The Evolution of Ethan Poe Read online

  “Whatcha up to, kid?”

  “Nothin’ much.” It’s our standard greeting, and each of us can tell by the other’s tone of voice whether there’s something behind it or not. Today what’s there is, “I miss you.” And for the first time ever, I realize that I’m not aware of anything like this ritual that he has with Kyle. No idea what that means; I’m just glad he’s here for me today.

  “Hey, listen, this is your mom’s long day at work. What say we head out for some road trimming, and I’ll pay ya a little something for helping.”

  “Sure.” I can add this to my tattoo fund! I throw my books on the floor of the cab and climb into the passenger seat. It’s a long way off the ground—a big truck that carries one of the highway snow plows in winter. “You still gonna help me rack up thirty-five driving hours so I can get my intermediate license?”

  “You bet, kid.”

  I know Mom will never let this happen. She’ll never let me drive around with just Dad supervising. If there’s one thing I do know about her objections to Dad, it’s that he always seems to be drinking something. Never actually drunk, as far as I can tell, just always drinking. There was one phase where he was trying to convince her he’d stopped, but she kept catching him with beer in his ginger ale cans. And there was another weird phase where he drank ginger ale from beer cans, almost like he didn’t feel like a beer but wanted to start a fight. Wanted to make Mom feel stupid, yelling at him for drinking ginger ale. The whole thing didn’t make any sense to me.

  We drive in relative silence, manly and cool, and my eyes fall on the roaring bear head tattoo he has on his right bicep while I’m busy thinking about how I might bring up the topic of Jimmy Korbel in a way that wouldn’t get Mom into trouble but that would inspire Dad to come home. But I don’t think of anything before we get to where he’s left the mower. He has a long stretch of fairly flat roadside to mow, the last time for the season, and there are already enough election signs poking their way along the edge that it’s a royal hemorrhoid to work around them. This happens every fall when there’s any kind of election, and this year there’s a lot of stuff up for grabs, including Town Council Chair. If we were a city instead of a small town, that would be like the mayor. I see Ida Mathis is running against Bob Bryant for that spot. Anyway, there’s a lot of signs already. They’ll multiply like cockroaches before the November election.

  My job is to move ahead of the mower, pick the signs up, wait for him to mow that strip, and then while he’s working on the area farther from the road to clear a little more land along the edge, I use the hammer from the truck and set the signs back up. Nobody will notice if I get them out of order. I wear his work gloves so I don’t get splinters from the wooden stakes.

  Dad finishes his extra strips before I’m quite done hammering signs back in, and he picks up about five CARL PHINNEY signs and tosses them into the back of the truck. “Stupid little prick has way too many signs out here, anyway,” he grumbles.

  We move on down the road a little, towing the mower behind the truck, and start the process again. I’m just about to start my work of replacing signs when an old Jeep Wagoneer, kind of a mungy brown, pulls up. Max is driving, with Sylvia in the passenger seat. I’m pretty sure he has his intermediate license already, and he’s working on the one hundred eighty days before he can drive unrestricted. The Jeep stops beside me.

  “Hey there, Ethan!” Sylvia’s cheerful voice hails me. I guess it’s okay to think of her as Sylvia out here, even though she’s Ms. Modine in school. “Helping your dad?” I try to look at her when I answer, but Max has climbed out of the car and is walking toward the back. He waits there. “See you in school tomorrow,” she says, and looks forward as though the truck is about to take off. I throw a glance to where Dad is, a little distance away and with his back to me, and then I move toward the back of the Jeep.

  Max seems like he’s not sure whether he wants to look friendly or aloof. It’s awkward for a second, and my eyes fall on a silver-colored thing stuck on the brown paint above the Jeep’s bumper. It’s that Christian ichthus symbol, with letters in it. Usually when you see one of these fish, if there’s anything inside, it says “Jesus.” But this one says “Darwin,” and it has little legs. I don’t have the mental focus to let this sink in.

  “Hey,” I say, as quietly as I can and still be heard over the noises from the idling Jeep engine and the retreating groans of the mower.

  “How’s it going?” he says, not really asking.

  “Where you headed?”

  He shrugs, looks at the ground for a second and back to my face. “Driving around, you know. Practice. Getting some cred with the folks in time to do the full license in a couple of weeks. Where are you with yours?”

  “Trying to convince my mom to help me get my intermediate. I took the course last year.”

  “What about your dad?”

  I glance that way again. The mower is now headed back toward us. “Maybe.”

  “Well . . . maybe after I have my full license we could, y’know, check out the sights.”

  My breathing shortens, and there’s a sensation in my pants that would cause my right hand to . . . uh . . . stumble if I were alone. The tone of his voice—silky, suggestive—tells me he’s gay, and he’s betting I am, too. “Sure. I, uh, is Bangor too far?”

  “What’s in Bangor?”

  “I was thinking of a tattoo. Something like that.”

  His eyes widen. “Sweet! Sure. Let’s do it.” He fishes in his pocket and comes up with a really cool-looking cobalt blue pen, only a few inches long. He takes my arm—which gives me shivers and makes my pants shrink a little more—and just above the inside of my elbow, in a place that won’t show very much, he writes his e-mail address and his cell number.

  I can hear the mower engine getting louder and louder. I’m unsure how to end this heart-pounding encounter, but Max solves it by offering me a fist bump. Most times when you do that, you pull your fist back right away; it’s just a thump. But his knuckles follow mine a fraction of an inch as I start to pull my hand back. It’s almost like our knuckles kiss for about one second. Then we both take a step back, he gets into the Jeep, and I go back to my signs. Though I don’t even notice what names are on them now. It isn’t until I get home, barely ahead of Mom, who might not like that I was out with Dad, that I realize I hadn’t seen one sign with Etta’s name.

  Over dinner that night, which has always been a family event at our house, Mom and Kyle get into an argument over politics. Doesn’t surprise me from Kyle; a sort of right-wing attitude has been growing more and more obvious in him. But Mom has a live-and-let-live approach to life, and it’s only when someone steps into what she sees as her personal space, threatens her individual rights, that she gets her back up about something. I still remember her reply to some guy who came to the door a year or so ago collecting signatures against some health clinic providing abortions. Mom said, “Well, I don’t think I could do that, myself. Abort a baby of mine. But I sure as heck won’t try and tell somebody else what they should do. And I don’t want you telling them, either.” She sent the guy packing, shouting after him, “Don’t approve of abortion? Fine! Don’t have one!”

  At first I’m not paying much attention to what Mom and Kyle are going on about, what with images in my mind of the kinds of things that could happen if Max and I drive around to “check out the sights.” Eventually it gets in through my erotic haze that one of the things Mr. Phinney’s campaigning for is bringing some new theory into science classes. You don’t grow up around here, with about one church every mile and a half—never mind that most of them are tiny and use a prefab ranch house for a building—without knowing that just about everybody calls themselves Christian, and for most of them that means evolution might be fine as a theory but probably doesn’t explain everything. But this is the first time I’d ever heard something suggested for a science class topic that sounds more like religion to me. I’m not sure I care very much; I’d rather disse
ct a frog than argue about that. And anyway, I don’t see why it’s anything to argue about. Kyle and Mom evidently disagree with me, because that’s just what they do. Argue.

  “Evolution is only a theory!” Kyle nearly yells at one point.

  “Yeah, so is gravity,” is Mom’s rejoinder, which makes me laugh. I’d bet on Mom in a battle like this one any day; Kyle just doesn’t have the balls she has. “I’m telling you, Kyle, believe whatever dang fool thing you want. That’s your right. But don’t try and tell me that intelligent design”—her voice sneers the term—“is science.”

  “It is so! Natural selection is a pretty poor way to make a human being. We’re way too complex. ID is the only answer.”

  She shakes her head. “Until you can show me a better theory based on facts—”

  “Facts?” Kyle’s voice is getting squeaky with emotion. I sit back to watch the fireworks. “Facts? Show me facts. You want to talk about the fruit flies?”

  “Fruit flies?” I venture quietly and realize my mistake immediately.

  “Fruit flies!” Kyle turns his face my way, fire in his eyes. “They say that because they can get fruit flies to mutate in the lab, that proves evolution is possible. But it’s the same kind of creature! They aren’t making a whole new kind of bug. Only God can do that.”

  Mom comes to my rescue. “O ye of little brain. So tell me why God couldn’t have set evolution in motion. Making only mutilated fruit flies from fruit flies hardly disproves evolution, you know. And it does prove it’s possible.”

  “It doesn’t prove it, though!”

  “Dear, that’s why they call it a theory. But it’s a theory based on provable data. What’s this ID stuff based on?”

  “We know the Bible is true. So we don’t need to prove anything.”

  Mom’s face is a puzzled scowl. “Where did you come from?”

  “More from God than from you, with your liberal politics.” He spits the word liberal.

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Kyle. I’m libertarian, not liberal. I want less government, not more. Which means I do not under any circumstances want that jerk Phinney forcing his religion down my kids’ throats and making me pay for the privilege.”

  “It’s not religion! It’s science!”

  Mom’s voice finally raises nearly to the level of Kyle’s, though it’s firm rather than hysterical. “If it uses the Bible for its ‘proof,’ then it’s religion. And having some ‘master intellect’ or ‘intelligent agent,’ which this ID madness believes in, suddenly poof various forms of life into existence is the creation story from Genesis pure and simple. If you can support this ID thing with facts and evidence, we’ll have something to talk about. Otherwise, it’s religion. Period.”

  Kyle won’t admit defeat, but he’s smart enough to shut up. Almost. “So you won’t vote for him?”

  Mom snorts. “Vote for him? I’m thinking of helping Etta Greenleaf! Now shut up and finish your dinner.”

  I don’t really think she’s serious. But I see a chance to change the subject, if only slightly. “You might help her put up some signs.”

  Mom turns to me and blinks. “What?”

  “There are lots of signs for Mr. Phinney along the highway. None for Etta.”

  She nods slowly. “That’s true, Ethan. Though I’m not sure what good signs will do. I mean, everyone knows her.”

  “But do they know that she’s running? And does she not want—what was it? ID?”

  Mom is still nodding. “She does not. She’s in this race precisely because she disagrees with Phinney. She doesn’t want to run, not really, if I know her. She’d rather go on keeping to herself, like she’s done for years. She just doesn’t want religion in science classes.” Her gaze moves away from me and into the distance someplace. “Maybe I’ll call her later.”

  Kyle groans and pushes his plate away from him. He starts to get up.

  “Young man! Sit yourself right back down there and finish your dinner. If you wouldn’t be so stubborn about trying to eat everything left-handed, you’d have kept pace with Ethan.” He throws her an angry look. But she’s ready. “Honor your mother! Commandment number five.”

  It isn’t just eating that Kyle tries to do left-handed. He refuses to use his right hand at all, and because he’s right-handed this means he can’t use a knife very well. He’s been eating his corn bread with the butter perched on it in chunks because he can’t hold it and spread butter with just one hand. Saving that hand for jerking off—oops—I mean stumbling, I wonder?

  Jorja is starting to worry me. It’s getting so it’s not only that she doesn’t care what other people think, but like she’s actually trying to get them to think she’s weird. I guess this isn’t new behavior; like I said, she’s always prayed rather conspicuously, which I always thought the Bible didn’t really want you to do, but I’m no expert. And I can’t pretend I didn’t encourage standing out from the crowd, what with the journey into Goth and all.

  Get this, though. We’re in our last class of the day, American History. Mr. Coffin’s class—he’s a descendent of the tannery Coffins, and he’s actually kind of cool for a teacher. Early thirties, I think, and good-looking enough. Anyway, we’re going over the Constitution and how it got written, and who wrote it, all that stuff. Mr. Coffin tells us about how some of the most famous signers didn’t consider themselves Christian, that they were more Deist and didn’t believe in miracles or prophecy. He says Deists believe God has some kind of grand plan for the universe but doesn’t get involved in the details of our daily lives.

  So he’s basically just told us that it wasn’t all good Christians who set up the foundation of the U.S. Knowing Jorja as I do, I’m certain she’s all tense and aggravated, believer in miracles and intervention that she is. But then it gets worse.

  The Deist issue was just background, evidently, because what we talk about for the rest of the class is how the Constitution sets up this wall between religion and government. We go over the Establishment Clause and the Free Exercise Clause, and then the class gets into a bit of a debate about whether church property and money should be exempt from taxes at all. I don’t pay a lot of attention; it’s not something I care about. But I do have to know it well enough to pass the class.

  In the end, Mr. Coffin makes the point that these two clauses together keep the government and religion out of each other’s way and allow everyone to practice whatever religion they want, even if that’s none at all. He says that the Constitution protects religion as much as it protects nonreligious people. But Jorja, who hasn’t said a word yet, finally can’t take it any longer. Her hand shoots up, and Mr. Coffin calls on her.

  “What about our Pledge of Allegiance? It says ‘under God.’ ”

  He nods. “The original version of the pledge, written by Francis Bellamy in 1892, didn’t have the phrase ‘under God’ in it. In fact, that wasn’t added until 1954.” He goes into a lot of description of the people arguing about whether it should go in or not, and then he says, “Great question, Jorja. Keep them coming.”

  So she raises her hand again. “In God We Trust. It’s on our money, and that comes from the government.”

  “Yes, and again it came into being much later than the Constitution, this time in 1864 in response to the religious fervor that surfaced during the American Civil War. So both of these standard phrases, which most of us associate with our country as though they had always been there, were added long after our government was established. And regardless of what they say, where they are, and who agrees with them, they are not in the Constitution, which forms the basis for the laws governing the way we live.”

  Jorja stands up at this point; raising a hand is not enough anymore. “This is a Christian nation!” she shouts. “We follow God’s laws!”

  “Jorja, sit down, please. I’m happy to discuss this point, but we must remain calm and avoid making proclamations.” He doesn’t have time to say any more before she grabs her books and stomps out of the ro
om. I sit there and watch her leave, blinking stupidly. What the hell? I mean, I know she’s serious about this stuff, but she can’t actually argue with history.

  After class is over, I try to smooth things a little for Jorja. Max is watching me, probably wondering what I’ll do. I walk to the desk and wait until Mr. Coffin looks up.

  “Ethan?”

  “Yeah, I, uh . . . I’m just thinking maybe you shouldn’t be too mad at Jorja.”

  He smiles. “Oh, I’m not mad at her, Ethan. But we all need to understand that the founders of this country wanted us to listen to each other’s opinions and discuss things intelligently, and above all to acknowledge the equality and rights of every citizen.”

  “Will you mark her down for leaving like that?”

  He takes an audible breath. “I don’t think you and I should discuss another classmate, Ethan. That said, though, I don’t think this particular incident warrants any harsh action. I do hope it won’t be repeated.” He nods once and goes back to collecting his things.

  I turn and see Max there, waiting for me at the door. He’s got a really sexy half smile on his face, and I’m sure I’m blushing. If only my skin weren’t so freakin’ pale. . . . Max leads the way through the door and into the hall.

  “Standing up for your friend is fine,” he says. “But she’s pretty off-base, don’t you think?”

  Talk about a rock and a hard place. If I agree, I’m disloyal to my best friend. If I don’t, I risk alienating the person I most want to kiss in the entire world. Someone who seems like just maybe he’d like to kiss me, too. I take the coward’s route and shrug. “She’s pretty religious. This must have seemed like some kind of lie to her.”

  “Sure, but she can’t argue with history, can she.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and he’s repeated my own words, the ones I’d said in my head just a few minutes ago. We are destined for each other.