All About Lulu by Jonathan Evison Read Free Book Online Page A

happening to his face—it looked rubbery, like something stretched too far. Boyer Coe was still around, though I’m pretty sure he was dyeing his hair. There were a lot of new faces, young serious guys. The gym was different, too. Cleaner. Quieter. Softer around the edges. Guys weren’t cranking Sammy Hagar like they used to, they weren’t jumping around and hooting like sex-crazed baboons. The place even smelled different. Less like armpit.
    By then the twins were already old standbys at Gold’s. They’d reached puberty years prematurely, and were well on their way to muscle-bound by the summer of ’84. Doug wore a mustache before his thirteenth birthday. Ross opted to shave his. Their lats were so overdeveloped that their arms would not hang at their sides—they jutted out a good foot and a half from their torsos. They walked through life like gingerbread men, trumpeting farts and grinning broadly at their own fetid bouquet. Their Adam’s apples had outsized their brains. If ever I wished to turn my universe inside out again, it was that summer. But my outside senses were achingly clear.
    I remembered every clang and every belch and every sweaty fart that smelled like lasagna. I remembered every grunt, every wallow in sexual retardation, every pussy hair band the radio blared that summer.
    To this day I can hear every battle cry of no pain, no gain as though somebody were still shouting it in my ear.
    My lone occupation during those interminable hours at Gold’s was the Book of Lulu, which, in its fi fth year of existence, had grown far beyond the earmarks of a healthy compulsion. It numbered seven volumes by midsummer.
     
    July 12, 1984
    Actual conversation between Doug and Ross today at the gym:
    Doug: Knock it off, faggot!
    Ross: You’re a faggot.
    Doug: No, you are.
    Ross trumpets a fart.
    Doug: Chew your food, ass-wipe.
    Ross: You’re an ass-wipe.
    Doug: No, you are.
    I thought life without Lulu would be like drowning. But drowning sounds peaceful. I slept in her bed again last night. Her pillow still smells like her.
    It soon became apparent that something was amiss in Vermont.
    There were nightly phone calls from Willow, which Big Bill always took in the master bedroom, talking mostly in low tones. I eaves-dropped as best I could.
    “You’re the one who—now, just hold on a minute, here … Well, that doesn’t mean that—of course, I don’t blame her, and I don’t blame you for—let’s not blow this thing out of proportion … ”
    But the proportion apparently had been blown. The calls got longer, the tones lower as the summer progressed.
    “How do you know? She said that? Jesus. Yes, of course …
    of course! No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve told you why.
    This doesn’t concern—well, it doesn’t have to, then. You’re the grief counselor … ”
    I grilled Big Bill for information, but he refused to disclose anything.
    “It’s nothing.”
    “Is everything all right? Is Lulu okay?”
    “She’s fi ne. Just growing pains. It’ll pass.”
    The more I pressed him, the less patient he became.
    “Everything is fi ne . Now, drop it. Pass the macaroni.”
    But everything wasn’t fi ne. The calls continued, the tones remained hushed. Once, I stood outside Big Bill’s room in the darkened hallway, with my ear pressed into the slight opening of the doorway.
    “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “What makes you think the incident has anything to do with it? Of course I haven’t told them.
    We’ve already discussed that. Well, that conversation is just going to have to wait. No … no, I don’t expect I’ll be changing my mind.
    Yes, of course I am, of course I do. Damnit, you were complicit too, Mary Margaret, you can’t put this squarely on my shoulders.
    Of course I do … yes … of course … I understand that. Put her on.”
    I heard the bed creak. Big Bill heaved a heavy sigh. When he started speaking again his voice sounded weary. “Lulu, honey, I know you