Hurt People Page 8

  My brother studied the palm he let burn.

  “Relax,” our mother said. She shifted in her seat so she was facing my brother. “You can help too, if you want. You and your brother.”

  “Yeah, good idea,” Rick said. “For once the world could use your hot hair.” He patted my brother on the back and I saw my brother’s face immediately change.

  “Don’t touch me,” he said. He blew on his burned hand, and looked at our mother. “Why would I want to help you?” he said. “Rick’s a jerk. Why would I want to help a jerk?”

  “Hey,” our mother said, and the rest of the room went quiet, though none of the zombies moved.

  “It’s fine,” Rick said. “I’ve been called worse. By worse.” A few zombies chuckled, and my mother glanced around the room uneasily.

  “You don’t have to help,” she said, “if you don’t want to. You can just stand there and be quiet.”

  “I don’t want to stand here. I don’t even want to be here. Why can’t we go to our dad’s or something?”

  Our mother sighed. Rick turned to one of the zombies to make what he must’ve thought would be an unheard remark. “Boy wants to run out on his mother. Must get that from the old man.”

  And true enough, my mother didn’t hear Rick’s comment. But my brother did. I saw his face, burning orange, change into a new kind of anger. Then he said something he’d never said before.

  He said, “Hey, Rick, why don’t you go to hell. Asshole.”

  My mother exploded from the table, knocking over her cup of wine. “What did you just say?” She pushed Rick out of the way and grabbed my brother out of the crowd, dragged him into the hall. She must have not wanted everyone to see her scold my brother, though with the music off and the zombies silent, we could hear everything. Her hand smacking my brother’s butt. Her saying, Look at me. Look at me. If you want to be rude, be rude from your room. My brother said fine. He would. He didn’t want any stupid cake. What kind of cake was carrot cake anyway? A cake with a vegetable in it? Stupid. A second later we heard the bedroom door slam. My mother returned, apologized to Rick and the rest of the zombies. He’s just mad about the pool or something, she said, and waved my brother’s anger away like it was a housefly.

  “That’s no excuse,” Rick said. “That boy needs to learn some manners.”

  My mother took her seat and looked around nervously until someone yelled for her to blow out the candles before the apartment burned down.

  “Yeah,” another zombie droned, “we want food!”

  Rick got on his knees so he was level with my mother. He looked her in the eyes. “Go on,” he said. “This is your birthday. Don’t let anyone spoil it.”

  My mother took a breath. Rick put his hand on hers and they looked at each other the same way they had at the golf course. Like they had their own secret.

  “Ready?” Rick said. “Make a wish.”

  My mother bent over the cake. I saw her thoughts go far away as she stared into the fire and visualized whatever it was she most wanted. She and Rick closed their eyes. They opened their mouths and blew, their streams of air rushing the candles until every flame turned into smoke.

  * * *

  I returned to my room. When I opened the door, the lights were still off, but I could feel my brother’s presence. He was seething on the bottom bunk.

  “Leave me alone,” he said, but I didn’t move. I stood in the doorway, wanting to help, to cheer him up. “Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “Get out of here.” He threw something at the door, not soft like the sock ball. It clacked against the wall, and I picked it up off the floor. It was a toy man, one of the good guys. He told me to leave again, and this time I listened. But as I left I heard my brother talking to himself.

  He said, “I hate him.”

  * * *

  My mother opened her presents while Cornbread and Sandy passed around plates of cake. All of the gifts were bottles of booze, some guy’s funny idea he got everyone to agree to. I took my cake to the sliding glass door, where it was just me. I had never had carrot cake before and didn’t expect the inside to be the same color as the rust on our van. After forking the cake around and deciding I wouldn’t like it, I stared out the door, thinking about the pool, Chris, the woods. I didn’t have a particular thought, just a sinking feeling, like I got when we used to take trips to the lake. Back when we were a whole family, our dad would borrow a boat and we would drive it out to the middle of the lake and cut the engine. This was the only time we escaped Leavenworth. My brother and I would put on life vests and swim out while my dad drank beer, argued with my mother. My brother would swim around, pretending to be an aquatic assassin, while I floated in the brown water, afraid to venture too far from the boat. I would lie on my back and stare at the sky, its gray as endless as the water around me, until the sinking feeling crept in. And in the middle of the lake, there were no sounds to comfort me, nothing except the water lapping in my ears. I realized I could stay out here all night and the waves would never stop lapping. I could take my vest off and sink to the bottom, the gray sky turning into a cold black, and still the lapping. My family would return to shore, hitch the boat to the van, and drive the long distance home. They would realize they had forgotten something, scratching their chins until my mother gasped when she realized what was missing. Me. They would speed back, search the spot I was last seen, but they wouldn’t find me. All they would find was the lapping, the sound of the big scary world, the sound of me left behind, forgotten.

  “I think it’s time for bed,” someone said. I looked up and saw that it was Sandy, standing above me with her hand out. She took my plate of cake and helped me up. “Pretty soon it won’t be pretty.”

  I had no idea how much time had passed. The party had thinned, but there were still strange adults everywhere—sitting on the couch, standing by the bookcase, falling into each other with their words. I glanced around for people I knew. Cornbread had apparently left. My mother was nowhere I could see. Two men danced to a slow song and everyone laughed. One of the men grabbed the other man’s butt and let out a scream. I looked down at my feet. I told myself I could always count on my feet. I know these feet. These feet are familiar.

  Sandy pushed me through the crowd. When we made it into the dim border of the hallway, I heard something familiar. It was my mother’s voice. I stopped.

  “I want to say good night,” I said.

  “Yes,” Sandy said. “I think she might like that.”

  She guided me to our tiny dining room, where we had swarmed to sing “Happy Birthday.” My mother was still sitting in her chair. There were three men standing over her, their shirts tucked under their fat belts. None of them were Rick, I saw, and I smiled. Sandy told me to go on, and I pushed through the men’s legs, heavy as church doors. Hey, one man said. Watch it. My mother had her head down, slouched, and was laughing into her cup. She sloshed around whatever was left before gulping it down. The men kept talking. One cleared his throat, lifted his pants by his belt buckle. No one saw me.

  I tapped my mother on her knee. Her dress was even softer than it looked. “Mom,” I said.

  Her eyes went big. They belonged to a pretty cartoon.

  “Hey! There you are!”

  “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  One man said something and another laughed. My mother shooed them away. She put her arm around my waist, pulled me into her. “Was it a good time tonight?” she said, her thick breath lingering on my face. “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it? I just wish your brother hadn’t done what he did. You’re not mad that Rick came, are you?”

  I thought about it. I wasn’t mad that he came; I was just happier when he wasn’t around. Though if it made my brother mad, I told myself that it should make me mad too. Finally I shrugged.

  “Good,” she said. “Good, good, good. Because I’m trying my best. I really am.” She put her hand to my cheek and rubbed my ear. “He’s not going to replace anyone.”

  I nodded again and loo
ked at my feet. The summer had just begun, but sandal tan lines were already starting to form. A line of white surrounded by light brown started at my big toe, climbed the face of my foot, and forked into two faint paths. I knew as the summer wore on and the sun grew warmer, the contrast would strengthen. Soon the difference between the brown and white would be much sharper, the choices of the paths that much clearer.

  “Hey,” my mother said. “Hey, look at me. Look at your mother.” She raised my head with her hand, and I thought of Chris. “You know, you were God’s best surprise? Did I ever tell you that?” She grabbed my cheeks, brought me close, and gave me a kiss on the lips. Longer, wetter than usual. “Your dad and I, we didn’t know you were coming, but we’re both glad that you did.”

  She licked her thumb and wiped my lips. I could feel the red on my mouth.

  “OK,” Sandy said. “Visiting hours are over.”

  My mother laughed, and I saw where the wine had stained her teeth. “Uh-oh, you better listen to the guard here. For your own safety.”

  As Sandy pulled me away, my mother squeezed my hand a final time, her short fingers the same as mine.

  “Good night,” she said. “Good night, my cute boy.”

  * * *

  I awoke from a pool dream. In the dream someone had taken my dad’s favorite tank top and thrown it into the pool. Why don’t you go get it, Dad? I asked. Just go get it. My dad chewed on the tips of his fingers before revealing that, the funny thing was, he never learned to swim. I reminded him about the lake and he said yes, but I never go in. I just drink beer. I got on the diving board and looked around. Where my brother was I did not know. He should be here. Where is he? He’s playing in the woods, my dad said. Get the shirt and we’ll go find him. Even in the dream I knew this was not a good thing. But it was a dream and I was not as scared. Standing on the diving board, I felt I belonged. I could live in the blue if I wanted, swim to any deep. I dove in. It was as easy as I thought it would be. The water didn’t push back against me. It didn’t pull me to the top, squeeze my lungs. I cut to the bottom, and when I opened my eyes, they didn’t burn. I grabbed my dad’s shirt and even though I knew it should have been heavy with water, it wasn’t. I swam back up, effortlessly, and the sun shone around me, spotlighting the boy who could do anything.

  I woke up laughing. The confidence from the dream carried over. I sat up in bed, fully alert, sure I was the best swimmer around. I threw the covers off and stood up, wet with sweat. But the wet didn’t worry me. It made sense. I was a professional pool person. I was someone who wanted to be wet. Unlike others, I was better then.

  I opened our bedroom door before I realized I was shirtless. I didn’t remember taking off my shirt before bed, but I took that as a sign. I stepped out and looked down our apartment hall. My mother’s door was open, which it never was when she slept. Her alarm flashed its red numbers at me, as if while I slept we’d lost power. As if a storm had passed unnoticed.

  I snuck down the hall to peep into my mother’s room, to see if she was sick. Maybe that’s why she left the door open, in case she had to run to the bathroom and throw up the carrot cake. Her body wasn’t there, though, no lumps in the covers.

  I returned down the hall, curious. Maybe my mother fell asleep on the couch, like my dad had. Maybe I could get a good look at her while she slept. Maybe she had a secret mark too, something that would reveal itself to me. Would she still be wearing makeup, or was that something she washed off before bed? Would her hair be back to its old self, or would silently I feel its new soft?

  I walked faster down the hall and peeked around the corner, eager to catch my mother, to see what she was like now. But what I saw was two people on the couch. My mother was there, yes, but she was not alone: Rick was there too, his hand on my mother’s bare leg, a box of wine between them.

  My mother sat in her bra. The top of her dress was pulled down to her waist.

  “I can’t,” she said. “They’re right around the corner.”

  She shivered, and Rick put his arm around her, brought her to him. “Is that it?” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Or is it something else?” He worked a finger under my mother’s bra strap, teased it from her shoulder. “I think you’re just not sure. I think that’s what it is. And I get that. I do. Shit, I know what it’s like to be alone.” He turned two of his fingers into legs and walked them down my mother’s thin arm. “But,” he said, “I also think you owe it to yourself. Isn’t that what you’ve been saying?”

  He moved his hand farther up my mother’s leg, until his arm disappeared completely beneath her dress.

  “Stop,” my mother said. “Rick,” she said, “quit.” But Rick didn’t quit. He opened his mouth on my mother’s shoulder, nipping at her with his teeth, and eventually my mother gave in. She leaned back into the couch and sighed, and Rick moved his face to my mother’s, his back swallowing hers, eclipsing her body. I stood there and watched. I listened to them breathe through their noses, moan through shut mouths. I wanted to leave, but I also wanted to stay.

  Rick pulled back and said something to my mother, gestured to someplace with his head. I could only see my mother’s face. It moved side to side to say no, though it did so with a slight smile. “C’mon,” Rick said. “I’ll be real quiet. They won’t hear a thing.”

  I didn’t hear my mother answer him, but I imagined her shaking her head, saying no, this is not what I want.

  “Wait, I’ve got it,” Rick said. He stood up, still holding on to my mother’s hand. “I’ll grab that fan. It’s so damn loud, it’ll drown out anything.”

  And before my mother could say anything, he hopped across the room, desperately searching behind the TV for the fan’s plug. He was so excited, so focused on the fan, he wasn’t even thinking about my mother, who I could see for the first time since Rick had smothered her with his back. Now I could see everything. I saw the red on my mother’s neck and shoulders where Rick’s mouth had gone. I saw where Rick had pushed up the side of her dress, where he had walked his hard hand up her pale leg. And when I looked closely, as Rick finally found the plug and the room went silent, I saw where my mother’s bra had fallen. I saw the pink of her breast.

  I looked away. I looked at my hand, which had been pressed against the back of the bookcase. It was covered in dust. Thick dust. I had missed this spot earlier in my cleaning. It hadn’t been touched in months. I held my hand up to my face, this hand that didn’t look like my own. I spread my fingers wide. I imagined my hands were webbed flippers, excellent for swimming. But unlike fish flippers, I could see through this webbing, and when I did, I saw my mother staring directly at me, her head tilted like our once-living dog. Her arm had fallen, revealing the rest of her breast. But she didn’t cover herself up. And she didn’t yell at me, or point above my head and mouth, Go to your room. This isn’t a place you should be. Her neck kept crooked, and she looked right at me, through me, as if I wasn’t there.

  Finally, she shook her head, slowly, and without blinking. I turned and ran back to my room. I got in bed with my brother, who for once, and the one time I wished that he was, wasn’t snoring. I could hear anything, everything. The apartment was all quiet. I lay there and I waited. I waited for my mother to walk back, to flip on the hall light, the yellow shining through our door’s crack, forming a straight-edged capital C. I waited for the door to creak open, for my mother to say, hey, we need to talk. She would walk me to the bathroom and sit me in the bathtub, where I went when I was in the wrong. I would sit there, staring at the bath faucet, awaiting my execution. A moment later the lights would flicker in our bedroom, and that’s how my brother would know I was a goner.

  I waited for this all to happen. I waited in the dark. I put my brother’s arm around me, my head on his chest, and waited. I waited and I waited, until dreams started to sneak into my head. I waited and waited, but my mother never came.

  six

  OUR DAD PICKED US UP the following morning. He actually came to our door in
uniform, and with a small box in hand. He asked if our mother was around, but true to her word to Rick, she was already at work.

  I sat in the back of the cruiser, where the criminals went, with my bag, which wasn’t zipped up all the way. There was a little hole at the end that gave the bag a mouth, and in my mind I turned the bag into a person, someone I could talk to. I asked the bag what was in the box my dad had brought. Was it a gift? The bag didn’t know, nor did it know why my dad had come up and knocked, and not just waited outside, like he normally did.

  I thought about these questions until we passed a prison. It hit me. My mother had told on me. She’d told him what I had seen the night before, how I was up late spying on people again. That was why he was here, to take me in. Don’t be an idiot, the bag said. He’s got bigger fish to fry. There’s a murderer on the loose. But as we drove around in the police cruiser, I couldn’t help but feel like the lake again. I thought of all the things I was guilty of: two counts of spying, talking to a stranger, lying to my mother.

  Oh, c’mon, the bag said. No one cares about that. You haven’t done anything really wrong. Have you?

  As we coasted by the second of three prisons we would pass driving through the city, I put my fingers in the wire screen behind the front seats, the barrier that separated the cops from the criminals, me from my brother and my dad. My dad’s arm stretched across the passenger’s seat headrest, a habit he picked up when he used to drive our family around. I shook the screen. I was the Stranger and my dad was the sheriff, my brother his deputy. I put my mouth right behind my dad’s head, so close I could almost kiss him, so close that my breath brushed his hair. Hey, I whispered. Let me out. Let me out of here.

  * * *

  We didn’t grill out that night. We went to my favorite fast-food restaurant, the one that served square burgers and soft-serve ice cream. The lobby was full of large men in prison-guard khaki who had just gotten off work. They stood in line, thumbs in pockets. There were also a few big-bellied men in dirty jeans—mechanics, struggling farmers. No matter who they were or what they did, my dad knew all of them. And they all knew my dad. Sometimes when we were in a crowded place like this, my brother and I would make bets on how long it would take before a stranger started a serious talk with our dad. But the time was never over thirty seconds and the game quickly lost the little fun it began with.