Chapter 4

Bob’s turn:

Trophy-grade kid there up the hall.

Not a lay-about. When she IS laying around, there’s usually a book, either a paperback or on her iPad, involved.

She helps around the house and in the yard.

She keeps bringing home papers with great grades on them, often has herself somewhere with textbooks open, working over a homework assignment.

It’s been three weeks now. She’s gone out a few times, a Friday, a Saturday, once on a Wednesday. We talked about curfew, she doesn’t push curfew. How much of it is because she’s a good girl and how much of it is because she knows that I pay the gas? I don’t know.

But today, she’s in school. Art’s in his yard. A round of golf with some other attorneys didn’t pan out, so he was puttering around the yard. Art and I often had synchronous putter fests, usually ending in synchronous yakking and consumption of a couple of beers apiece.

“She comes and goes,” I told him of Carlie. “Good student. Decent person. Can’t complain.”

“Boy, you hit the lottery there. One in a million...”

“I know. Pleasant human being. Goes fishing with me. Somebody to eat with, talk with.”

“You know, buddy,” he said, “a thought occurs to me.”

“I’m glad we’re buddies,” I laughed. “A thinking lawyer is seldom a good thing...”

“Oh, sure ... lawyer jokes...”

“Sorry,” I laughed. “So what’s on your mind?”

“Our mutual friend Carlie. I wonder if she’s looked into her Grandma’s legacy. Will. Insurance.”

“She never mentioned it. We can ask her.”

“My idea, Bob, is that YOU’RE paying her way...”

“And it’s nothing, Art. A pittance. Well, the bump for the insurance, but seriously, not a problem.”

“Yeah, but if she’s got a little something, she might feel better.”

“Art, you ‘n Bekka talk to her all the time. That’s a pretty happy girl.”

“She does mention living off your good graces,” he said.

“She’s mentioned it to me a time or two. I tell her to stop worrying.”

“Well, when she gets in this afternoon, maybe we can talk.”

We talked. Carlie swears that her grandma was on a fixed income, but gave up as much identity information as she had.

“Let me do a little digging.”

That evening, we’re sitting in the living room.

“Homework ... it’s mostly rote, you know.”

“Repetition helps learning,” I said.

“But when you already know, it’s just painful.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Algebra.”

“Horrible stuff.”

“How many times do I have to factor polynomials? I get it!”

“Sorry. I got it, too. The answer’s ‘entirely too much’ ... How about other subjects?”

“I sit there and watch the teacher go over things time after time. I get it. She goes over it time after time ... Just for the others.”

“I understand. I endured...”

“D’ya still USE any of this?” she asked.

“Lots of people don’t, but some of us do. Knowing the relationships between multiple factors, that’s that polynomial stuff. The English, the writing part? I have to transmit findings and recommendations in clear and understandable fashion. Science? Some parts more than others, but it’s a sad engineer who only knows his discipline, bereft of others. And Art. His whole life is built around words and how they apply to the world.”

“But the girl tidying up the displays at WalMart?”

“Her? Maybe not so much. But I’ve known more than one who’ve slid into jobs and as they rose in rank, found out that they actually started needing some of that stuff that was just stupid to learn in high school.”

“Poetry,” she posed.

“Some of school’s like a wine-tasting or one of those food festivals. You get to sample everything, and heaven knows, you might find something you like...”

“I do like some of it, but poetry is not exactly mainstream...”

“You know, Carlie, YOU get to decide. If you LIKE something, LIKE it for yourself. Maybe you’ll find a friend or two who share your feelings about it. That helps...”

She shook her head. “The only other girl in my English class who seems to get into it is a big whore...”

“In high school?”

“Well, maybe not in the stricter sense of the word, but, okay, slut?”

“They still have those?” I asked, trying to lighten up things.

“Oh, yeah ... Makes me wanna study sociology and psychology, just to understand why...”

“They can’t figure it out either, Carlie...”

“I saw it close up with Mom,” she sighed. “And I see it close up with people at school. Why?”

I shrugged. “You don’t need my opinion.”

“Yes, I do. I need the opinion of my friend Bob, who has NO evidence or indication of sexual profligacy in his life.”

“Uh, Carlie, I’m not sure I wanna talk about that with you.”

“What? Contemporary social mores? Or your history?”

“Both. Especially the last one.”

“Okay. Sorry to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, don’t be sorry. Conversation is okay. It’s just that on the first, I’m opinionated, and on the second, well ... personal. And probably why I’m opinionated.”

“Then I’m pushing you out of your comfort zone,” she said.

I tried to read her face, came up short. “Comfort zone?”

“Yeah. Believe me, Bob, it’s outside my comfort zone, too, but I’m not getting valid data from my peers. That leaves me with what I got from Mom and from Grandma. I write off most of Mom’s. Grandma’s, well, delivered with love and understanding, but, just one set of data.”

“I’m an adult male...”

“Most of the boys at school think they’re adult males. I have doubts.”

“When I was seventeen, I thought I was adult, too. And I was dealing with others I assumed were adults.”

Her eyes flashed and a little smile passed across her face like a fleeting shadow. “And therein lies the story...”

“Ain’t tellin’ you that story, Carlie.”

“Why not?”

“You’re. Well, you’re that same age.”

“Just the one time?”

“Oh, no, dear,” I said. “One thing I did well was make the same mistake quite often.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I just said I didn’t want to go there, lady.”

“Comfort zone. “Okay, then let’s switch to general terms.”

“In general terms, desires mature a lot faster than the emotions to support them.”

“Elaborate,” she said, watching me more closely than I expected.

“Sex. The desire for sex shows up early...”

“Twelve?”

“You? I dunno about girls. Twelve’s about right for me.”

Enigmatic smile. “When I started my period. Pretty easy for a girl to determine.”

“Not quite the same for boys, but somewhere around twelve,” I said. “But that’s just growing into basic reproductive capabilities. The ability to properly handle the relationships with another person – the intimacies outside of sexual function – Those...”

“Those never show up for some people,” she said. “Like Mom.”

“I dunno,” I said. “Thought it used to be something that only the male practiced...”

“I think you’re right, incrementally speaking,” she said. “But I still think that more girls are still wanting something more permanent.”

“I read about the ‘hook-up’ culture...”

“Grandma said that the Sexual Revolution was like that – ‘free love’ isn’t the natural state of mankind. Or maybe that should be ‘womankind’.”

“I’m tainted by my gender,” I said.

“Maybe not you in particular, but I think more guys’re perfectly happy with a ‘no strings attached’ tumble than girls are.” She looked sideways at me. “Not that there aren’t plenty of girls on that list.”

I gave her a look.

“I’m not one of ‘em.”

“I think you said that. Not that you haven’t been offered...”

“‘Make you some REAL muh-fuckin’ money!’” she tittered. “Or do ol’ Benjy for free ... Yeah ... I guess that’s why I sorta soft-pedal the going out. I don’t mind meeting people at the mall or whatever, but I have MY wheels, I’ve got MY escape hatch. And I’ve already dislocated one thumb at the movies.”

“Dislocate a thumb?”

“Yeah ... He thought that being in the seat beside me, us talking, all that was permission for him to get his hands on my ... touch me. ‘No’ and a push didn’t work. I guess he thought I was playing a game. I grabbed his thumb. He jerked back. Oops!”

“Ouch!” I said, subconsciously flexing my own thumb, at the same time contemplating that boy’s goal. Not worth the risk to me now, but when I was her age...

“So Carlie’s gotten a reputation. If I REALLY wanted to enhance it, I’d just go out with a group of girls ... After I repulsed Benjy, the rumors started. Apparently you’re providing a home to an up and coming lesbian.”

She watched my face. “I’d rather go with ‘asexual’, truth be known.”

We descended further into conversation, talking about the mating game, not from a sexual vantage, but rather the investigation into compatibility and personality.

“So you’ve got plans for Friday and Saturday?” I asked.

“Normal stuff. Nobody’s going to be in a tux, waiting for me to show up at the mall, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

“I’m getting cabin fever. Was thinking of an excursion.”

“Houston’s a destination.”

“Houston’s a destination? That’s like saying ‘let’s visit Europe... ‘“

She giggled. “I’m sure the Europeans would beg to differ...”

“I meant, Carlie, that there’s a lot to do ... What would YOU like to do?”

“Museums. I can go to museums.” She eyed me. “I assume such things are not repugnant to you.”

“No, not at all. Art? Natural history?”

“Bop down to Galveston. Architecture. All kinds of stuff. You’re a guy. Ship? Airplanes?”

“Seafood...”

Smile broadened. “That, too.”