is. Then again, maybe a big fat joint is just what his family needs. He can picture it, his mother laughing, Dad doing a box step with Diane across the deck. Michael snuck hits with Thad in high school, so who knows? He might be down.
Thad produces two hundred-dollar bills from the wallet he holds for Jake, and Teddy drops two baggies in his palm, plus rolling papers and a lighter.
“You run out, you know where to find me.” Teddy smiles, and his teeth are yellow. He shuts the mahogany chest, then fixes the front with a combination lock.
Thad studies the bags. There’s more weed here than he can burn up before heading through airport security. Which means he won’t be back for more. Which means he may never see Teddy again. He should say something, but he’s bad at goodbyes. Easier to let Teddy believe, next summer, he’ll be back. Easier, but not kinder.
Shaking Teddy’s hand, he knows this week will be long and filled with lasts: Last swim in the lake. Last game of horseshoes on the lawn. Last night on the dock, watching the moon climb, star by star, into the sky.
He pockets the lighter, the papers and the bags. He picks up his ice cream dish. Then he’s through the saloon doors, past the counter, and out the door onto the deck.
Michael and his father stand at the rail, ice cream cones in hand, river below. Diane sits in a high-backed patio chair, knees pulled to her chin. His mother stands beside her. Jake is nowhere to be seen.
“I just want to know what’s happening,” Michael says. “I have a right to know. We have a right to know.” He casts a glance that says, Back me up here, bro, but whatever Thad’s walked into, he wants no part of this.
Plus, in any disagreement, Thad’s rarely on Michael’s side. For years, his brother’s been a stranger to him. He couldn’t say why Michael threw away his free ride at Cornell to follow Diane to Georgia, why he turned Republican, why he and Diane relocated to Texas, of all places.
“How long have you two been planning this?” Michael asks.
Their father chuckles. “There’s no conspiracy, Son. Your mother and I never promised we’d retire to the lake.”
So that’s what this is about. Michael, who can barely afford his home in Dallas, wants the house. That, or he’s pissed he wasn’t consulted first. Thad gets it. He shares Michael’s disappointment. Still, how can they ask their parents to maintain a place their sons visit, at most, two weeks a year? Their father’s turning seventy. Why shouldn’t they keep upkeep to a minimum, start over somewhere things are cared for, property managed, home warrantied?
“It may not be a conspiracy,” Michael says, “but it sure feels like an awfully big fuck you.” His face bulges, forehead swollen, bandage huge.
Thad wishes he were home, safe under Jake’s Egyptian cotton sheets. Popcorn, a bong, a bad movie on TV. Someone get him back to Bushwick. Someone deliver him from the South.
“Just promise me no one’s dying,” Diane says. Feet in her chair, chin soldered to her knees, she looks as though she might cry.
“Dying?” Thad’s mother says. “Oh, honey, no.” She kneels beside the chair, takes Diane’s hand. “No one’s dying. No one’s going anywhere.”
“It seemed sudden, that’s all,” Diane says. “I worried someone might be sick.”