Down in the River
A Novel
Ryan Blacketter
DOWN IN THE RIVER
A Novel
Copyright © 2014 Ryan Blacketter. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
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An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
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ISBN: 978-1-62564-037-6
EISBN: 978-1-63087-104-8
Cataloging-in-Publication data:
Blacketter, Ryan.
Down in the river : a novel / Ryan Blacketter.
vi + 210 p. ; 23 cm
ISBN: 978-1-62564-037-6
1. Fiction—Oregon. 2. Youth—Mental health—United States. I. Title.
PS3552 L34232 D2 2014
Manufactured in the USA
For Becca
1
Levi’s Café stood in a city block of pines—just that one, small lighted building in the center of the grove. As Lyle went into the trees, the café windows were yellow stains that in the wind and rain seemed to darken and then flicker on. Instead of going in, he lingered under his umbrella. The motorcycle club gathered here each evening at five. But Lyle had offended one of the boys, Devon, who was tall and drove a Triumph and liked heavy wool sweaters—girls favored him—and he supposed they would not invite him to join now, despite his new clothing.
In a dim window, familiar boys and girls crowded a booth. Their faces glowed in the light of a short lamppost right outside. Raindrops on the window pocked their skin with tiny shadows, so they all looked spotted with some attractive disease. Devon and Martin took turns speaking, as if they competed for the girls’ laughter. Devon was skinny in a muscled way, in a too-small T-shirt, his black hair greased like an Italian boy’s, and Martin was chubby and white-haired and balding, hostile and brilliant, old-seeming because he was albino. When Martin spoke, the girls didn’t laugh. He kept a flask-sized bottle hidden under the table, and he sipped from it. The high school had placed Lyle with them because he had taken honors classes back in the mountains, where comprehending Riders of the Purple Sage indicated high promise.
Lyle bounced a fist on his thigh, shame gnawing at him. In class earlier, they had discussed a story of a man who freezes in the snow. Devon said his little sister vanished in the snow on Mount Hood years earlier. She had worn all white that day. Lyle giggled in his chair when he heard this, and fell into a laughing fit. He couldn’t stop it, even when the girls turned and made disturbed expressions at him. A little girl trotting invisibly into the snow made a funny picture in his mind.
He touched a tree in the rain and let go of a small groan, unsure what had tickled him about a little girl dying in such an awful way. Maybe he could explain that it was a misunderstanding.
A far train horn shrieked a high note of panic. Then came the ding ding of a warning gate. The air sang with the freight passing, and he heard it occasionally under the rain. When the headlights of a turning car swept the grove, trees staggering in light and shadow, he went toward the café door, hesitated, then ducked back into the trees. He didn’t want to be laughed at. In class he sensed that people were amused that he’d changed his appearance overnight. He had gone to the Salvation Army and bought a new jacket made of green wool, tapered at the waist, a line of red cloth on each shoulder—some foreign army’s uniform. It fit him well. He got razors and some old-fashioned hair grease at a drug store. His sparse, dirty-looking beard was gone, and his hair was greased back. Although he’d tossed out his denim jacket, he still wore his camouflage boots. He should have eased into it, wearing the jacket a while before changing his hair. Eugene, Oregon, was a big city, and there were plenty of kids, but he wanted these friends, with their rain-smelling wool, bright conversation, and intelligent meanness.
He was getting ready to take off when Devon and Martin and one of the girls, Monique, came out to smoke under the narrow porch roof. Motorcycles were parked along the concrete walk in front of the café—a couple of dirt bikes, a few Vespas, and the two-seated Triumph with saddlebags.
Martin stood on the walk in the rain, sipping from his little bottle. The whiteness of his face made the circles under his eyes very dark. His hair was so thin and white it seemed to have washed away in the rain. Under his trench coat he wore a white shirt and blue tie. His black satchel rested against his back, and the strap crossed his chest like a sash.
“I have no interest in what you two do together,” Martin said.
“I still want to be close,” Monique said. She was pretty despite the short black hair, the round glasses, and the frumpy clothes.
“Did you hear what I just told you? Zero interest. None.”
Lyle stepped out of the trees. “Hey, Devon!” His voice was too loud. He was nervous and breathing in jags. “I wanted to let you know I wasn’t laughing at your sister—I was remembering a funny show on TV.”
Devon squinted at Lyle’s boots.
“What are you even doing here?” Martin said to Devon. “I never invited you to my club. Monique’s a member, but you’re not.”
“I’ve been a part of it since the first day,” said Devon. “You can’t just suddenly … I think I’ll come and go as I please. It’s my dad’s café.”
Martin said to Lyle, “That wasn’t the first time he’s mentioned his sister—in class today. He tells the story so girls will feel sorry for him.”
Lyle made a somber face, to show he wasn’t laughing at Devon. Devon wobbled his head and pulled his arm behind his neck, folding it strangely flat along his shoulder in a double-jointed contortion. “Want a drag?” he asked Monique. The hand of the contorted arm held a cigarette. She dragged from it and laughed at the performance.
“What’s a better choice,” Devon asked her, “Cirque du Soleil or the Berlin Circus?”
“As long as you do something,” Martin said, “instead of talking about it all the time.”
“All you talked about last month was shooting out all the lights in town with your BB pistol.” Devon snickered, unfolding his arm from behind his neck. “I didn’t think you’d do it, and you didn’t. I think that was your oh-so-eccentric thing. Your oh-so-interesting and disturbed thing.”
“I have every intention of shooting out the lights.”
“What
