‘Who bailed me out?’
‘You weren’t in jail.’
‘Where was I?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Not really.’ Brad’s grin drips vestigial charm. ‘Where was I?’
‘The club. Engagement party for your daughter.’
‘Oh, fuck. Patty. I forgot her fucking party.’ The grin gets sweatier as he asks, ‘But hey, I made it to the party anyway?’
‘If you want to call it that.’
‘Is she still speaking to me?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
Bobby says grimly, ‘It’s the best I can do.’
‘Ug. I’m beginning to get the picture. So, the party. Um, did I do anything?’
‘It was pretty bad.’
‘Something I said?’
‘You weren’t rightly talking.’
‘What did I, flash my dick? Yack in somebody’s lap?’
‘You were out cold. You didn’t do anything.’
Brad blinks with that wide blue, innocent, who-me? look, he’s been getting by on it ever since first grade. ‘Then what was so bad?’
‘If you have to ask, I can’t explain it.’ Bobby isn’t really listening to this conversation. He’s weighing his options. Chape’s done with his personal pro bono renovation project and it’s clear Brad’s daughter isn’t about to come and get him, she probably never wants to see him again. Is there a removal service he can call, or is he going to have to shovel rank, disgusting Brad Kalen back into the car, which already reeks of him?
‘What the fuck happened?’
He says harshly, ‘You landed on the bandstand like a side of beef.’
‘I did?’ Brad’s face is working. He is casting around for ways to make the best of this, but the whole thing is too much, even for him. He tries for a smile. ‘But, hey, I made my appearance.’
‘If you want to call it that.’
‘So Patty can stop complaining. It’s not like I’m never there for her.’
‘You don’t want to know what Patty would say.’ Bobby would do anything to scrape that pleased, smug look off Brad’s fat face. ‘You know who dragged you in and dumped you, right?
‘Fucking Walker.’
‘Right.’ Funny how Brad gets this part so quickly. Is this what he does, pretend to forget things he knows, but would rather not remember?
Brad says heavily, ‘Walker Pike.’
‘So you did know.’
‘I do now.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t kill you.’
‘Who, me? Why would he want to do that?’
Every muscle in Bobby’s face tightens. ‘After what you did.’
Brad bulks up, a monument to denial.
Stupid lout, Bobby thinks, as Brad’s shoulders sag into a simian slope and his head sinks into a mess of baggy sweatshirt and rolls of flesh. Fucking Neanderthal. Standing here in my kitchen all rank and foul. Even though they aren’t standing close, the hangover smell is strong enough to unpack its luggage and hang up its dirty underwear inside Bobby’s head.
Eighteen months sober, Bobby hates the feeling because he knows it so well. He hates the memories filling his kitchen; they came in with fucking Brad, he’s already knee-deep but they’re still pouring in. Overweight, drowsy and not exactly harmless – benign for the moment at least, Kalen scratches his belly under the sweatshirt and waits for the next thing. It’s like watching fruit rot. Bobby wonders how they could have been friends. If Brad’s folks hadn’t given him the motor bike, the car, the money, if they hadn’t let him throw those big parties when they were out of town and asked no questions when they came back, would he and Chape and the others have hung out with Brad in the first place? Would they have tolerated him?
Aware that his unwanted guest hasn’t responded, Bobby tilts his head and leans closer, trying to get a good look into those dull eyes. ‘Are you in there?’
‘Shut up.’ Brad is thinking. It is excruciating to watch. Awareness comes in stages. Finally he looks up. ‘Shit, he can’t still be mad about that old thing.’
‘He wanted to kill you after what you did.’ Bobby is listening hard. He waits for Brad to fill in the blanks, which he refused to do back then. ‘That night. After you guys rolled me out of the car. What happened, anyway?’
Whatever happened, Brad stonewalled Bobby then. He is stonewalling him now. ‘Shit happened.’ It’s his way of saying: Nothing.
‘Then why did Lucy leave town before graduation?’ God he despises Brad.
‘Man, that was a hundred years ago.’ Looking briefly at his fingernails, Brad lifts both hands and scratches his head: the thick gold hair has gone dark, but he still has those spoiled-rich-kid curls. ‘Besides, we just got there, I barely had the girl’s . . .’
‘Don’t say it.’
‘. . . pants off. Well, I didn’t.’ Guilt makes him