Breaker (7 page)

I don't do well with authority figures, never have. So when I wake up late in the day and find Edson sitting in my living room, talking to himself, muttering something I can't hear, it bothers me. Not his visit, but his unannounced presence, and what it signifies. His boss. My boss. Frank.

“Ray, Ray, Ray…whattaya say,” he mumbles, the light fading, outside a rat-tat-tat of something hitting a fence, a slice of orange bisecting the front windows.

“Eddy,” I say. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

I stand there in my boxer shorts, a soft fuzz on my face, a pale, puffy marshmallow man with hands like anvils at my side.

“Mr. Frank—you know, the guy, the man with the plan,” he says, running his hands over his white hair, a nearly empty pint of cheap gin on the table, gray stubble on his face, bloodshot eyes. Next to it sits a pistol, the whore of handguns, a nine-millimeter—this one with pearl grips.

“What about him?”

I've never met the man, and kind of want to keep it that way.

“He pays for it all, you know, right, Boom-Boom?” Edson asks. “He's the cash, the front, the stakes.”

“Yes, we've talked about this before, Edson. I know how it works.”

He cackles.

“He just wanted me to check up on you. You never answer the phone, the emails, nuttin'. You missed a fight the other day. Every other Tuesday night—you know the drill.”

I look at the table in the corner, where a laptop sits, closed, a flip phone, also closed, and a black rotary dial that dates back to my childhood. They're all covered with dust.

I take a breath.

“Wasn't feeling well, Ed. Didn't realize attendance was mandatory.”

“Heh, yeah, mandatory. What a maroon,” he whispers under his breath, rubbing his face with his right hand. His eyes go cold for a moment.

“What?” I ask.

“Don't play games with me, Ray. You think I like coming here? Jimmying the lock as the peeping mouse that lives next door watches me through the cracks, stinking of rotten cheese? Sitting here waiting for you to wake up, 'cause I'm an old fart who would probably piss his pants if you ran at me, and tried to hurt me?”

His eyes well up, and I feel a stab in my chest.

“Eddy…”

“No, fuck you, Raymond.”

I grit my teeth. He never calls me Raymond, and he knows why. It's what my mother called me, especially when she was angry.

Raymond, why is this door locked, what are you doing in there?

Raymond, sweetheart, I went to your school today—the principal called again.

Raymond, do you know anything about the incident in the alley? Darling? Honey?

“I should have gotten out of this racket a long time ago,” Eddy says.

“Did the big guy say something to you, did he do something?”

It's cold in the apartment. I only came out of my room to piss, and I'm standing here in my boxer shorts, the old man on the couch like a drunken troll.

“No, Ray. Not yet.”

I take a breath and think about what he just said.

“You into him for something, Edson, money—favors?”

“No, Ray, I'm just low-hanging fruit.”

I nod my head.

“He knows you don't got nobody, really, just that mess of a sister….”

“Hey…”

“…and she'll probably off herself before anybody else does…” he continues, mumbling.

“Eddy, what the hell…”

He looks up at me.

“No offense, buddy, but you know the score. She's one long night at The Mutiny away from a-beer-is-a-shot-is-a-speedball waking up dead.”

I open my mouth and shut it. He's right. Sober or not sober, mostly or not at all, she's a ticking time bomb, always has been. How do you threaten to kill someone that's already dead?

“I didn't come here to do nuttin', all right? Just to check up on you, make sure you weren't dead, or gone insane, or in trouble. I don't even like carrying that gangbanger special around wit' me, you know?”

I nod.

“So do me a favor, okay? Show up a week from Tuesday, like you always do. Can you do that?”

I nod again.

“And if you're gonna run, can you do two things first?”

I stare at the old man, a pressure building up at the base of my neck, my temples throbbing, a headache coming on.

“Package up that sister and take her with you, and get me word first—okay?”

I take a deep breath, in and out, and close my eyes, rubbing my neck, my face, and my eyelids—stars erupting on a black canvas.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He nods.

“I wasn't planning on running, Eddy.”

“No. Not yet, you aren't. But that day isn't far off, I don't think.”

I cross my arms.

He's right.

“Not sure where you'd go where you wouldn't stick out. Where exactly do those abdominal snowmen live, the Himalayas?”

He grins.

So do I.

“Fuck you, Edson.”

“That will cost extra,” he cackles, picking up his gin bottle and gun.

I wrinkle up my face in disgust.

Edson stands up, the age washing over his face, the shadows filling in the room, his knees popping as he straightens his back. He looks out the window to the horizon, as what's left of the daylight vanishes over the trees and buildings.

“How long has she been gone now?” I ask.

“Twenty-two years,” he says.

He doesn't mention Betty much, but I knew he was thinking about his wife. When he's standing in the warehouse smoking a wet nub of a cigar, staring off into space, I know he's thinking of her. When his eyes are all glassy at the edge of the ring, rubbing oil into a set of gloves, I know he's thinking of her. He'll never run, Edson—it'd just be that much longer until he's with his beloved. He won't do it himself, but he doesn't push death away.

“And your parents, how long?” he asks.

“Not long enough,” I say.

I lie in bed after Eddy has gone, thinking of the possibilities.

My room is sparse—a mattress on the floor, thick canvas drapes blocking out the light, a simple wooden end table from Salvation Army. Hanging in the corner is a heavy bag, eighty pounds and brick red, almost five feet high. On the nightstand is a tan candle, burned down to just an inch left in the glass container, the smell of leather and patchouli drifting to me—a present from Stephanie.

After Edson left, and the weight of his words sank in, I hit the bag until I couldn't feel my fists any longer, the buzzing of gnats around my head a physical manifestation of my dark and wandering thoughts. A hot shower, steamed until numb, and four bowls of oatmeal (butter and brown sugar, please) to try and fill the void.

But now I can't fall asleep.

I have money. Not a lot, maybe ten thousand dollars. Enough to run, but not enough to really live.

Then there's the issue of Stephanie. As angry as Edson made me with his judgment of my sister, that day is coming, too—found in a bathtub of her own blood, a slit wrist hanging over the edge of the porcelain rim, eyes glassy and open wide, the palpable horror, her last vision one of surrender and defeat. Or a trip to the bathroom, after a night of drinking, sucking cock on her knees for just a little bit more attention—no longer sober, coke or meth, her eyes red, her skin pale, track marks, and the dull stench of rotting from the inside out.

It seems unavoidable.

And Natalie. I've grown attached to the imp, her kindness and recognition such a fleeting and rare occurrence. She is not afraid of me, never has been. She is growing up so fast, and yet is still so naïve. She has to toughen up, or the boys down the street will get to her—them, or somebody else. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She has so much potential—but for what? The longer I live next door, the more I hear her parents fighting—about money, sex, failure,
fuck you, asshole
and
don't be such a bitch
and
get out
sprinkled between the broken glasses, the slammed doors, and the tears—sometimes she leaves, sometimes he storms out, now and then, the kid.

I fear for Natalie's safety.

Her future is bleak.

And for some reason, I care.

I see myself in her, I suppose.

There is potential for the child to withdraw, to hate, to become like me. There is potential for angry fists and spiteful hands, her existence an insult, her presence a reminder of all that has failed, and all that will continue to fail. There is never enough money, never enough time, and never enough done right—by him or her or both. She might one day become visible, something that simply needs to be erased, the only way to start over—a husband tired of the nagging, a father tired of the job, a man eager to run free and wild, out into the world unadorned, on the lam, broken. I see in the father's eyes, under the greasy brown hair, buried deep, a violence I recognize as my own. He will take it, and work hard, disappearing for hours, days, returning because he has nowhere else to go, resentful of everything he sees—but only for so long. The mother oozes entitlement, with no desire to nurture, long dark hair in a ponytail, her makeup always perfect, except when there are tears running down her rosy cheeks. She is what Natalie could become, and in that I see a monster—vengeful, cunning, and eager to lash out with her sharp tongue, quick to cut open her family and friends.

They were happy once, those two. I remember the laughter, the music, the banging on the walls not from fists, but from the headboard. And in all that time, in all of these years, never have they said a word to me. I am a ghost to them, a presence that haunts our shared space, but nothing real—something to be avoided.

I can't just disappear. So what then?

I must fight.

I must negotiate the terms of my freedom.

Perhaps there is something I can teach Natalie before I go, things I can show her, or tell her, to prepare her for what will inevitably come. She is smart, without a doubt. And she is not so bitter, so withered, that she is beyond repair.

I can at least do that.

Outside I hear cars accelerating past, a honk of a horn, a low mumble of voices mixed together,
Daddy, come here,
a siren from far away, getting louder and then fading again, a dog barking, then two, then three, a man yelling
shut up
and then one dog, and then a yelp, then no dogs, a car door slamming shut, a bottle breaking, a garbage can tipping over, a cat meowing, the low rumble of a bus lumbering past, the hissing of doors opening and then closing, a
see you later
and a trunk shutting, a voice asking
can you
help me with this please,
overhead a plane flying low, to or from O'Hare, a radio playing, bass and then drumbeats, the wind picking up, droplets of rain against the window, a horn honking,
screw you,
brakes squealing, more honking, the rain picking up, battering the window as my eyes close, and I drift off to sleep. There is so much life around me.

And yet, I feel empty inside.

I stand outside the door to my mother's bedroom, pushing it open just a crack, a sick feeling in my stomach. The faint scent of her perfume drifts out from inside—jasmine and rose, lily and vanilla, sandalwood with a hint of pine. That last note would be the glass of gin I leave on her bedside table, a generous pour every now and then, evaporating over time, as I pretend that she's drinking it from beyond the grave. The lamp is still on, a black cut-glass and bronze creation with a purple pleated shade, magenta crystals running around the frilly edge. I always thought it looked like it belonged in a whorehouse. My mother said it was from France.

The room remains dark and muted, the heavy velvet drapes blocking out most of the light, a dark red that pours down the wall and onto the floor. The wallpaper that wraps around the inside of the room makes my head spin—a gold, olive, and black pattern of fleur-de-lis, curved lines, upside-down pineapples, and ornate scrollwork that makes me feel as if royalty has just stepped out of the room. Two brown leather club chairs sit to one side, a glass table between them, holding nothing but a round ashtray made of vintage amber glass, a pile of long, thin cigarettes in the middle, nearly overflowing, her burnt-sienna lips left on the filter of them all. The brass bed is dull and faded, with scrollwork running up and down the shafts, ending in sinewy claw feet, talons grasping chipped spheres. And on the far wall is a painting I try to avoid looking at, a reproduction, but disturbing nonetheless. It is an oil painting, one that always looked crude and rudimentary to me, and yet I can never take my eyes off of it. It is by Francisco Goya, and it is titled
Saturn Devouring His Son
. What she saw in this painting, why she hung it in her bedroom—it told me everything and nothing about her, it defined her, and let me know that I really didn't know my mother at all. It is horrible, the open mouth of Saturn, the head of his child gone, torn off, one arm inside his gaping maw, his eyes wide open, as if in horror, or shock, or under a spell.

My stomach clenches, and I want to retreat. But I don't. I can't. Because I still don't know to this day what happened, what's truth and what is in my imagination.

She hands me her cigarette to hold, but I miss it, the hot cherry pushing into my arm, me screaming and pulling back, her voice echoing into the room as it falls to the floor below me.
Careful, honey, you okay?
Up and down my right arm are a dozen little circles, pink where the flesh should be white.

Washing my hands again and again, the water hot at first, then hotter, telling her it was too much, chastised for whatever I touched or handled—my penis, the garbage can, her own cigarettes.
Oh it's not that hot, see?
And she holds her hands under the water and nothing…she doesn't move, her skin pale, never turning pink like mine, not a flinch or a moment's hesitation.

At one point she was convinced I had a tapeworm, as I experienced a rapid loss in weight, the mixture of up-and-down constipation and then diarrhea, eating and eating and never getting full. I'm sure it had nothing to do with my father sitting at the end of my bed. Waking up in the middle of the night, I saw him sitting there, not moving. To get rid of the tapeworm she swore I had—warning me of the creature swirling around in my gut, until I could feel it writhing—she'd give me an old family remedy of a spoonful of castor oil and a few drops of turpentine. I'm lucky she didn't kill me. It made me vomit every time. I could never keep it down. Many years later I ran across the home remedy in an old
Farmer's Almanac
—so nothing about that experience is clear.

Was I clumsy, distracted, dirty, and in need of attention?

Maybe.

Was she trying to kill me?

I'm not sure.

I push the door open a bit farther and step into the room, the perfume and gin filling most of the space, but a hint of something rotten underneath it all, sour and sickly sweet. I don't talk to her, not really. It's not like that. I don't hear her voice, not in here anyway. Out there, when I'm failing, her scolding echoes into the void. But not in here, no, in here I sit at the edge of her bed, and tell her I'm sorry. I tell her that I still don't know anything—what she meant, what she did, if she even loved me.

When I ask questions, I don't expect answers. It's just me talking out loud, the information I need never given to me, my father disappearing, the change in her dark, swift, and terrifying. Unable to leave, but desperate to escape, we existed in unison like oil and water, sharing the same glass, but never actually mixing.

I turn to her skeleton as it lies reclined on the bed, her skull propped up on a stack of pillows, hands demurely crossed over her pelvis, her long, thin legs stretching out toward the end of the elegant dark blanket.

“What did you do to me?” I ask her.

So many memories remain fuzzy: trips to the woods, waking up in her car, Father leaving and then coming back, voices in the night, doors slamming. And then suddenly, I'm growing, up and out and up and out until I fill the space between us, padding my pea brain with cotton. Headaches and backaches, my hands and arms bruised and cut, dirt in my sheets, mud on my boots, and mother sitting by my side, a spoonful of this, a spoonful of that—for my constitution, for the tapeworm.

For the memories she wanted me to forget, I think.