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Chapter 11
The next time Group met at Timothy’s house, it was a little different.
It started with the usual hugs and greetings, but the pillows stayed piled up, and even a few pieces of furniture were moved to make more room.
Tonight was self-defense night. This was the first Group meeting Timothy was even mildly interested in, but he was still on the fence about sticking around.
On the one hand, he was all for watching David Carradine execute a flying kung-fu style high kick on TV. On the other hand, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to see his mom or any of the other Group ladies attempting to do the same in his living room.
The class was being led by Sarah, the woman he’d stolen the cigarette from. Turned out that Sarah was both a martial arts expert and a Kingston cop. If he decided to steal another cigarette, it should probably be from someone else.
Often people would bring wholesome snacks that smelled like the health food store, but tonight someone actually brought nacho cheese flavored Doritos, something his mom would never buy. Timothy hovered by the dining room table, crunching and observing as the class began.
“What is the first rule of self-defense?” Sarah asked aloud.
The assembled ladies looked around at each other--who would dare answer first?
“Keep your hands up in front of your face?” one woman guessed.
“Hit them first before they hit you?” tried another.
This got a laugh, but still didn’t seem to be the answer Sarah was looking for. She scanned the faces one last time to make sure there were no other wild guesses.
“The first rule of self defense is,” she said, “do not put yourself in a position where you will have to defend yourself in the first place.”
Heads nodded in general agreement.
“So, let’s talk about some places where we might want to think ahead about our own safety...”
Again she opened it up to the Group, but this time everyone had the right answers:
“On the street alone at night.”
“In a bar alone at night.”
“Passing a group of rowdy young men.”
Then Timothy’s mom said:
“In my office.”
And everybody had a big chuckle about this one, but Sarah cut right in:
“You might laugh, but did you know that 90% of women who are assaulted are assaulted, not by strangers, but by men they already know...90%.”
She let that figure sink in.
“So what’s the answer to that one?” someone finally asked.
“There’s no one-size-fits-all answer but, again, use your head. Don’t put yourself in a situation when no one else can hear you if you need help. And, if worse comes to worse...hit him first before he hits you.”
Biggest laugh.
Timothy was actually fascinated by this conversation. He’d gone out of his way on more than one occasion to avoid a fight. He’d always thought this just meant he was chicken shit, he’d never considered this was actually a sensible self-defense tactic.
Shortly, Sarah broke the women into pairs so they could practice some basic self-defense exercises.
The first exercises were verbal, and mostly involved looking the other person in the eye and yelling something very purposefully. This got loud very quickly.
Then, things started to get physical.
Cara, who’d been practicing with Anne, looked up and saw that Timothy was still watching from the dining room.
“C’mon Timothy, join us, it’s fun,” she said, which seemed particularly funny because just a moment before she’d been screaming “Back the fuck away from me!” in Anne’s face.
That night in his room, Cara had made a generalized invitation, but this was way more direct. She looked over to his mom. “It’s okay if Timothy joins in, right?”
His mom, who hadn’t fully realized Timothy was still there watching the whole time, was a little on the spot.
“Well,” she called over to Timothy, “you’ve been bugging me for karate classes, now’s your chance.”
Uh, yes, he had been bugging her for karate classes, but mixing it up with a roomful of angry, screaming women was not what he’d had in mind.
Permission granted, Cara stepped it up a notch.
“C’mon Timothy, you’ll like it,” she said, came over, took him by the hand, and pulled him into the living room. “You can be my partner.”
Sarah, making the rounds, offered to work with Cara’s previous partner, Anne, so it was settled.
“Okay, new exercise,” Sarah called out, “one person on top, one person on the bottom.”
She demonstrated with Anne a move that was designed to get you out from beneath someone if they were on top of you.
“You can be on top first,” Cara said to Timothy.
Cara lay down on the oriental rug and Timothy, awkwardly, climbed above, his knees on either side of her hips. Gradually, he shifted his weight, until more of it was resting on her belly instead of on the floor. It was almost like riding a horse, except she was looking up at him the whole time.
“Pin down the shoulders,” Sarah called.
Timothy hesitated.
“It’s okay,” Cara said, cheerful at every turn, “you can’t hurt me.”
Leaning forward, Timothy placed his hands on Cara’s shoulders. This required putting his face much closer to hers. He sensed something vaguely wobbly beneath her shirt. Living with women, he knew just enough about brasiers to guess she wasn’t wearing one. He tried not to look too directly into Cara’s face as he awaited Sarah’s next instruction.
“Person on the bottom,” Sarah said, “reach for the elbow...the attacker’s arm is attached to his torso, this is simple physics...use the arm like it’s a handle connected to a pot...lift up...up, and...push over.”
Cara did exactly what Sarah instructed, she had no difficulty whatsoever getting Timothy up and off her, though she did this gently and non-aggressively.
They practiced this several times.
“Okay, let’s make this a little more challenging,” Sarah said. “Person on top, pin the arms down.”
Timothy looked around the room to see if anyone else was watching this very physical exchange going on between him and Cara, but everyone was concentrating on their own physical exchanges, no one paid any attention to them in the slightest.
Sitting atop Cara, Timothy leaned over a bit further in order to pin down her arms. This meant that their faces were a lot closer, and that their chests were beginning to make contact. It was much like the previous move, but this one was undeniably more intimate. Their breathing was harder from the exertion.
When Sarah gave the next instruction, Cara followed, pressing her pelvis upward. Utilizing her core strength like this would be effective even if Timothy were bigger and stronger. With her back arched she was able to use Timothy’s weight against him and knock him off top.
Like the previous move, they practiced several times. It was kind of fun to figure out how this worked, actually.
“Okay, switch,” Sarah called out.
Timothy took his place lying on the floor. He was glad for the rest, and also imagined it would be less awkward to be beneath Cara than the other way around. But when Cara climbed on top of him and used her weight to press his hips to the floor, the sensation was equally strange, but from a different angle.
“Pin down the shoulders,” Sarah called.
“Ready?” Cara asked, smiling down at him.
“Ready,” Timothy said.
As Cara leaned forward, her shirt billowed ever so slightly, but it was just enough to set her breasts swaying freely above Timothy. This was a detail Timothy could not help but notice. The slight loosening of her shirt also seemed to release a fragrance, equal parts perfume and light perspiration.
Timothy thought he felt a drop of sweat fall from her forehead onto his.
“Person on the bottom, reach for the elbow,” Sarah said.
Timothy heard Sarah’s voice, but it was as if it was coming from a different room, or a different world, even.
For the moment, he just lay there, not doing anything but looking up at Cara, who continued to smile back at him.
Timothy had imagined this experience might be at least just a little bit like the karate class he was not going to get any time soon.
But this wasn’t karate.
This was...
confusing.
# # #
The next afternoon, Timothy stood facing his bedroom mirror, a singularly excellent place for shadow boxing. He’d hung with the self-defense class long enough to pick up a few more techniques, now he had some new moves.
“Silly Love Songs” by Wings was dribbling out of his alarm clock radio. The bass line was catchy, but the song did not exactly pump him up.
Timothy had only gotten into the habit of listening to WBPM because it was the station that announced school closings when it snowed, somehow he’d never thought to change it until now.
Where was that piece of paper Charles had given him? Which jeans had he been wearing that day? Digging through the laundry basket, he found the note with 101.5 FM written on it in the back pocket of his Lee jeans.
He dialed a few notches to the right to WPDH. The song just starting was one he immediately recognized from Charles’ bedroom. Maybe he didn’t remember it was the first track on Led Zeppelin III, or that it was called “The Immigrant Song,” but the guitar and screeching vocal all but blew his hair back.
We come from the land of the ice and snow
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow!
The tiny speaker in his alarm clock radio was exploding. He faced off afresh in front of his mirror with the energy of a Norse berserker. He could picture Crazy Carl’s older brother Mike floating right there in front of him.
Raising his fists, he faked with his right then, with a quick rotation of the shoulders, he jerked his hand back toward his chest and BAM, surprise elbow strike to the face!
“Yeah, I’m a queer bait?” Timothy said to the mirror, “then what does this make you?”
Cartilage crunches, blood splatters everywhere.
“Who’s the queer bait now, mother fucker?”
Somewhere downstairs, the telephone rang. A few moments later, Cathryn knocked on Timothy’s door as he was wiping the imaginary blood from his elbow.
“Phone call,” she called, loud enough for Timothy to hear over the cranked radio.
Turning the music down, Timothy ran downstairs and scooped up the receiver, which was dangling from its twisting cord on the kitchen wall.
“Hello?”
“Timothy, it’s Charles. How quickly can you get over to Bailey?”
# # #
J. Watson Bailey Junior High wasn’t so far away. Although Timothy had never been inside, it was right next to Forsyth Park where he played sometimes, so he knew it was an easy bike ride.
School had ended 40 minutes ago, the buses were long gone. Even the faculty parking lot was mostly empty except for a few dedicated teachers and the custodians.
Timothy pulled hard on what seemed to be the main door. Locked. The place was twice the size of his elementary school, where to begin?
“Timothy!” Charles called from an open window. “Meet me at the end of the building, I’ll come down and let you in!”
By the time Timothy reached the stairwell exit door, Charles was holding it open for him. It felt like he was sneaking in somehow as the door slammed shut with finality behind them.
“So this is Bailey,” he whispered aloud, as much to himself as to Charles.
The hallways really were lined with lockers, just like in the movies. Timothy could envision a chaos of towering teenagers, bumping from one class to the next with quick stops in between. So much independence, so much intrigue. Even the student artwork hanging on the walls had depth and shading, like it was done by professional artists.
Charles led Timothy up to the top floor and into the science lab.
“Mr. Carlson, this is my partn-, uh, friend Timothy.”
Mr. Carlson, who was sitting at his desk grading papers, rose to give Timothy a proper handshake.
“Hello, nice to meet you Timothy, welcome to the science lab,” he said. “So, you’re interested in hydrology too?”
Timothy looked to Charles.
“The study of water,” Charles clarified.
“Yes,” said Timothy, “I’m interested in hydrology.”
“Excellent, well, welcome welcome...Charles is conducting some water analysis over in the corner there, please be my guest, join right in...”
Mr. Carlson got back to grading his papers, happy to have students using the lab who actually seemed to love science.
Charles explained the process to Timothy, which was basically a lot like the test Timothy had already conducted, except there was a whole series of litmus-type strips, to test for a much wider range of chemicals.
“We’re just waiting for these last strips to soak up the water...”
Timothy’s eyes wandered around the science lab. Past the beakers and burners, there was a morbidly realistic model of a human being with an open body cavity. Is that really what it looked like? The organs were way more crammed in there and gnarly-looking than he’d imagined.
“I could be wrong,” Charles said, looking at the results of the last sample, “but it looks like we’ve got some toxic stuff in here.”
He and Timothy marched the little bottle with the test strip back up to the front of the room along with the corresponding chemical-identifying manual.
“Mr. Carlson, does this water have benzene or toluene in it?”
Mr. Carlson set down his red pen, adjusted his eyeglasses, and compared the test bottle to the small print in the manual.
“Looks like both to me. Where did you get this water from?”
“Let’s just say this water sample is from a stream in our area,” Charles said. “Would you say these results are...concerning?”
Mr. Carlson held the water up for examination again. To the untrained eye, it looked more-or-less innocuous, other than the slight green tint.
“This is water from a local stream?” he asked, incredulously.
“It is.”
“Well, if you found benzene in a local stream,” Mr. Carlson said, “then yes, I would find this very concerning.”
# # #
Charles had missed his bus. Timothy volunteered to walk Charles home, at least part of the way, so they could continue conversing about their findings. Timothy would still have time to coast downhill and be home for supper.
“I think it’s time to investigate the quarry,” Charles said.
“We’re gonna have to break in,” Timothy said, “the gate is locked.”
“Timothy, that’s a code 140.05...you’re not actually suggesting we break the law, are you?”
The stunned look of guilt on Timothy’s face was almost immediate.
“I’m just messing with you,” Charles laughed heartily.
Timothy let out a nervous laugh, relieved, mostly.
“Anyway, there might just be another way in,” Charles said. “I was in that quarry once.”
“You were?”
“A kid I know lives right around there, took me dirt biking all over the place. I’m gonna reach out to him, see what he knows. Maybe he can get us in there.”
“That’d be...great,” Timothy said, still a bit dazzled by Charles’ knowhow and connections.
They were about halfway up the hill between Bailey and Hilltop Acres. Charles was taking the incline in stride, while Timothy leaned in a bit to keep pushing his banana saddle by its curving chopper handlebars.
“Lemme ask you something,” Charles said. “Does anyone ever call you Tim?”
“No, just Timothy.”
“Not even your mom?”
“She calls me Timothy... my neighbor Mr. O’Connor calls me Timbo sometimes for some reason.”
Charles gave his chin a scratch, like he was considering the merits of this.
“Timbo’s not bad, but we can do better.”
“For what?”
“If we’re gonna do this thing, you need, like, a really good cop name.”
“What’s wrong with Timothy?”
“Nothing, for everyday usage it’s quite a nice name, actually. But for a detective, Timothy doesn’t quite cut it... how about T-Bird?”
“T-Bird?”
“You know, like the car?”
Timothy thought about it for a second.
“What’s the T stand for again?”
“It stands for Thunder. Thunderbird.”
Timothy pondered again.
“I can deal with Thunderbird... What are we gonna call you?”
“I’m Charles Lambeau, Jr.”
“I know, but what’s your detective name?”
“Are you kidding, do you not remember who my father was? In this town, you cannot get a better detective name than Charles Lambeau, Jr.”
So, with that, the matter of their detective names was decided.
They continued walking together until they reached the spot where the sidewalks ran out.
“Well, I guess you’d best head home if you’re gonna make it there by five,” Charles said. “I’ll talk to that kid with the dirt bike and call you as soon as I know something, okay Thunderbird?”
Timothy did like the sound of that.
“Okay, Lambeau.”
Pushing his bicycle most of the way up the hill now paid off, Timothy barely had to pedal once on his way home.
With the wind in his hair, he said the name “Thunderbird” to himself and, for a moment, it really felt like he was flying.
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That definitely was confusing.
Nacho cheese flavored Doritos as a snack for the self-defence class. You convey the flavor of those days flawlessly.
Now I'm secretly hoping for a Bruce Lee cameo...