Flesh and Bone (6 page)

“I want to give it to you.”

“To me?”

“To you.”

He bites his lip. His eyes narrow.

“I don't think so,” he says.

“No?”

“I don't do that,” he says.

“Never?”

“Not today.”

I close my eyes. Not everything goes your way, not even when it's all about love.

I
LIE ON
the couch, sick, high, heavy with heroin. Ed's on the floor, sprawled on the carpet, nodding. My eyes roll in my head. My tongue is thick. Something sour covers my tongue. Posters paper the walls. The room is dim, a single lamp on the nightstand.

“Jesus,” Ed says.

“No shit.”

I nod and time becomes fluid, slipping through my fingers like water running over skin. Outside, somewhere, a dog barks. Ed's mother is in the living room watching television. The noise soaks through the walls, muted and strange. I cannot move. I cannot think. Ed crawls to the radio. Music rushes out of the speakers and pounds against my skin. My bones turn to sand, shifting and grinding.

Light glows in the window, yellow and warm. Dreams slip through me. I cannot tell what is real. Ghosts come and chatter at me. They whisper my name over and over. I close my eyes. Everything fades. Everything turns to darkness and I'm free.

B
LACK
S
ABBATH SCREAMS
from the radio. There are no windows, only concrete walls papered with concert posters and a concrete floor padded with thick rugs. We all lie around on couches, in chairs and on the floor. Waves of color ripple through the room. Green and silver tracers twist and dance. There is a weird kind of music, noises coming from the ceiling, the walls, the floor.

“Can you see that?” Richie asks.

“Back home,” Mina says. “We ski to school.”

She comes to the couch and lies on top of me. The weight of her body is comforting. I cannot fade away with her there. I cannot disappear.

“You're so pretty,” she says.

Her face is swollen. Her teeth strain against her lips. Light pours from her eyes. She is divine, beautiful, solid. I kiss her throat and I feel her heart beating there.

“Back home,” she says. “Sex is just sex.”

I cannot think about that right now. There's too much noise, too much light. People watch us. I cannot fuck with an audience.

“This is not cool,” she says.

I close my eyes and I can smell her lying on top of me. She smells of soap and a little sweat. She smells of cigarette smoke and make up. I kiss her throat again. I kiss her lips.

“This is nothing,” she says. “I've been here before.”

I don't know what that means, but as long as she's with me, I'm safe. She'll show the way out, the way home. She'll make everything okay. So I hold tight and she looks at me with her blue eyes.

“Don't let go,” she says. “If you let go, the whole thing will come crashing down.”

I
T SNOWS.
I
T
doesn't stick, but it snows. Big, fat flakes falling in the wind. I watch it from the living room window. Mom comes in from the dining room.

“I have a date tonight,” she says.

“It's snowing.”

“I have a date with Bobby tonight,” she says.

I've only met Bobby once. He drives a semi and stops at the restaurant to see Mom. He orders steaks and rice, asparagus and beer. He sleeps in the semi.

“You should see it,” Mom says. “It's huge. It has a double bed.”

I don't want to think about how Mom knows about Bobby's double bed.

“I was going to make gumbo,” Mom says.

“Gumbo?”

“Bobby's coming for dinner,” she says. “Then we're going to a movie.”

“Have you fucked him?”

“Bobby?” she asks.

“Have you fucked him?”

“I don't know,” she says, “if that's any of your business.”

“I assume you've fucked him,” I say.

“I don't want to talk about it,” she says.

“It doesn't matter to me,” I say.

She stares at me and says nothing.

“You're a grown woman,” I say.

“Fine,” she says.

“No details.”

She leaves then. She makes coffee. I stand in the living room and watch the symphony of the weather. It's not dancing music. It's music to sit back and absorb. I watch the music and I wonder, does Mom know that she's lonely. I wonder what kind of hole she's trying to fill.

P
INES AND CEDARS
stand straight as soldiers. Ferns ripple in the shadows. We sit on the creek bank, smoking cigarettes, drinking beers, watching the water sing over the stones.

“Are we faggots?” I ask.

Harold's face turns white, then red. His hands shake.

“I'm not a faggot,” he says.

“It's a secret, though,” I say. “Right?”

“No one can know,” he says.

Some sins are unforgivable. I'm lost in this moment. He runs his fingers along my jaw. He kisses me.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

I don't know what to say. Words like love and hate mean nothing.

“I don't know.”

“I love you,” he says.

“Don't tell anyone.”

“I know,” he says.

He kisses me, his breath smelling of beer and cigarettes. His lips are wet and thin and sloppy. I touch his face, his
hard white whiskers, the soft skin brown and wrinkled. I don't know what he wants from me, but it's nice knowing someone loves me, knowing someone thinks I'm sexy and beautiful.

G
RANDPA DIES IN
the morning. Pearly light leaves no shadows in the dining room. We all sit at the table eating eggs and hash browns, biscuits and sausage gravy. Grandpa's face is gray and sweaty even in the cool morning air. He flexes his left hand like he's trying to work out a cramp. He picks at his food, eating nothing, sipping his black coffee. We all know Grandpa's not feeling well. He doesn't talk much anyway, but when he's sick he goes completely silent.

After a bit, Grandpa gives up even pretending to eat. He pushes the plate back and goes to the bathroom. I finish my breakfast and go to my room for my book bag. I don't want to go school today. I'm tired. I want to go back to bed, but there will be no more sleep today.

Grandpa never makes it out of the bathroom. He dies with his face in the toilet, puking. We have to break through the door. It's too late. There's nothing we can do. We lay him out on the floor and Grandma kisses his pale, blue lips. She sits next to him, holding his hand and crying. No hysterics, no screams, just tired, silent tears, quiet
weeping. Mom leans against the door frame and lights a cigarette.

“Call someone,” she says.

I call the ambulance and stand in the kitchen watching Mom stare down at the floor, stare down at nothing, there but not there. Smoke rises through the cracks in her face. Her lips are thin and pale. I don't know what she's thinking. I don't know where she's gone, but I know that I don't want to follow her.

“H
AVE YOU EVER
been in love?” Bekah asks.

“I guess.”

She stares at me. I look down, keep my face close to my chest.

“Not counting your mom,” she says.

“I know.”

We walk in the park. Oaks and maples and elms and chestnuts rise over us, gnarled and bent. The sun is a smoldering orb.

“I've been in love,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “Everyone needs to be loved.”

Young mothers stand guard over the children playing on the swings, climbing the jungle gym. They pay no attention to us.

“I want kids,” she says.

“Kids?”

“Someday,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Right now I'm too young,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“But I think about it,” she says. “I think about it and I sometimes think that maybe now would be the right time.”

“I don't know,” I say.

“I have to get through college first,” she says. “I have plans. The kids will come. Later, when I'm old enough.”

I watch the grass twinkle in the wet sunlight. Mud pushes through it. The sidewalks are the color of ash. I light a cigarette and she makes a face.

“What do you want to do?” she asks.

“Me?”

“What do you want to do when you grow up?”

“I don't know,” I say.

She shakes her head.

“No dreams?” she asks.

“None.”

“You have to want something,” she says. “Everyone wants something.”

“Not me,” I say, but that's not true. I want to feel something. I want something to fill me up when I'm empty and right now, I'm always empty.

“I want you to have hopes,” she says. “Dreams. Aspirations.”

“Someday,” I say. “Someday something will come to me.”

She nods once and kisses me.

“Here's to someday,” she says.

“Someday.”

I
'M STONED.
I smoke a little in the morning and a little at lunch and now I sit in biology and try to keep my eyes open. Mr. Neff stands at the blackboard and makes lists and species and drawings of plants. Outside, rain tries to turn to snow. Behind me, Tanya squeezes her pregnant belly into a desk. Everyone knows about Tanya. She's been pregnant for eight months. She's gotten huge. Between classes, she trudges through the hallway and people step aside. She never says anything and no one says anything to her. No one knows who the father is and Tanya refuses to name him.

We sit in Biology and watch Mr. Neff write and draw and listen to him talk about the world like it's a puzzle to be put together. The walls of the room bend a little and dance and I want to lie down, but I can't lie down. I have things to do and no energy to do them. I sit in class and the people all seem to stare at me. I don't know what to do. I need to pee, but I'm afraid to move. I'm afraid to raise my hand and ask for permission.

Ten more minutes, I tell myself. Ten more minutes and class will end and I'll sneak out to Ed's car and I'll sleep the rest of the day. Ten more minutes and I'll get away from everyone staring at me, away from Mr. Neff's droning voice.

Tanya gasps. It's a small gasp, more wind than voice. She gasps and no one notices, but then she gasps again. She's sitting there, gasping and she folds herself over the desk.

“Mr. Neff,” she says. “I need to go to the office.”

“Class is almost over,” he says.

“My water broke,” she says. “I need to go.”

Mr. Neff stands there for a second. He's frozen and his mouth works.

“I have to go,” Tanya says.

“I'll walk you down.”

They leave. Everyone starts talking. Noise rises up and fills the room. The sun comes out for a second and drops light through the window. I go out and stand in the hall and watch Mr. Neff walking Tanya down to the office. I'm stoned and none of it means anything. A baby is being born. I don't know how long it'll take, but soon there'll be a baby and no one cares. It's not their baby. It's Tanya's child and no one knows who the father is.

I stand in the hall and watch them walk into the office. I stand there and watch the walls flex and dance. I really
need to lie down. I really need to go away. There's a baby coming and all I can think about is a nap. I guess it's something that the baby decided to come during Biology. I guess Tanya knew more about the subject than any of us.

F
LIES THUMP THE
window, struggling to get through to the first warm day of the year. Sunlight pours past the thin clouds and there is no wind. Out in the fields, farmers spray their crops and people walk without coats.

“Do you want to read my poems?” Bekah asks.

“I don't know,” I say.

“Maybe you can tell me how to make them more clear.”

I read the poems and I shudder at the raw images, the words' sexual rhythm.

“These are just stories,” I say.

“Vignettes.”

“Do you write about everyone you know?”

“Mostly.”

“What if your parents find out about us?”

“They won't,” she says. “I don't think they'd care.”

“They'd care,” I say. “They'd kill me.”

“No one's going to kill you.”

She takes her poems back and folds them into her pack.

“You don't like them,” she says.

“No. I mean, I don't know.”

Her eyes are wide in her face. I light a cigarette. She frowns and bats at the smoke, like she can wave it away. The thing about smoke is that it's still there even when it's gone. It hangs around for a long time after the fire's gone out.

“Someday,” she says. “Someday, I'm going to publish a book.”

“Would that make you happy?” I ask.

“It'll help.”

B
LUE LIGHT FLICKERS
in the living room. The television is a mere murmur in the night. Mom's working. Grandma's sleeping. I sit on the couch and smoke cigarettes. I sit and stare at the colors spilling from the screen, drinking the last of Grandpa's beer. I can't sleep. I'm out of dope and I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit. I don't want to think. I don't want to move. Night presses down on me, a thick, dark and heavy.

Sometimes, there are cars on the road outside. I can hear them passing, taking people from here to there. A strange weight lies down on me. My skin feels too tight. My eyes water. My stomach burns and bunches. If I were to die tonight, if I were to die right now, it would be hours before anyone noticed. Their lives would go on as usual until they came home, into the living room and found my stiff, cold body.

Does Mom think about that when we're apart? Do Ed and Richie and Lloyd ever wonder what it would be like to be dead? After I've died, people might weep, people might think of me from time to time, but after the first shock,
they'd continue to live. They'd fall in love and drink. They'd smoke their pot and drink their beer and they'd maybe tell stories about me and the memories would fade. I'd be just a collection of words and eventually even they'd fade and I'd be nothing more than the boy who'd once walked the roads and went to school. I'd be the boy who once wanted to be loved so much, but didn't know how.