28

THE BLOWUP

June 1979

The drive up the pass took twenty minutes, not long at all when you felt like you were a million miles from town. As the road wound up the mountain, Santa Teresa was visible below, diminished to a distant crescent with the Pacific Ocean cradled in its curve. A marine layer hovered on the beaches, looking smoky and insubstantial. Just shy of the summit, Troy made the left turn onto Horizon Road, which threaded along a mountainous terrain that felt isolated and remote. The few houses they passed were set well back from the road on heavily wooded lots with little open space to spare. In places, vehicles were lined up nose-to-tail along the berm, attesting to the popularity of the area despite the fire hazard.

Sloan kept an eye on the house numbers, pointing out Austin’s when she spotted it on a metal mailbox posted near the road. Troy pulled his pickup into an empty spot, wheels tilted slightly against the hill. A few yards down the road, she could see Bayard’s car parked in much the same way, left front and rear tires hugging the slope. In front of Bayard’s car, she saw Poppy’s Thunderbird, and beyond that, Stringer’s van. Troy and Sloan trudged up the steep gravel driveway. Toward the top, much of the timber had been cleared, leaving generous expanses of open space under a bright sunny sky. Austin’s mother’s station wagon sat on a parking pad out front.

The Browns’ cabin was constructed with an exterior of half-logs, as if built by pioneers, though the house was probably fewer than twenty-five years old. She caught sight of the shake roof, which was doubtless fire resistant. Two stone chimneys flanked the main structure and a wide front porch was furnished with rustic bentwood chairs. The front door stood open and music was audible, emanating from the rear.

As she and Troy passed through the living room to the kitchen, they could see through the oversize sliding glass door that the parcel was flat and large enough to accommodate a swimming pool with stunning views down the mountain to the coast. The pool decking was Saltillo tile and sported a large stone barbecue at one end. An oversize Weber grill sat next to it. Kids were milling around the pool. Half the chaises longues were taken and the air smelled of Coppertone, pool chemicals, and an occasional whiff of dope.

Sloan watched Fritz cannonball off the diving board, raising a tsunami of splashes that had the girls shrieking and ducking to protect their hair. A boom box blasted the Beatles album Help! Patti Gibson and Steve Ringer, better known as Stringer, were dancing barefoot on the concrete apron at the deep end of the pool. Sloan recognized two sophomores, Blake Edelston and Roland Berg, neither of whom she knew well. Bayard was smoking a joint. He smiled at Sloan and then chugged down his drink from the same cup he always carried, his perpetual bourbon and Coke.

On the far side of the pool, Austin sat on a green metal glider in his bathing suit, already a gorgeous red-brown under his suntan oil. His old girlfriend Michelle, in a hot pink T-shirt and a snug pair of navy blue OP shorts, sat on a stray cushion at his feet, looking every bit the acolyte. She had an enormous tangle of dark curly hair that fell across her shoulders. She put a proprietary hand on Austin’s thigh, giving Sloan a wide-eyed look. Apparently, the two were back together, which might have been what had put him in a charitable mood. As he rolled a joint, he glanced up at Sloan with a smile that seemed friendly enough to make her think he was sincere about the truce. Maybe she’d bury her suspicion regarding his authorship of the anonymous note. Better to let their antagonism dissipate without adding further fuel.

The beer keg sat in the shade against the back of the cabin. An oversize plastic punch bowl sat on a nearby harvest table, the virulent pink contents surrounding an island of solid ice. There was also a bucket full of ice cubes and a stack of clear plastic cups. Iris was manning the punch bowl in a black bikini, her skin already darkly tanned. Sloan was guessing she lay out in her backyard most weekends, soaking up the sun. Fritz tossed back punch with the same abandon as everyone else; anything to feel like one of the gang.

Iris ladled a cup of punch for Sloan and offered a second to Troy. “Joy juice,” she said, “unless you’d rather have beer.”

“This is fine,” Sloan replied.

“I’m a beer kinda guy myself,” Troy said and grabbed an empty plastic cup.

Iris polished off the punch she’d poured for Troy and then paused to light a cigarette, probably thinking she looked sophisticated for a fourteen-year-old. All Sloan could think about was Iris splayed out on the pool table while a wobbly handheld video recorder made a pitiless visual record of her disgrace.

Sloan took a sip of her punch. The alcohol content was almost overpowering, with a faint suggestion of fruit. She made a face. “What’s in this? Yuck.”

“All natural ingredients except for the red food coloring. Vodka, pink lemonade, and sloe gin, whatever that is. The strawberries are organic. Very wholesome.”

“I don’t see strawberries.”

Iris peered into the bowl. “Oops. Guess I forgot. Oh well. I leave it to your imagination.”

“Not my business, but are you going to be okay up here? Poppy told me you were supposed to be spending the night with her.”

Iris made a dismissive gesture. “My parents are at a day-long retreat. Tantra yoga. Unfolding their spiritual natures by screwing their brains out. They won’t be home until after dinner.”

“Just be careful.”

“Totally.”

Sloan crossed the patio to a spot near Austin and stood watching him roll another joint, which he stacked with its mates in a vintage cigarette case.

“I see you got here all right,” he remarked.

“This place is great. When you said ‘cabin,’ I was picturing Abraham Lincoln.”

“Nothing so crude. Have a look around if you want.”

“Thanks.”

She took her punch and went into the kitchen. She was unaccustomed to drinking, but she didn’t want to appear uptight. She was also ever so slightly tense in Austin’s company and the punch was helping her relax. Groceries had been unloaded and the counters were covered with packaged hamburger buns, potato chips, onions, condiments, paper plates, and plastic ware. The sink was packed with ice, soft drinks and bottled water nestled in the depths. The six-burner propane stove looked like it had never been used. In the background, she could hear the Beatles singing “Yesterday.”

The living room had been furnished with two big upholstered couches and assorted comfy-looking side chairs. The coffee table was plank, in keeping with the fantasy of frontier life. Sloan took in the high-gloss cherry paneling, the rag rugs, and louvered shutters painted a soft blue. A wood-burning fireplace was central to the side wall, with ample firewood stacked up on the stone hearth. The interior of the house smelled of wood smoke and the inevitable touch of mold.

Off the wide hallway, she saw bunk beds in one guest room and a full-sized bed in each of the other two. The second wood-burning fireplace was located in the master suite, which was more luxurious than many she’d seen in Horton Ravine. As she passed the master bedroom, Poppy emerged from the bathroom in a red halter-top bathing suit, shoes in hand, her street clothes folded neatly over one arm. Her skin had the creamy texture of silk with a tracery of blue veins showing through. In strong sunlight, she’d burn in half an hour and be left peeling for a week.

“Hello again,” Poppy said.

“Hey, when I asked for a ride, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Iris rode up with you. How’s she getting home?”

“Bayard’s taking her, last I heard.”

“Great.” Sloan cast about for something more to say, but she and Poppy had lost the capacity for small talk. “Anyway, I’ll see you out by the pool.”

She closed herself in the bathroom, where she changed into her bikini, already wishing she were somewhere else. One curious side effect of the shunning was that it had left her feeling detached. She understood now how easily loyalty could be dispatched and how little most relationships meant. She left her clothes on a chair in the master bedroom and tugged at the bottom of her bathing suit. The bikini, while flattering, left more of her exposed than she was comfortable with. She crossed the hall and moved through the living room and kitchen to the patio.

Fritz stood in the shallow end of the pool, water up to his waist. “Hey, Troy! Catch this!”

He used his clenched hands to squirt a stream of water at Troy, who stood on the diving board poised to go in.

The water caught Troy in the face. Fritz’s hyper braying cut through the cheers as Troy dove in, his body slicing the water with scarcely a splash. Austin watched Fritz with a barely concealed contempt. Fritz was a sophomore, one year behind them at Climp, and his showing off was typical of his immaturity. Bayard had once suggested Fritz had a crush on Austin. At the time, she hadn’t given much credence to the claim, but she was aware of how often Fritz stole quick looks at Austin, like a kid hoping for his mother’s approval.

Sloan watched Austin fire up a joint, sucking in the smoke, which he held for a count of ten. When Austin got stoned, he turned nasty and she hoped she wasn’t going to be the target of his caustic remarks. As sweet as Austin had been during their brief romance, withering judgments came more naturally to him.

She put her drink down on the edge of the pool near the deep end and sat down, dangling her feet in the water as she watched Patti and Stringer making out.

From behind her, Poppy appeared. “Can I have some of that?” she asked, pointing at her punch.

“Sure, have it all. It’s too strong for me.”

Poppy took the cup, downed half the remaining pink punch, and made a face much as Sloan had.

Sloan edged off the side of the pool into the water. She turned her body and held on to the side briefly before she sank. She drifted toward the bottom, loving the silence, the isolation, and the escape. The water was chilly and she pushed off the concrete bottom and crossed the pool under the surface, doing the breaststroke. She’d have to find another ride home. No doubt about it. She couldn’t sit in a car with Poppy for even twenty minutes if Poppy was going to wheedle for information the way she did at the house. For now, she seemed to have dropped the subject, but who knew how long that would last?

None of this was worth all the bad feelings. Sloan decided that as soon as she got home, she’d destroy the tape. Since it had surfaced, all the demons in hell had been freed. Now it was time to force them back into the box. If Austin reneged on the agreement, she’d find a way to deal with it. In the meantime, she couldn’t imagine Troy or Iris owning up to their behavior, but if one of them had an attack of conscience and confessed all, she could still claim she hadn’t seen that part of the tape. Who was going to contradict her?

When she reached the far side of the pool, she pulled herself out of the water and plopped down on the edge. She grabbed a towel off the chaise behind her and mopped her face. She wrung her hair out and tucked the waterlogged strands behind her ears. Stringer and Patti Gibson had gone into the house. Betsy Coe and Roland danced to the Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride.” Poppy bebopped in their direction and joined them to make it a threesome. Good spirits, good energy, good bodies; all of them young and in perfect health.

In her peripheral vision, Sloan caught sight of a wiggling bare foot. Someone said, “Steal my towel? That’s not nice.”

She turned and saw that Bayard was stretched out on the recliner. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Invisibility’s my middle name.”

Impulsively, she said, “Can I run something by you? This is in confidence because I may be dead wrong . . .”

“Oooh, I like it. Sounds juicy.”

“Well, it may or may not be. On the drive up, Troy mentioned that his being caught cheating had knocked him out of the competition for the Climping Memorial Award.”

“No big surprise.”

“That’s not where I was going. What occurred to me was that I got knocked out of the competition as well. Everyone is convinced I wrote the note and I’m sure the faculty’s been keenly aware that I was being shunned for it. They’re the ones who vote. None of them said anything, but I can tell by the way they look at me, like ‘Too bad, kid, but you deserve it.’ Know what I mean? I’m tarred with the same brush as Troy and Poppy, but for snitching, which is worse. Cheating, you only hurt yourself; snitching hurts everyone involved.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. That’s over and done.”

“I don’t think so. Just listen to me. With Troy and me out of the competition, who do you think benefits?”

Bayard’s smile faded and he blinked. “Austin.”

“Right, and he’s the one who turned the whole class against me.”

“Got it.”

“You think I’m off base?”

“Hey, it makes sense to me. What are you going to do?”

“There’s not much I can do without proof, and I don’t see how that’s possible. I was just curious if you’d see my point.”

“Absolutely.”

“Is there any way you could give me a ride home? Poppy was supposed to take me, but I’d rather go with you. Only problem is, I have to leave early to take care of Butch.”

“Sure. Iris can go with Stringer. He’s got room for her in his van.” He patted the edge of his chaise. “Come sit. You look tense.”

She got up, pulled the towel around her shoulders, and took a seat beside him. “Austin’s not exactly restful company.”

“Don’t let him get to you. He only has as much power as you give him.”

“Ha. Don’t I wish,” she said.

Austin appeared from the kitchen and crossed to the punch bowl. “You want the rest of this? I’m starting a new batch.”

“Fine by me,” Sloan said.

“I’m on hold,” Bayard said.

“Well, that’s a first.”

Sloan said, “Austin? I have to go pretty soon. I left Butch out in the yard.”

“Why don’t you call that neighbor lady, Mrs. Chumley. She has a house key, doesn’t she?”

“Well, yeah. For emergencies.”

“So have her bring Butch in from the backyard. She can make sure he has food and water and you’ll be there in a little while.”

Sloan wasn’t happy with the idea, but she didn’t want to raise any objections. She’d have Bayard take her as soon as they could find a way to slip out.

Austin picked up the bowl and carried it to the kitchen.

Sloan got to her feet, murmuring, “I really ought to help.”

“Right. We don’t want it to look like we’re conspiring out here.”

Sloan made her way into the kitchen in time to see Austin tilt the last of a fresh bottle of vodka into the punch mix, which was now a garish green. Through the doorway, she caught sight of Fritz sitting on the floor in the living room, still wearing his damp bathing suit. He flicked through television channels with the remote, pressing buttons repeatedly, apparently to no effect. “Hey, Austin. You got batteries for this thing?”

“End table drawer. Don’t see any, you’re out of luck.”

Stringer stuck his head around the door from the hall. “Any hope of food? I’m starving to death and Patti just puked up a pint of pink bile.”

“I’m on it,” Austin replied.

He tossed the empty vodka bottle in the wastebasket under the sink and went out the back door. He paused as he passed Michelle, who was lounging facedown on a chaise, her bare back shiny with suntan oil.

He said, “Yo! Grab the burgers while I fire up the grill.”

She looked up, irritated. “I’m a guest. I don’t know my way around this place.”

“Neither does anyone else so figure it out. Jesus, get a clue. You’re not pretty enough to be useless.”

“Thank you so much.” She made no move. Austin stopped in his tracks and stared at her. She rolled her eyes unhappily, but she did push herself up from the chaise, securing the strings of her bikini top as she stood. She crossed to the kitchen, murmuring, “Shithead.”

Austin’s head whipped around. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I am fetching the meat. Will there be anything else, your highness?”

“Clear the big table while you’re at it and have Betsy bring out the condiments. We can serve ourselves inside and then eat out here.”

He crossed to the free-standing Weber barbecue, fueled by a propane tank. He lifted the lid, picked up a wire brush, and scraped the grill. Then he turned on the burners and lowered the lid to allow the interior to heat.

Troy ambled over to his side. “You need help?”

“Keep an eye on this while I go get oil for the grill.”

Sloan watched the exchange through the open kitchen window, aware of Michelle behind her removing a platter of meat patties from the refrigerator. Michelle put the patties on the counter, picked up a knife and cutting board, and reached for an onion.

On the patio outside, Iris appeared as Austin approached the kitchen door. She reached out, slung an arm across his shoulders, and hung on to him, her weight dragging him down. He struggled for balance and when he to tried to shrug her off, she let out a long wordless note of complaint.

Annoyed, he said, “Get off me. What’s the matter with you?”

“Come on, Austin. How come you’re never nice to me?”

“Has it sunk into that pea-sized brain of yours that my girlfriend is here?”

“Pooh on Michelle. Don’t you think I’m cute?”

“Like a tarantula. You give me the creeps.”

She said, “Well, I’d do anything for you.”

“I’ll bet,” he said and pushed her away.

“I’m serious.”

As Iris ambled toward the grill, she stumbled and grabbed a lawn chair, then fell into it, laughing at herself. “I am so shit-faced.”

Troy looked at her with concern. “Chill out. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

She put her hand over her eyes. “Who asked you?”

“I’m offering you a piece of advice. Austin is bad news for someone as fucked up as you. Your reputation’s in the toilet as it is.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, right. We’ve seen ample evidence of that. You think he won’t take advantage?”

“I’m in love with him.”

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“Well, keep it to yourself. If he finds out, he’ll rope you into something good for him and not so good for you.”

“Shows what you know.”

Sloan listened to the exchange with a sense of doom. Iris was reckless and out of control. One day it was all going to catch up with her. She tore open a package of hamburger buns and then opened the package of paper plates. She counted out a dozen and placed them on the counter, along with a stack of paper napkins. Austin crossed to the stove, opened the cabinet above it, and grabbed a container of olive oil.

“How’re you doing?” he asked. “You need anything?”

“I’m good. You have a serving spoon for the potato salad?”

“I’ll find you one.” He disappeared into the walk-in pantry.

Iris wandered in, clearly unsteady on her feet. She leaned on the kitchen table and eased herself carefully into a wooden chair. “Where’d he go?”

“Who?”

“Austin.”

“He’s busy. He’s about to cook the burgers,” Sloan said irritably. Given her mother’s constant state of inebriation, she had no patience for drunks.

“I knew that.”

Fritz appeared from the living room. “Hey, look what I found.”

In his right hand, he held a small-frame automatic pistol.

Michelle glanced at him with alarm. “Shit. Where did that come from?”

“It was in the drawer. Man, this is one gnarly weapon. What is this, a Smith and Wesson?”

Austin emerged from the pantry with a fistful of serving utensils. “No, you moron. That’s my dad’s Astra Constable. We sit out here and target-shoot, picking off squirrels.”

Stringer said, “The neighbors don’t complain?”

“The gun club’s a mile down the road. People fire off guns all the time.”

Stringer reached for the gun while Fritz pretended to sight down the barrel. “Hey, put that thing down. Are you nuts?”

Fritz held it up and away, trying to retain control.

Austin looked at the two of them. “Cool it, Stringer. It’s not loaded. Here. Gimme that thing.” Fritz surrendered the Astra to Austin, who popped out the magazine and held it up as though performing a magic trick.

Fritz said, “Now can I see it?”

“I don’t know, Fritz. You think you can handle it?”

“Is there a trick?”

“Yes, asshole. You have to take off the safety. Don’t you watch cop shows? And quit waving that thing around or you’ll shoot yourself in the foot. Put it back in the drawer before I shoot you myself.”

Fritz returned to the living room, pretending to fire the weapon while he made mouth noises. He opened the end table drawer and put the gun back where it had been.

There was an uptick of laughter from the patio, where the Beach Boys sang, “Fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes her T-Bird awa-hay.”

Poppy scooted in, talking over her shoulder. “Thanks a bunch, guys. I love you too.”

She caught sight of Austin, who handed her a cup of green punch. She seemed to focus in on him. “So what’s the story on the video?”

Austin’s expression became watchful, like a fox in the presence of a rabbit. Sloan froze where she stood. Blake and Roland came in from the patio, roughhousing, unaware of the stillness that had suddenly settled over the room. Troy, entering the back door, caught the dead quiet and stopped in his tracks.

Austin said, “What video are you referring to?”

Poppy said, “The one half the kids in class are buzzing about. A smutty sex tape.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend Sloan?”

“I did. She hasn’t seen it yet.”

He smiled. “Well, that’s bullshit. Of course she has. We’re currently in negotiations to return it to its rightful owner.”

“Which is who?”

“Me,” Austin said. “The project was my idea.”

“My equipment,” Fritz hollered from the living room. “I want credit.”

“Shut up, Fritz. You’re an idiot.”

Poppy’s smile faltered. “What’s it about?”

Austin said, “The film? It’s a cooking show using Crisco, which is the new hot ingredient.”

Blake and Roland burst out laughing and Fritz’s high-pitched chortle sounded from the living room.

Poppy was still smiling, but it was clear she was desperately unsure of herself. “Why are you all cracking up? Come on, fellas. Let me in on the joke.”

Roland said, “You’re too uptight.”

“I am not.”

Austin said, “Roland doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He hasn’t seen it, either, so don’t feel bad. The title is ‘Pool Cue: A Love Story.’ It’s the Troy and Iris Show.”

Iris did a seated bump-and-grind and nearly tumbled out of her chair.

Troy spoke up from behind Poppy. “Why don’t you drop it?”

She turned, blinking rapidly, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Drop what?”

“You know what.”

“What’s Austin talking about, ‘The Troy and Iris Show’? I want to know what you did.”

“Would you just quit it with the third degree? I’m not accountable to you.”

“I never said you were. I asked about the tape.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you told me you loved me. You gave me your ring.”

Austin snorted. “Shit, Poppy. You sound like the lyrics to a bad song.”

“He did.”

“Well, give the damn ring back. Obviously, Troy doesn’t care enough to tell you the truth. You want me to ‘share’ or would you rather hear it from him?”

“Hear what?”

Troy made a low moaning sound and banged his head against the wall. He looked to Sloan for relief, but she couldn’t maintain the eye contact.

Poppy said, “Hear what?”

Irritably, Troy said, “Okay, I banged her. Iris. What the fuck, Poppy. You don’t own me.”

The animation drained from Poppy’s face. Where she’d been tentative and wounded, pushing for a reply, she now turned to stone. She did a slow pivot until she was looking straight at Sloan, still standing at the sink.

She crossed the distance between them in two steps and slapped Sloan across the face. The impact made a wet smacking sound that startled everyone. There was dead silence. Sloan was so stunned, she didn’t react. Poppy slapped her again and only then did Sloan lift a hand to her cheek in wonder. “Jesus, Poppy. Why piss all over me? I didn’t screw your boyfriend. Iris did!”

Poppy would have slapped her a third time if Austin hadn’t grabbed her wrist.

“Cool it,” he said.

“You cool it, asshole!” Poppy snapped at him. She turned to Sloan. “You should have told me the truth. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“Iris is your friend, Poppy. I’m the one you dumped.”

“I will never forgive you. Never. You knew all the time and you let me walk into this. You can get your own damn ride home.”

Poppy snatched up her clothes and her purse. As she passed Iris, she paused. “You’re pathetic,” she said and then she moved on.

In silence, Iris watched her leave the cabin, her expression forlorn.