All the Major Constellations (17 page)

“Let's not,” John said.

“We can take 'em!” Andrew said, making a feeble attempt to stand up again.

“No, we can't.”

“Surrrrrre, we can.” As he spoke Andrew took a handful of one of John's muscular biceps. For a moment they remained in a strange one-armed embrace, John holding on to Andrew's wrist and Andrew holding on to John's shoulder. Then Andrew laughed and lightly shoved John away. “More beer?” he asked as he walked to the kitchen.

“I think we should stick with the whiskey,” John said.

“That stuff's too strong for me!” he shouted from the kitchen. Two loud bangs erupted from the wall. “That's it,” Andrew said as he marched toward the door, pumping a closed fist into his open palm. He wasn't even sure what he was doing or saying at this point, and he vaguely realized he was making a fool of himself. As he was opening the door and shouting curses, John grabbed him around the waist and threw him on the couch.

“Chill out. I mean it. They're, like, a biker gang over there,” John said.

“There's a biker gang fucking all night next door?” Andrew said, and then burst out laughing.

“Shhh,” John said, but then he dissolved into laughter as well. They rolled around the couch and floor, hysterical, overturning their beer bottles and popcorn. A cacophony of bangs on the wall accompanied their revelry.

After several unsuccessful attempts at calming down, Andrew announced that he was going to puke. He dashed off to the bathroom and vomited. He stayed and rested against the toilet for a while, dry heaving now and then but not producing much else. John knocked softly on the door.

“You all right?”

“I'm okay.”

Andrew stood and gazed at his reflection in John's tiny bathroom mirror. His eyes were watery and red. He touched his finger to his nose, which for some reason felt out of joint. He barely recognized himself.
It's not even me,
he thought. He washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face, and rinsed out his mouth. John had some mouthwash, so he used that, too. When he came out of the bathroom, John was sitting in a folding chair at his tiny kitchen table, also foldable, and staring at an unlit candle. Andrew sat in the chair next to him and picked up the candle. It was smelly and heavy and so large that it bore three wicks. Its scent was sickly sweet. He turned it over in his hands and read the stickered label on the bottom.

“Heaven Scent?”

“It was a gift,” John said.

“From Laura?”

John gazed at the ceiling and sighed. “No. Not from Laura.”

“Who then?”

“Karen.”

Andrew tossed the candle back and forth between his hands. “Did you fuck her or something?”

“Did I
what
?”

“Never mind,” Andrew said.

“Why? Did you?” John asked.

“Well . . . yeah,” Andrew said.

“Andy—” John said. He put his head in his hands.

“Don't you ‘Andy' me,” Andrew said. He punched John playfully. John raised his head from his hands and gave him a masterfully blank stare. It reminded him of Laura.

“What's the big deal? I mean, besides the obvious?” Andrew asked.

Somewhere inside his drunken haze, Andrew realized that he was trying to act cool about something he did not feel cool about, and that he was doing this because he hadn't been able to handle his alcohol. John drummed his fingers on the counter and continued to stare at the candle.

“Light it,” Andrew said, but then he realized the lighter was in his pocket. He withdrew it, but his hands were trembling.

“Careful,” John said. He took the lighter from him and lit the candle himself. They stared at the flames.

“It's Job, right?” Andrew said.

“What?”

Andrew stood up and grabbed the whiskey. He drank straight from the bottle, drank deeply, and then coughed back the acid that crept up his throat. He swayed and sat back down. “Job. The guy who suffers. Who is made to suffer? To prove a point or whatever.”

“Yeah,” John said.

Andrew coughed, gripped the table, and took a few deep breaths. John sat silent and still, watching him.

“Okay,” Andrew said. “Okay.”

“Andrew—”

“It's okay.”

“Whatever you're going to say—or do—next, you don't have to,” John said. “Because, I . . .” John began, and his voice broke into a sob. He covered his face with his hands.

“Shut up. Sorry. I mean, we can do—you can do, one thing. If you want. But only one thing. Okay?” Andrew kept his eyes fixed on the candle as he spoke.

After what seemed like an eternal pause, John said, “Okay.”

Andrew closed his eyes and surrendered to a swirling dark of dizzy blackness.
It's like moving through darkness.
Even so, he wished he'd drunk more. He thought about Laura. Or did he? He wasn't sure what he was thinking about anymore. It wasn't even a person. It was a nebulous creation, a mixture of every pretty thing that had ever tortured and soothed him. Marcia's tiny hands and pale soft skin, Sara's legs and hair and earlobes, Karen's angry glistening eyes, and
Laura Laura Laura Laura
Laura
. Floating spasms of beauty in front of him, just out of his reach, just grazing his fingertips. He felt John's huge caressing hand on his thigh, then on his stomach. Andrew flinched and tightened his grip on the table. John's hand paused, then slowly drew up to Andrew's chest and rested over his heart. He heard John lean forward, then felt his lips lightly press on the hollow of his neck. Andrew opened his eyes and pushed back from the table.

“Okay,” Andrew said, then stood up. Without another word or glance he walked through the living room and out the door.

As he walked down the hallway, he heard ecstatic moans coming from the neighbor's apartment. He felt unbearably aroused.

ANDREW WAS HALFWAY TO HIS house before he realized he'd left his sweatshirt at John's apartment. He cursed as he stumbled to the ground, where he stayed for a few minutes and tried not to puke. Slowly, he stood up. The sidewalk wavered beneath him. He cautiously took a step forward, then another one. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and looked up. Someone was staring at him from across the street. He wondered why. He took another step, then realized he was walking on his tiptoes. His arms were raised to his sides for balance, as if he were walking on a tightrope.

“I am so wasted,” Andrew whispered.

“No shit,” said the man across the street. He looked none too sober himself.

“I guess I wasn't whispering then!” Andrew yelled. Andrew
felt extremely clever when he said it. The man snorted. Andrew walked on, trying to appear nonchalant and in control. A police car drove slowly by, and Andrew kept his eyes on the ground and his hands in his pockets, his default physical position. He'd maintained this stance virtually his entire high school career. A defense position, he thought, like a Tai Chi–type thing.

The walk home took an hour; at least it felt as though it did. At some point he stopped and pissed behind some bushes. When he reached his house, he sat on the steps and stared at the stars. If he stared at them long enough, they swam and zoomed before his eyes like a magnificent light show. A magnificent light show. He thought of David and frowned. The door opened behind him.

“Andrew?”

It was Laura.

“What are you doing here?” Andrew said, his heart racing.

“I live here.”

Andrew looked up and down the street. He'd walked to Laura's house. For a moment he was so embarrassed, he thought he'd die on the spot. Then a drunken careless confidence took over.

“Look at this munificent light show. Brought to you by our Creator Himself!” Andrew said. He waved both arms toward the sky.

“Shhh. Are you drunk?”

Without looking, Andrew reached behind and pulled her
over to him. She stumbled, but he caught her and gently placed her next to him on the porch steps.

She rubbed her leg and grimaced. “I scraped my shin.”

“Watch the lights.”

“You are so drunk. And you smell like pot.”

“And yet my reflexes are still intact,” Andrew said, and then he burped.

“Andrew, go home,” Laura hissed.

“I was just hanging out with John,” he said.

“Oh?” she said slowly.

“We didn't go fishing. I can tell you that much.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you think we did?” He looked over at her. She was wearing some kind of filmy pink nightgown. “You're beautiful.”

“Where's John now?”

“And you apparently know what pot smells like.”

“Look, Andrew, just go home. We'll talk in the morning, okay?”

“We'll talk now!” Andrew said.

“Shhh. If my parents wake up, we're both dead.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

“Take my sweatshirt.”

“You don't have one.”

“Are you dating Matt?”

“No.”

“But you did?”

“Why are you interested in this?”

“Really, Laura? Really? You have
nooooooo
idea.”

Laura frowned and looked away.

“How 'bout John? Oops! Maybe not, eh?”

“Andrew, please,” Laura said. She grasped his arm and looked at him intently, her eyes pleading.

“Does everyone know? That's it, isn't it? Everyone actually knows that John is—”

“Stop, stop,” she said, putting her hands over his mouth. He kissed her fingers. “Go home,” she whispered. “We'll talk tomorrow, okay? I promise.” She stood up and kissed his forehead.

Andrew stood up. “The promises of Laura Lettel,” he muttered as he walked away.

This time he managed to get to his house. Instead of going inside he made his way to the backyard and collapsed. He thought about Laura in that ridiculous pink nightgown. Who actually dressed like that? It was as though Laura were trying to be a fantasy dream girl. Oh God, what nonsense. What was he thinking? Where was his Bible? In the absence of Marcia, who usually had all the answers, he needed to consult something else, some weighty text. He patted his pockets. He must have left it at John's apartment. In the sweatshirt.

The wet grass was seeping into his clothes and moistening his back. It was cold but oddly soothing. Like a gentle cool kiss from the earth. Like that kid whose heart froze when he ate too
much Turkish delight. What was that from again? Some book from his childhood. He'd loved that book. He wondered if he'd forget everything that he loved as he grew up. If as an adult, forty years from now, he'd forget Marcia and Sara. If memories of them would come to him only when he was drunk. The thought made him choke up, and he had to blink back tears that pooled into his eyes. Then he felt like a fool for crying.

The backyard was his brother's domain. Andrew hadn't really spent time here for years. All Brian's sporting equipment was stored in a special shed, built for that purpose. Brian had spent hours and hours out here tossing the ball around or kicking the ball around or bouncing the ball around. Andrew used to watch him. And then he stopped watching him. That was it. No story, no grand showdown. He used to be interested in his older brother, and then he wasn't. Brian had never been interested in him. Or maybe he had. Maybe when he was a baby and Brian was three, Andrew had been a source of fascination or amusement. And then one day he wasn't. They were like two would-be strangers peering at each other in the dark.
Who is that? Oh, it's you
.

“It's me,” Andrew said to the stars.

WHEN HE WOKE UP, he was very cold and soaked through with dew. His head ached with such force that he thought he might pass out. He rolled over on his side. He dry heaved, spat, and glanced at his watch. It was already seven. He was an hour late for work. Cursing, Andrew shot up, ignoring the pain in his head, and ran into the house.

Brian sat on a kitchen stool drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Get laid at least?”

Andrew ignored him. He let Becky out and threw some food in her bowl. He sped down the streets and drummed his steering wheel impatiently at red lights. He'd never let Neal down before. His friends, Becky, but never Neal.

When he reached work, Cory silently pointed him in the direction of Neal's golf cart.

“Neal,” Andrew said as he jogged toward the cart. Then he stopped, gasped, and doubled over. He dry heaved. When he stood up, he saw that Neal was watching him with a solemn expression on his face.

“You okay, son?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” Andrew felt humiliated.

“Not like you to be late.”

Andrew stared at his shoes. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“It's all right. First time for everything,” Neal said.

“Thank you. Ben's out by the pond?”

“Why don't you stay out of the sun today?”

“Okay.”

“You look like you've been partying.”

“Oh, I—” Andrew said.

“You're okay, son. Head over to west shed and tell Cheeve I sent you.”

“No problem,” Andrew said. He looked up and smiled, but Neal had already turned away from him. Andrew followed his gaze. Neal was watching Ben, who was hacking away at some bushes by himself. Andrew shoved his hands in his pockets and took off in the direction of west shed. He felt awful, guilty, and rejected. Work was the one place where he generally kicked ass, or at least didn't suck too badly. And now Neal didn't even want him to work with Ben. He was fucking up all over the place.

West
shed
was a misnomer. Like the shed behind Neal's office, it was a vast warehouse that had always struck Andrew as eerie. When he entered the darkness of the place, he was momentarily blinded. He heard a noise to his left, a soft shuffle, and then a cough.

“Cheeve?” Andrew said. He felt positively frightened.

“Hello?” a voice called.

“It's Andrew.”

“Oh. Hey. What are you doing here?” Cheeve stepped forward into the light. He looked perplexed and almost frightened himself.

“Neal sent me.”

“Working on some window boxes. You know how to handle a hammer and nail?” Cheeve said.

“Sure do.” Andrew straightened up when he spoke.

“Is that right?” Cheeve said.

They worked hard and spoke little. Andrew started to feel better, manlier.
We're just two guys hanging out and hammering shit,
he thought. No weird overtones, no gay subtext, no bullying.

Because I am a bully,
he realized. Andrew had teased John, interrogated him, drunk his booze, smoked his pot, ate his food, and threatened his neighbors. He'd also had some bizarre exchange with Laura, the details of which were vague in his memory. Had they kissed? What had he said to her exactly? He hammered harder in an attempt to vent his anger and guilt.

“You all right?” Cheeve asked.

“Aren't window boxes on a corporate building kind of mismatched?” Andrew asked.

“They're not for the main buildings. They're for the sheds. Make 'em look nicer,” Cheeve said.

“Weird.”

“I know it. Some busybody in corporate didn't like our ugly warehouses, so the window boxes became priority number one.”

Andrew didn't know what to say in response, so he just grunted in disapproval. They were too far away to join the others for lunch, so they sat alone on a shaded picnic table by the shed. Cheeve offered him half of his sandwich, but Andrew's stomach was still too queasy to eat anything. Cheeve asked him about his life, what school he was going to attend, and what he wanted to be. Andrew told him that he'd never given it much thought. Privately, he realized that this was because his obsession with Laura had clouded over any ideas about his future. But he told Cheeve that he assumed he'd study English or history, subjects he was good at, and figure out his life at some point along the way. Cheeve nodded as if this were the most sensible thing in the world.

“You've got a good head on your shoulders,” Cheeve said.

“You think so?”

“Sure,” Cheeve said pleasantly. “You're a good boy, Andrew.” He took a big bite of his sandwich. Then words came flying out of Andrew's mouth.

“I'm in love with this girl who is super-religious. So I
infiltrated her youth group and pretended to want Jesus in my life or something, so I could get her to love me. Or get her to make out with me. Or both. Shit, I don't know anymore. Then maybe I had these experiences with God or something. There's this guy, John, who's totally gay, and he likes me and I like him too, but I don't know about the gay stuff. I let him kiss me because I was bored and angry and . . . other things. I don't know. John is part of the religious group and they're pretty conservative, probably like anti-gay and shit. So he's all fucked up, you know what I mean? And also I slept with this other girl in the group. And my friend is in a coma. And my best friend is all wrapped up with taking care of her at the hospital, and something about it just isn't right. My mom doesn't care about me. And, Christ, my fucking brother . . .” Andrew stopped and put his head down.

Cheeve swallowed. “Hmm,” he said.

“I'm sorry I told you those things,” Andrew said in a small voice. He pressed his face into the picnic table, willing himself to disappear through the slats. “I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Stop apologizing.”

“Okay. Let's just forget—”

“Sometimes it's easier to spill your guts to someone you don't know that well. That's normal, okay? There's nothin' wrong with that.”

“Thanks,” Andrew mumbled.

“My wife died slowly. She was in the hospital, dying, for six months.”

“I'm so— That's terrible,” Andrew said. He picked his head up and placed his hand on top of Cheeve's arm. Cheeve glanced at Andrew's hand and patted it gently.

“I can't help you with the God stuff,” Cheeve said.

“I know.”

“Or the gay stuff.”

“I'm not gay,” Andrew said quickly.

“Whatever,” Cheeve said.

“No, really—”

“I mean it, whatever, it doesn't matter. And I doubt that bit about your mom not caring about you.”

Andrew snorted. “How do you know?”

“Sometimes, in a family like yours, the normal one gets the shaft.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“So you think
I'm
normal.”

“Don't be ornery,” Cheeve said.

“I'm not—” Andrew began before he stopped himself. Cheeve was right. And Andrew knew exactly what he meant. Instead of dealing with the shit storm of dysfunction that was Brian and their father, his mother had chosen to distance herself from
him.
And she had done this because he was normal, because he was safe. He might snap at his mother every once in a while, but unlike his father, he never yelled or hit. And unlike Brian, he didn't ignore her or treat her thanklessly.

“Okay, I get it,” he said.

“What's going on with your friend in the hospital?”

“Maybe she'll wake up; maybe she won't.”

“I meant the other one,” Cheeve said.

“Marcia? She's really smart. She's going to be a doctor. She's supposed to be getting ready for college, but instead she's practically living at the hospital and taking care of Sara. It's like they're drowning together.” As soon as he said it, he realized it was true.

“She sounds like she needs help,” Cheeve said.

Andrew plucked at his T-shirt. “What can I do?” he said.

“You know what to do,” he said.

Andrew felt like sobbing. The truth was that he
didn't
know what do to. How could anyone expect him to know what to do? At any rate, something was expected of him, whether he could rise to the occasion or not.

“Well, those goddamn window boxes won't build themselves,” Cheeve said.

They walked back to the shed.