The box of bullets in the top drawer of Paul’s desk reads, “Remington .22 Long Rifle.” I know they’re for the hunting rifle he keeps inside a zipped-up canvas bag in the loft of the barn. I take one out and hold it in my hand, feeling the weight of the smooth metal, scraping the circular lines around the bottom with my thumbnail. It looks harmless enough. I wonder if I can open it, if there is gunpowder inside and if so, how does it burn?
I take the bullet outside in the palm of my hand and I try crushing it with a pair of pliers but I don’t have the strength to dent the metal so instead I place the bullet on the wooden stump Paul uses to cut the firewood. I pick up the blue hatchet from the woodpile and begin to whack at it. On the third hit, the hatchet handle kicks back in my grip and I hear a “Pow!” as the bullet explodes under me. I jump up and look around to see if anyone heard the explosion but there’s nothing but the ghost of a thunderclap hanging in the air next to the toolshed.
“You fuckin’ idiot,” Tony says when I tell him about it. “Don’t you understand the bullet went off? It could’ve gone into your stomach or your face and you’d be dead.” He isn’t alarmed, more like impressed. He gives me a punch in the shoulder.
I don’t know why I like the fire so much, all I know is when something is burning, I feel like I made it happen and it feels good to have power over something, even if it sometimes gets out of control and almost burns the house down.
Derek steals Marlboro Reds from his mom when she’s at work. She keeps cartons of them in the back of her closet in a white shopping bag. He takes a fresh box every few weeks and we go up into the loft in the barn to smoke, which is easy since Paul is gone and Mom is at work and no one goes into the rabbit barn except me.
Tony is also a Marlboro Reds man because they can be found all over in the cigarette machines at the trucker diners and sporting goods stores on Market Street, at Lancaster Mall next to the Orange Julius or in the movie theater lobby. All you need is a dollar fifty in quarters and if anyone says anything to you about being too young to smoke, you just say, “They’re for my dad,” and people nod and turn back to their pancakes and coffee.
Tony and I always share our cigarettes. It doesn’t matter if it’s the nasty Winstons I swipe from the Plaid Pantry next to the Hostess stand or the Marlboros Derek brings over or the unfiltered Camels Tony lifted from the door of his baseball coach’s truck. It’s an unwritten code to share them, to break rules together.
Derek comes over with some Reds and we climb up to the loft with a pack of matches and lean against the wall. We light our cigs as the sunlight filtering through the spotty roof of the barn creates small towers of white smoke in front of our faces.
“I like a good menthol after a meal,” Tony says. He holds the cigarette casually between two fingers, a Red Vine in one hand. He takes a drag, then blows the smoke through the Red Vine. “It’s just like a smoky mint.”
“Yeah, menthols are good,” I say, even though I’ve never had one. “But I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t just smoke 100s. Right? I mean they’re bigger so you get more.”
“Hundreds are for bitches and fags,” Derek says. “I wouldn’t be caught dead smoking one of those chick cigarettes.”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, I know. I know. I was only joking.”
CHAPTER 19
FAVORITES USUALLY LOSE
Dad comes home to the apartment in Playa del Rey one quiet Saturday afternoon when we get to California for the summer and drops an envelope on the coffee table. It’s thick and hits the wood with a smack.
He points at the envelope. “Open it.”
Bonnie turns the volume down on the TV and leans forward, pushing open the flap with her long plastic nails. There’s a flash of green.
Dad picks up the envelope and takes the money out. “I hit a horse.”
“You what?”
“I hit the Pick Six at Del Mar. This is the payout.”
“Honey!”
“Can I hold it?” Tony sits up.
Dad nods and Tony picks up the stack of hundred-dollar bills, licking his thumb like a Mafia accountant as he begins to count. “One, two, three…”
Bonnie puts her arms around Dad who says, “I knew the long shot was gonna win the sixth. That horse was due. The favorite scratched, so everybody bet the next horse down, but he wasn’t shit on the grass. He’s a front-runner. But it was a whole field of front-runners. So I says, ‘I know that closer is gonna take this sumbitch.’ Favorites usually lose, you know.” He pauses. “Everybody needs a little luck.”
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”
“Everyone missed it, but guess who got it?” He points a thumb at his face. “I’m lucky, baby. Some guys got it.”
“Aw, honey, you are lucky.” She kisses him on the cheek.
“Forty, forty-one, forty-two. Wow.” Even Tony is impressed. “That’s forty-two hundred dollars.”
“No point in going unless you can walk out owning the place,” Dad says. “I knew I shoulda bet more.”
I look at Dad. “Are we rich now?” I don’t understand how much money this is. Can we buy a house or an island? Our own country?
“C’mon, let’s get dinner. My treat. Anywhere you want to go.” We decide on a big Mexican food meal so we go to the Red Onion and eat steak fajitas, shrimp, chips and guacamole, flan, and deep-fried strawberry ice cream.
When the check comes, Dad reaches into his wallet and drops a hundred-dollar bill on the tray. “Keep the change,” he tells the waitress with a wink, even though it’s only a forty-five-dollar meal.
“Honey!”
“What? We hit a horse. Got to spread the wealth around. Bad luck not to.”
The waitress thanks him and comes back with a big plate of candies for us, hard white licorice and mints, and Bonnie gets up to use the restroom. When we’re alone at the table with Dad, Tony says, “So when are you going to marry Bonnie?”
I look at him, excited. “Yeah. You’re basically married anyway. What are you waiting for?”
We both know he can’t tell if it’s a game or if we’re serious or if there’s some kind of new magic brewing around our lives. Maybe catching that horse means anything is possible and happiness is as simple as choosing the right number on a ticket. You hit your long shot and you go home with a fat stack of bills in your pocket and take your boys out to a big dinner. That’s the races.
“Maybe I will.”
When she sits back down, there’s a silence.
“What? What’s the big secret? What I miss?”
“Nothing. Ask Dad. Dad…” We point at him.
Dad turns to her and says matter-of-factly, “What? I just think it’s time.”
“Time for what?” She’s staring, smiling despite herself.
“You know, I mean, for us to get married.” She looks at him, a charmed smile frozen on her face.
Tony holds up his Sprite like a champagne glass so I hold mine up too and Bonnie throws her head sideways into Dad and nobody knows if any of it is real. The horse and the money and the marriage proposal there in the Red Onion on Manchester Avenue.