Authors: Chris Lynch
Blood Relations
Chris Lynch
Part One
A New Game
F
AMILY WAS MY PROBLEM
. Not simply the obvious problem of
who
was in my family—my brother, Terry—but the whole idea of family itself. Where I come from, it’s a big word,
family
. You hear it a lot in my neighborhood. And it means the neighborhood as much as it means actual blood relations. It includes the guys you grew up with and the guys your dad grew up with and the girls they hooked up with and the kids they all squeezed out. It wasn’t all important that everybody in your “family” be all Irish; you could throw in a little Pole here, a little Goomba there, without it mattering too much, as long as they lived inside your boundaries and acted like you acted and were Catholic. What family was, mostly, was what it kept out.
But the new thing I was learning was that family was as hard to get out of as to get into. All the old jokes were coming too true for me: You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family; Family—can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.
Maybe they couldn’t shoot you, but they sure could break your head if they wanted to.
When I opened my eyes, lying there on the sidewalk in front of Evelyn’s house, the first thing I felt was confusion. Could this have happened? Could I have gotten my ass whipped just because I wanted to visit this particular girl, and because I was walking with that particular guy? Everybody has these scary, violent dreams, I told myself, but then you wake up sweating to find that it wasn’t real.
Or you wake up bleeding to find that it was.
Some of the blood was already dry when I reached up and touched my eyebrow lightly. Something was dripping, though, new and cold, dripping on my head. I looked up. Evelyn was standing over me, a sandwich bag full of ice hanging from her hand.
“You’ve been bleeding up my sidewalk,” she said, pushing the bag at me.
I sat up and took the bag. I didn’t even try to talk yet as I pressed the ice that felt so good into my crackling skull.
“This like an elephant thing or something, where you wander off looking for a place to die, and you pick my house?”
I could die now, I thought; I at least got her talking to me. She made me smile, even if she didn’t make herself smile. Not much ever did make her smile, actually.
“You going to live?” she asked.
I gave it a little thought. “I’m going to live.”
“Fine.” She turned and walked away.
“Wait,” I yelped anxiously, hurting my head in the process.
Evelyn turned, arms folded. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, trying to think of why she should. “Because I’m your guest. I’m in this situation because I was coming here to see
you
.”
“You were coming here?” she asked sweetly, “to see me?”
I nodded.
“I don’t recall, did I invite you?”
How mean could she be? For how long? Even blood wasn’t good enough for her. She didn’t wait for a response to that last one.
When she was gone, I sat there, my legs splayed out on the sidewalk in front of me, the ice melting in my hand but pleasantly numbing that corner section of my brain.
It’s not like I’ve got anything more to lose, I thought, climbing to my feet. I trudged slowly up the stairs and rang the bell.
The door opened. “Yes, who is it?”
It was Ruben. “Goddamnit,” I said, delighting him.
“Hello? Who is it, please?” he asked, looking past me. “Is there anyone there? Hello?” He stood on his toes to look over my head, then back down to look left and right, like I was invisible. “Hello, is there anybody out there?”
I turned around and walked back down the stairs, back toward home.
Maybe it was blood loss. Maybe it was the numbing effect of the ice, slowing me down, chilling me dead, taking away the pain from my head and now taking everything else with it. The small patch of temple gone dead with the cold, then the feeling spreading until my whole skull simply teetered up there like an empty shoebox.
Everybody else in the neighborhood seemed to have the deadness too. The eyes I met on my slow serpentine weave down the sidewalk showed me nothing. Nobody showed me any pity, not that I should have been looking for any. But nobody showed any surprise, either, at what must have been a pretty gruesome sight. And nobody showed any smartass, good-for-you sucker kind of pleasure that you might have expected.
Nothing.
No thing. Smaller than nothing and farther away than Jupiter, that’s what I saw they saw when they saw me. The high school kids I recognized, nothing. The couple strolling past me, licking ice cream cones and pushing a baby carriage together, nothing. One giant four-generation family massed on the front steps of a yellow triple-decker, nothing. Not that I expected love from these people, but I
was
looking for something when I took the trouble to look at them instead of at the ground. I mean, somebody should
notice
a thing like this, shouldn’t they?
I
would, if it was me. I’m hurt, I thought, and I don’t know if I will make it to the corner without falling and hurting myself more. I was walking sideways like a crab, dizzy and weak, and if I fell I would be left there on my face like a piece of garbage until I could get myself up and out by myself. Just then I got a picture of me like that, in my head, lying there alone, and I felt like I wanted to cry for him, for myself, the self I was watching there alone in a heap on the pavement.
By the time I turned the corner from Centre onto my street, Scotia, I’d regained some strength. I was walking steady now, but I still felt like I’d been hit by a car.
“What happened to
you
?” marveled Mrs. Ryan as she hung laundry on the clothesline in her front yard. Her clothesline in her
front
yard, like it’s attractive. “Come over here now, you.”
I went to her unquestioningly because I seem to automatically do anything I’m told by women my mother’s age. She took my chin in her hand and yanked it side to side to get the best look.
“You’re a good boy, Michael, so I know you didn’t start it. I hope you got the better of it.”
I shrugged.
“Try a piece of raw red meat,” she said, turning back to hanging her bloomers in the breeze.
“I’ll try a piece of red meat,” I echoed, already walking.
“Boy’s earnin’ his stripes,” Caughey called from his window, from where he watches every move on the street, every day, instead of working. The drapes didn’t even part when he talked, just ruffled a little bit.
“Who gotcha, the spooks? The ricans?” said the guy they call Southside as he drove his wheelchair right into my path. He was always doing that, springing out from behind his wooden fence to surprise people walking by his house, like a bridge troll. “Here, have a pull, tell me about it,” he said, shoving a forty-ounce, brown-paper-wrapped can at me. “Didja kick ’em in the balls? Kick ’em in the balls, is whatcha should do.”
I did hear a few disapproving tongue clicks, indicating not everyone thought this was great. And just before I got home, I heard Mrs. Healy moan from her porch, as her husband leaned over his fence to get a gander at me, “The poor mother, she’s just the sweetest creature on god’s green earth. She don’t deserve any more o’ this.”
“Ah, yer makin’ too much outta this,” her old man said. “Boy’s cuttin’ his teeth, establishin’ hisself. You’re the spittin’ image a yer brother, kid, more like that crazy damn Terry every day.” He laughed.
He thought it was a compliment.
Instinctively, as if I was smacking a mosquito, I lunged out and snatched him by his loose-skinned fifty-five-year-old throat.
“Stop that!” Mrs. Healy screamed, tripping as she hurried down the stairs, falling to her knees. Mr. Healy tried to pry my hands off but I had a vise grip on him. I was pulling him by the neck over his five-foot chain-link fence.
Mrs. Healy had gotten to her feet, her knees all scraped, and was slapping my arms. “Let him go! Stop it! Let him go!”
Mr. Healy was running out of fight, going purple and struggling less, when I turned to look in his wife’s face.
Then
I heard her.
Then
I stopped.
Mrs. Healy wrapped her arms around her husband, hugging him, holding him up. I leaned into him, pointing, the tip of my index finger touching the tip of his needly nose. “Go to hell!” I screamed. I turned to go and saw a circle had gathered around me to watch. My neighbors.
I walked around the circle, sticking my finger in every face. “And go to hell. And go to hell. And go to
hell
,” I said, to all the people who hadn’t done anything to me. Southside. “Go to hell.” Fat, flowered-dress Mrs. McMillan. “Go to hell.” The impossibly ratlike, pointy-headed, wide-hipped, ten-year-old Mason triplets with their filthy freckled faces and too small clothes. “And
you
go to hell.”
When I reached the steps of my own house, I dropped. I sat there on the bottom step, my legs stretched out into the sidewalk in front of me. The numbness from my head had spread, wending its way down and through me. I felt nothing everywhere. Did I just strangle somebody? Did a lifelong friend just crack my skull open?
Where was Sully?
Who
was Sully? How come he pulled out just before me and Toy got whacked?
Toy? Jesus, Toy. Did Toy make it?
The questions just rolled around in all that empty space way up there in my head. I couldn’t answer them, couldn’t get near them, couldn’t hold one thought long enough to figure it out.
When I was in first grade I was out sick the day they took the class picture. They took my photo separately when I got better. The print came back a month later, an eight-by-ten, and everyone got one. There was everybody in my class huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, stacked in three rows. And there was me, a cutout, a small oval with my gap-toothed, crew-cut face, floating toward the upper right-hand corner, above and apart from the rest. The oval floating head.
That was exactly,
exactly
, how I felt here again.
Suddenly, Terry was standing in front of me, leering, taking me in in all my wonder, knowing everything by now of course.
“Fall down, little boy?” he chuckled.
I lifted my head. “I did,” I said, almost as if this was a real conversation. “I fell in the forest, but nobody heard.”
“Gee, that’s a shame,” he said, giving my head a little sideways shove as he passed me on the stairs.
“Well then, you did have a big day for yourself, didn’t you?” my nurse said with a little smirk.
I had just explained to her what I knew about why I was there in the hospital with a concussion and a cracked sinus. It got harder for me to detail it, the further I got into the story, because things kept getting fuzzier. I remember little after seeing Terry on the porch. I think my father brought me in, yelling about what I did to the neighbors. That was the big thing, for the nurse—how I got myself all smashed up
and
choked a guy in completely isolated incidents on the same afternoon.
“Have they got you on Ritalin yet?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“I’ll mention it to your doctor,” she said, winking.
“Thank you.” I closed the bad eye so the good one could focus on her as she left. I was still trying to work it out when the nurse disappeared out the door and was replaced by...
I rubbed my eye.
She was replaced by...
I took the pills the nurse left me.
Evelyn.
The
Evelyn.
My
Evelyn. Heartless Devilyn Evelyn.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“I might be,” she answered. “Might be a hallucination. A medication thing. Or a conk-in-the-head thing. I wouldn’t trust it if I were you.”
