Flesh and Bone (8 page)

“You're too young,” she says.

“Not really.”

“Jesus.”

“We're careful.”

“He's pretty pissed.”

“I know.”

“What're you going to do?”

“Avoid him.”

“Good.”

I get a cup of coffee.

“Are you in love?” she asks.

“Bekah asked me that.”

“Are you?”

I shake my head.

“I don't know if I'll be in love.”

“That's sad,” she says.

“I guess.”

We sit there like that. Mom knows about love. She's done it twice. And now she sits here in the dining room with me, worried that I'll never figure it out.

I
LIE NEXT
to Harold in the bed of his truck. An aluminum canopy keeps the rain off. Sleeping bags pad our spines and hips and press down on our naked bodies. We kiss and roll. Our hands make electricity in our backs and bellies, along our spines, clear down to the knuckles of our toes.

A branch blows out of the trees and lands on the roof. It thumps but it does not echo. He holds me down face first and plows into me like a wild man. I can feel him throbbing and pushing. I'm full and the pressure is equal parts pain and pleasure. There is nothing here to dilute the sensations. I love it and hate it.

He shudders and slumps against my back. He lies there, his breath rolling across my shoulder blades. It's over now. He'll want to lie here for a while and talk, but there's nothing I want to say to him.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“In a hurry?”

“I have places to be,” I say.

“More important than me?”

“I have appointments. That's all.”

We dress and crawl out of the canopy and stand in the rain for a moment. We light cigarettes and open beers. If I drink enough, I'll forget the pounding he gave me. The slick feeling of sex will fade.

He hands me a twenty.

“Take it,” he says. “Have fun.”

I fold the bill in half and stick it in my pocket. This is more than I expected. It doesn't mean it'll stop. It only means that he knows someday I won't be there and he'll need to find someone new to fuck.

Harold drives me home. We pull into the driveway and I jump out of the cab. I need to get to the bathroom and shower. I need to brush my teeth and change my clothes. I need to erase all the evidence of sex. No one can know about this.

Sex with Harold is dangerous. He could go to prison. Grandpa would kill me without thinking about it if he knew that I sometimes slept with men. There were certain rules in Grandpa's house and punishing faggots is right up there. Not that Grandpa's religious or anything. He just believes certain things.

I make it to the bathroom. I get naked and stand in the hot water, letting it rinse away my sins. It's like a kind of daily baptism. I let my sins swirl and disappear into the drain.

“Bill,” Grandma calls. “You home?”

“In the shower.”

“Supper's on.”

“I'll be out in a minute.”

I squeeze the last bit of warmth from the water and dress in the low hanging fog. I stare at my face and work on smoothing away all the thoughts, all the fears, all hints of deceit.

“Bill!” Grandpa calls.

I come to the table and we sit silently for a moment. The food is fried and smells thick with fat.

“What did you do today?” Grandma asks.

I shrug. There's no way I can tell about my day.

“I got lost in the woods,” I say.

“Be careful,” Grandpa says. “Some of the animals there are pretty dangerous.”

I nod. Some of the animals here are pretty scary too, I think. The only way to live here is to keep my face flat and my mouth empty.

S
LEEP ENDS
. T
HE
dreams wash away and fade in the late morning light. I lie in bed, tired, but slept out. I'm sick to my stomach. My head aches. I rise, slowly. I dress, slowly. I look out the window at the fog, the mist. Cold air leaks around the glass. Shivering, my feet hurting on the bitter floor, I walk away.

Mom's in the living room smoking a cigarette. She lies on the couch watching the television. Nothing's on there, but she watches the faces, listens to the voices. She's bored and lazy. The house is clean. Grandma's nowhere around. Mom lies on the couch, a tumbled mess of flesh and dirty clothes.

“You look like shit,” she says.

“Feel like it too.”

“You're hung over.”

“A little.”

I go to the kitchen and get coffee. I make a BLT and eat it standing over the sink.

“Who were you drinking with?” Mom asks.

“Friends.”

“How'd you get home?”

“I don't remember.”

I light a cigarette and come to the living room. Mom sits up. She looks at me and there is sadness there, sadness and worry. I'm a prisoner here. These walls hold me in. Mom is a kind warden, but a warden all the same.

“I don't like your drinking,” she says. “I don't like your hours.”

This is it. This is Mom letting me know that I've fucked up. She wants me to be the perfect child. There are just some things I can't do. I can't be the quiet obedient boy she wants.

“I don't like the kids you've fallen in with,” she says.

“They're my friends.”

She sighs. She lights a cigarette. She stares at me. Smoke rises to the ceiling and gathers there like water pushing against the shore.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

She says nothing. Everything's thick, heavy. I close my eyes and watch the red and green paisley swimming in the darkness.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don't know,” she says. “I want you be good.”

I don't know if I can be good. Things happen. I let things happen. It doesn't matter what I do, it'll turn out bad. Mom won't be happy.

“I'm going to Bobby's today,” Mom says.

“Okay.”

“I want you to stay home,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Stay out of your grandfather's whiskey.”

“Sure.”

She gets up and goes to the bathroom. The shower pulls water through the pipes and the pipes whine and groan. I have nowhere to go. I have nothing to do. The television talks to me, but I'm not listening. Why would I? It has nothing to say that I haven't heard before.

T
OO HIGH TO
move. The room is distant and the walls are warped. Beer posters and coasters decorate everything. Laundry and ashtrays clutter the floor, the nightstand, the dressers. We lie on the bed, not touching, not moving, going nowhere. The heroin is smoked up.

“Are you fucking my uncle?” John John asks.

I don't know what to say. What does it matter to him? Will he be pissed if I admit to it? Is he too high to kick my ass?

“Sometimes,” I say.

“Do you like it?”

“I don't know.”

I don't. I like the sex, but I don't like his uncle. I don't like the way his calloused hands touch me. There is something wrong with him. He's old and he wants to be young again. Fucking me makes him feel fresh. He can make himself believe that he's not too old for excitement.

“I hate it,” he says.

“It's just sex,” I say.

“He never asks. He just does it.”

“Yeah.”

He cries a little into his pillow. I don't know why he's crying. Maybe he's too angry to do anything else. Maybe he's too high.

“I'm not gay,” he says.

“Me either.”

“We're getting fucked,” he says.

“There's nothing we can do about it.”

“We could tell someone,” he says.

“Then everyone would know.”

He thinks about that for a moment.

“We could kill him,” he says.

“Not me.”

“I could do it,” he says. “I wouldn't even have to think about it.”

“They'd lock you up forever.”

“I don't want to go to prison,” he says. “Prison's full of faggots.”

We lie there and I think about killing Harold. Blood splatters in my imagination. I can see it happening, the gunshot, the knife slipping between the ribs, the hammer crushing the skull. I can see it. I can feel my hands shaking. There has to be a better way. No one needs to get hurt. But nothing comes to mind. Nothing ends his groping hands, his probing tongue. If I could find a way to make it stop I would, but there's nothing I can do without
ruining my own life. Maybe someday he'll just stop. Until then, I'll just let him do what he needs to do and pretend it's not happening.

I curl onto my side and let the bed rock gently under me. John John looks all stretched and out of proportion. I touch his face and he curls away.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

I don't know what love is. I seldom think of people when they're not with me. I live most of my life detached from myself. I float in the air overhead, watching myself going through the motions of life. I try to feel things, but the feelings are muted, distant. I cannot seem to make myself experience anything.

“We could fuck,” John John says.

“We could.”

“But I don't want to,” he says.

“Then we won't.”

He turns his back to me. His shoulders are round and hard. His neck is knobbed with bones. I want to feel something. The walls arc over me. Light falls through the window, outlining John John's waist, the arc of his thigh. Dust dances in the simple light and I close my eyes. John John and I may never fuck, but lying here with him ties me to the earth. It is impossible to fly with him tangled in my arms.

T
HE HORSE'S SPINE
runs parallel to my shoulders. Bekah saddles it up and shows me how to mount. I crawl into the saddle and stare out the barn door to the pasture there. We won't be going to the woods today. No, today we'll just ride around the barnyard. I need to develop my seat before charging in amongst the trees.

Bekah leads the animal out of the barn by its bridle and I hold tight to its back with my knees and thighs.

“Relax,” she says. “Winnie's a gentle ride.”

We walk in circles and I get more comfortable. The saddle rubs the inside of my thigh and after an hour, the muscles in my ass and legs are worn to nothing. My knees shake, but I say nothing, not wanting to wimp out too soon.

“You done?” Bekah asks.

“All done.”

Bekah leads us back to the barn. Hay and horseshit, dust and hair stink the place up. Getting off the horse is harder than getting on. My legs won't hold me and I can't just slide to the ground without falling on my face.

“Here,” Bekah says. “I'll catch you.”

Her hands slide up my thigh, my belly and ribs to my armpits. She laughs when I wobble and stumble. There's a bench by the door and I sink onto it gratefully.

“Not bad,” Bekah says.

“I feel like water.”

“Riding's harder than it looks,” she says.

“No shit.”

“Next time we'll let you have the reins.”

“I don't know.”

“Don't be afraid,” she says. “I'll always be there when you fall.”

For some reason, I believe her. She'll always be ready to catch me no matter how far I've dropped.

L
UNCH
. W
E ALL
stand in the Pit passing a bottle of schnapps around.

“Back home,” Mina says. “We have real schnapps.”

“It's free,” Richie says. “Quit your bitching.”

I light a cigarette and it tastes of toothpaste. Renee rolls a joint. It smells both thick and sweet.

“Let's go to the movies,” she says.

“What about class?” Mina asks.

“Fuck class.”

We get in Ed's car and we smoke the joint. It disappears fast with all of us toking.

The theater is across town. The streets are filled with people going places, doing things. Ed runs a light and a cop stops us.

“I smell weed,” the cop says.

“I hit a skunk,” Ed says.

“A skunk?”

“A skunk.”

“You should be in school,” he says.

“Half day,” Ed says.

“Bullshit.”

The cop calls our parents and tells them to come get us. We wait on the sidewalk and our parents come one by one. The cop talks to them and they all look unhappy and put out.

“Skipping class?” Mom asks.

“It sounded good at the time.”

She drives us home

“I was sleeping,” she says. “I have to work.”

“Sorry.”

“Jesus,” she says.

They suspend us for three days. Mom's pissed.

“They kick you out of class for not going to class!” she shouts. “Fucking incredible.”

For three days, I sit around the house. For three days, Grandma eyeballs me. For three days, I wait for the chance to go somewhere.

“Did you learn anything?” Mom asks.

“Don't get caught.”

The look on her face says that's not the answer she wants, but what can I say? I can't tell her I'll never skip school again. That would be a lie and I see no reason to dig that hole.

S
TANDING ALONE ON
the corner. Cars growl past, the street dry, the wind gentle and slightly warm. I light a cigarette and watch the smoke rise, a frayed string. Zephyr walks down the street looking like he's always been here. I don't know why I called him, but I wanted to see him. Now that he's here, though, all I can think about is getting away.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says.

“No worries.”

My hands itch with the desire to reach out and touch him. I can't help but look at him. My head feels loose on my neck. I can't keep it from swiveling around and pointing my face in Zephyr's direction.