Chapter Text
When his parents were in town, Steve accompanied them to church.
Neither his mother nor father were particularly religious. They didn’t have a Bible in the house until last year when his grandmother made a surprise visit, all the way from Mississauga, and Steve’s mother shooed him into his car to buy the most used copy he could find at Powell’s Books. It was more that everyone in Hawkins, who was presumed to be decent, were seen at St. Thomas Aquinas at least once a month. To be presumed as good, the expectation doubled. Seen more frequently than that, and the town started whispering about closeted skeletons and fanaticism. Like they did with Mrs. Bradley, who found Jesus at the bottom of a bottle and hadn’t been able to taste anything else since.
And so twice a month, Steve shrugged on a blazer his father picked up for him in New York and sat with his parents near the front of the church. Always, they were flanked by the rest of the families who were there to be seen. Kneeling, singing, and necks craned in prayer.
Once a month, the Munsons were there too.
Religiously, Wayne and Eddie Munson sat in the back row, the former’s gaze fixed toward the altar, as if the rest of the congregation weren’t sneering in the pair’s direction. Wayne Munson, they did not mind. Even trailer trash was allowed through the hulking gold doors of the church, and he at least knew his place. It was his nephew that made each congregant bristle.
Eddie asked too many questions about the scripture. Eddie loudly challenged Father Gregory after each mass. Eddie head-banged and drummed his fingers on the back of the pew during the singing of hymns. Eddie refused to take part in communion. Eddie brazenly winked at Steve whenever Steve tossed a glance over his shoulder, and their eyes met. (And maybe that had less to do with the congregation, and more with Steve alone.)
Despite the congregation’s upturned noses and half-whispers thrown in the Munsons’ direction, Steve’s parents were never outwardly rude. Their comments were contained to family dinners and long-distance phone calls to friends in cities whose midnights were painted in refracted light from a mirrorball.
In public, at church, Steve watched his mother file onto the front lawn with the rest of the post-mass crowd and seek out Wayne Munson. When she found him, Mr. Munson was slouching toward the parking lot, as if trying to make himself smaller along the margins.
With a hand on his arm, Steve’s mother caught his attention. Her lips pulled into a smile as she asked about his job at the water plant on Fairlead. “I believe last month you told me that you and the workers were going on strike. Am I remembering that correctly? To encourage the state to increase the hourly wage?”
Mr. Munson froze, and his entire face flushed pink. Steve thought it was remarkable how even men like him – seemingly hardened by the world’s jagged edges – were not immune to the way his mother retained information about the smallest people. She was, as Steve’s father called her, a forever politician. Someone on the cusp of becoming a trailblazer, if only local politics didn’t suffocate any woman who tried reaching for more.
Steve lingered close by, half-listening and hoping to disappear in his mother’s shadow, but her light drew the congregation like flies. Unable to interrupt her casual chat with Mr. Munson, they turned their attention to Steve. One after another, they asked about his fall plans now that a high school diploma was framed in his bedroom.
He didn’t know how to say his plans fluctuated by the day, sometimes by the hour. How he debated enrolling in community college before the thought of more homework, more tests, soured in his stomach. How he thought about traveling across Italy with the savings beneath his bed, but his poor language skills kept him rooted to the U.S. How he thought about a road trip, an apprenticeship, a fishing license, a boating license, working at the pool, helping Mrs. Thompson with her home renovation, applying for a rookie spot in the Hawkins P.D., working with his mother filing complaints about the county, moving to Indianapolis to get a taste of the city. He thought about the military, about having to shave his head, about the legal implications of enlisting and defecting. He thought about running, not for sport but away from Hawkins, and not stopping until he collapsed, settling wherever his body landed.
The possibilities were not endless, but there were enough that filing through them all caused his throat to dry up and his mind to cotton. Symptoms that worsened around his father and the weight of his expectations.
Glancing across the lawn, Steve spotted him chatting with Mayor Kline. Thankfully, out of earshot.
Steve looked into the interested eyes of the churchgoers and lied. “I’m, uh, taking a gap year, actually.” He told them it was something he learned the summer his parents took him to London, which was the truth.
All of them responded similarly, eyebrows raised toward their hairlines, battling between confusion and admiration.
When he told Mrs. Wheeler, she said, “That sounds very sophisticated, Steve,” and a part of him wondered if gap years could be considered such, or if they only appeared that way to someone who knew nothing beyond the shores of Lake Michigan.
The crowd around him thinned, and Eddie snorted loud enough to draw Steve’s attention.
Steve’s back straightened. His mother was still talking to Mr. Munson, but Steve thought Eddie had disappeared. Off selling drugs to the burnouts behind Benny’s. But he was still there, sitting on the half-wall by the church’s entrance, tossing a pair of car keys in the air.
“You say something, Munson?”
The keys landed in Eddie’s grip, silver clanging against his cheap metal rings. “Gap year, huh?” He tossed them in the air again. “Fancy way of saying Harrington the Great couldn’t even buy his way into State.”
How the hell did Eddie know that?
Steve only told his parents and Dustin about the stack of rejection letters hidden in his top dresser drawer. The latter could barely keep his mouth shut, but he was positive Dustin and Eddie didn’t run in the same circles. He would know and intervene if they did. Then again, word always got around about whose kid was up to what. It was how Steve knew Tammy Thompson was moving to Nashville and that Carol had, surprisingly, dumped Tommy and headed out West to Portland.
No one needed to say anything concrete. The evasive way his parents said, “He’s figuring things out,” was loud enough.
A trickle of shame pricked the back of his neck. He should’ve worked harder in high school. He shouldn’t have been so stupid, to think his worth wouldn’t fizzle out with the dying notes of the graduation march.
Or maybe he shouldn’t let Eddie Munson send him into a tailspin. Not when, “Aren’t you repeating senior year? Again?”
He expected Eddie to tense up, caught like a hooked fish on his own hypocrisy, but Eddie remained infuriatingly unburdened. “Aw, Steve,” he said mockingly. “Can’t believe you remember anything about me.”
A rush of anger flooded his mouth. Steve hated Eddie’s shamelessness. How nothing embarrassing about him seemed to stick. Not the ridiculous way he was growing his hair, not the holes along the knees of his dress pants, not that his uncle could only afford to tithe a few dollars, not the very real fact that despite being a nerd of the highest order he’d been held back. Twice. Kick-me, I’m a loser, had been all but tattooed on his forehead, but Eddie remained immune to the societal weight Steve felt every millisecond; that constant urge to scrub away all abnormality until his skin felt raw.
Steve felt Eddie’s gaze linger on his back as he moved closer to his mother. She was wrapping up her conversation with Mr. Munson, ending with an invitation to the Harrington house for lunch.
On the first Sunday of the month, Steve’s parents hired a catering company to serve finger sandwiches, charcuterie, beer, and champagne, to the Who’s Who of Hawkins in their backyard. Others were invited too. The mechanic who worked on their cars, the cleaning woman and her family. Members of the working class who stood in awkward clusters, gawking at his family’s heated pool and eating little, despite his father’s encouragement that they should stuff themselves.
His mother had invited Mr. Munson before, but they always followed the same song and dance. Mr. Munson thanked her but declined. His mother grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze as she insisted. Mr. Munson thanked her again but delivered an excuse that may have been true. He had a late shift the night before and needed to get some rest. He had a few odd jobs he’d promised to do around town. Something at home needed fixing.
Only this time, Eddie ambled over, threw his arm around his uncle’s shoulders, and said, “Did I hear something about free food, Mrs. H? I think we can fit you into our busy schedule. Right, Wayne?”
Steve expected another protest, but as Mr. Munson looked at Eddie, the straight line of his mouth melted into a small smile. “I guess the boy’s right. We’ll be there, Laura.”
His mother gave them both a ten-watt smile.
Unlike his uncle, Steve could tell Eddie wasn’t charmed, but he faked it like the best of them.
His mother squeezed Mr. Munson’s hand again. “Glad to hear it.”
Over her shoulder, Eddie met Steve’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. Despite their bickering, a silent question pulsated between them. Steve could feel it in his fingertips, stretching all the way to his throat.
Steve shrugged, a non-answer, before his mother looped her arm around his and led him toward his father.