“The Buddy” by Michael J. Lee
--page 10

        “Why do you ask?”
        “If you wanted to do them with me that would be ok with me,” Robert said. He felt as if he was falling down a well, and what bothered him was that he didn’t mind.
        Clay laughed. Then he laughed again. He appeared to understand something true. “You remind me of myself when I was your age,” he said. “Not many friends. Angry, but at nothing in particular.”
        “I’m not like you.”
        “Give it a few years and then we’ll see. The seeds are planted early.”
        The two sat in the balmy, dreadful light of early morning. “You like the lake?” Clay said.
        “Not really.”
        “I like to come out here before work and watch the ducks.”
        Robert looked at the brown water. There were no ducks. There were a couple seagulls wheeling in the hazy sky, most likely lost.
        “I’m gonna tell you a secret,” Clay said, “but you can’t tell anyone. My dad drowned in this water. This ugly lake swallowed him right up.” He paused, and then searched Robert for a reaction.
        “I don’t think I believe you,” said Robert.
        “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home,” said Clay. “Hopefully your folks will still be snoring.”
        They were. Robert tiptoed to the bathroom and stood under the shower for forty-five minutes. During the ride home, Clay had explained that the rumors were ruining his reputation, and that he was planning a move. He remembered that the last thing Clay told him was that he probably wouldn’t see him again, but if he did, Robert would not recognize him. This creeped Robert out, as did most instances when adults spoke cryptically. As the water poured down from the showerhead, Robert ran his hands along his skin. He did this to remind himself he hadn’t left anything crucial back at the lake.

~

        The very next day after school, the phone rang and Robert’s mother called to him and told him his best friend was on the line.
        “Robert,” Scott said. “Can you come over? We need to talk. Either you get over here right now or you don’t. Make it quick.” Robert gave the phone to his mother and bounded out the front door. He sprinted down Fairfield with visions of lazy summer afternoons on the trampoline.
        He found Scott standing with his back against an oak tree that grew in the middle of Scott's front lawn. He put up his hand, and Robert slowed to a brisk walk. When Robert came close he could see that his friend was crying, swiping his shirtsleeve at the corners of his eyes. Robert tried to hug him, but Scott wriggled away. He gripped a cordless phone in his right hand.
        “I called you from out here,” Scott said. “I’m not supposed to be out here.” He put a finger to his lips. “Come with me. Be quiet. Be really quiet. I have to show you something.” He gingerly opened the front door, and they tiptoed inside. Scott led him to the hallway, and pointed to his father’s closed door. Robert could hear a movie playing, but could not make out what was being said. Scott cupped his shaking hands around Robert’s ear. “What I don’t understand is that you get to a point where you’re pretty sure you know what you’re doing. But you don’t. You really don’t. Just so you know,” he said, his arm extended toward the closed white door, “just so you know it wasn’t me he wanted. The fucker. He told me he’d hurt me if I told anyone. But I’ve been thinking about you and I think you were a better friend than Clay really was. I’m sorry about this. You should go.”
        Robert felt himself turn toward the front door, and he heard Clay’s voice begin bellowing from behind the closed door. “Where’s my watchdog?” Clay said, croaking hoarsely. “Did my watchdog abandon his post?” The bedroom door opened a crack, and Clay peered into the hallway. In his green eyes Robert saw shock but also an acceptance. Clay then began muttering curses barely audible but slowly rising in volume. He began saying nasty things, vile things—things Robert had often said in his frog-voice but meant only as a joke. But it seemed that Clay was quite serious. The croaking ceased only when there came several piercing screams from within the bedroom, and Stewart continued screaming until Clay, his face reddening, turned back inside, and shut the door behind him. Robert swore he could hear Clay trying to console Stewart in baby talk as he sprinted out the front door.

~



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