Romeo is Homeless (18 page)

August shifted on the cardboard and woke slowly. Reese slept curled into her back, swaddling her in his long limbs. His warm, rhythmic breath on her neck sent shivers through her body. There was no rush to move, no need to ever leave that spot. It was a perfect moment.

She stole a glance at the day, the sun high in the bright morning sky. A rustle close by startled her, then something soft landed on her head. Her t-shirt. She lifted her shoulders and craned her neck to look around.

Guy and Amber sat on the rock smirking at her, surrounded by the rest of their clothes.

“Wakey wakey, lovebirds.” Guy rolled up her jeans and lobbed them onto the blanket.

August groaned and fell back, covering her face with her shirt. She poked Reese with her foot and said into the cloth, “I guess people do come by when you’re asleep.” She peered out at them.

Another rolled-up pair of jeans flew through the air and landed on Reese’s head. Laughter rang out from the rock.

Reese sat part-way up and held the blanket to his chest. The pants rolled into his lap. “What the hell?”

Guy was doubled over in stitches while Amber held up Reese’s shirt and danced it back and forth, one teasing eyebrow arched.

August eyed her bra lying in a heap on the ground. She’d have to retrieve her underwear later. She slipped on her shirt, then pulled up her pants commando-style.

“Crap.” Reese pulled on his jeans under the blanket and grabbed the sneakers beside him, lacing them hastily. “Toss me my shirt.”

Amber balled up the shirt and tossed it wide, landing it in the bush a couple of yards away from him.

“Shit, Amber.” He lifted the blanket and hesitated, glanced at her, then bolted out from under it. He snatched his shirt but it snagged on a twig.

Amber paled and stood abruptly. “Reese. What the fuck?”

In the glaring light of day several long, wide, raised scars jumped from his back and zigzagged down from his shoulders, many ending below the waistband of his jeans.

August stared at his disfigured back. She had felt some scars last night, wasn’t really surprised, he was scarred everywhere. But the severity of the mutilation was overwhelming. These couldn’t be self-inflicted – someone had maimed him.

While he tried to dislodge his shirt, Amber came up behind him and touched a scar.

He flinched. Finally getting his shirt free, he pulled it over his head and turned around, his face red, eyes wild. “It’s no big deal. Forget it.” He took off toward the river leaving them all dumbstruck, staring at his retreating back.

When he disappeared behind the bushes, the three glanced back and forth at each other. Amber ran both her hands through her hair. “Shit.”

August clamored off the cardboard and chased after him, pebbles and dirt clumps stinging her bare feet. She caught up to him at the edge of the water where he squatted and stared across the expanse, his face an emotionless mask. She bent in front of him, put her arms under his and pulled him up. She rested her head on his chest and hugged him.

He stood with his arms at his sides.

She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him, staring into his eyes. “They were just having fun. Amber didn’t mean any harm.”

“I know. Just that nobody knows about that shit but me. It’s history, you know? But for a second there, it felt real fresh.”

“They really care about you. We all do.” She paused. Would he say he cared for her too?

He just looked at her like she was a difficult puzzle he was having trouble solving.

“You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want. Not until you’re ready, if ever.”

He brushed messy hair from her face with both hands, tucking it behind her ears. “How’d I get so lucky to find you in that alley?”

“Well, I don’t know that. But you know what I do know?”

“No. What?”

“I’m standing in something really gross.”

They looked down at her feet. Mud squished up between her toes. He threw back his head and laughed, then turned around and crouched down. “Hop up.” He piggy-backed her to their spot, placed her on the blanket then retrieved her old vomit stained t-shirt from the bush. He sat cross-legged beside her and pulled her feet into his lap, then concentrated on wiping mud from them.

August stared at the side of his face, willed him to open up, to share something. She glanced at the others to find them staring at him too. Minutes passed without one word being spoken.

Reese stared at his hands as he wiped the mud from August’s feet. Was he ready to say all of this out loud? Would she still want to stay with him once she knew? He glanced back to find her staring at him like she was trying to read his mind, to pull the truth out of his mouth. He sighed. Now or never.

“When I was ten,” he muttered, finally breaking the silence. He hung his head, then shared a glance with Guy and Amber who sat on the rock, their gazes fixed on him. He looked away, concentrating instead on running his fingers between August’s toes, dislodging drying muck.

“I was sent to a foster home.” He paused between each sentence, weighing what to share, what to keep hidden. He never had figured out how he felt about his life – if he felt anything at all.

He had few memories of life before he was eight. His mother had a job then, and disappeared from the apartment in the evenings for hours on end, sometimes all night – always leaving him alone and frightened. He’d eat what he could find, surviving on peanut butter sandwiches, often ripping off moldy chunks from old bread or cutting lipstick prints from his mother’s discarded meals.

She lost that job, then the next and another after that. Then she just couldn’t get one at all. No one wanted a strung-out junkie on the payroll. When she was home she was high. When she wasn’t high, she wasn’t home. He learned later she spent all that time away from him trying to score. Her world revolved around the drugs, never around him.

After Christmas one year, when he was almost ten, she brought one of her dealers to the apartment for the first time. Into his home, invading his space, his world. Him.

He was in his bedroom when the apartment door slammed shut. His mother’s words echoed off the barren walls, the deep voice of a strange man mingling with hers. He cracked his door and peered out.

The man grabbed his mother, pushed up her short skirt and then yanked down her underpants. Reese threw open the door and rushed into the room.

The man loomed over his mother, the gloomy light of the bare bulb that dangled from the ceiling bounced off his shiny, shaved head.

“Leave her alone!” His pre-adolescent voice quavered and his hands shook with such violence that his shoulders quaked.

The man turned his dark eyes to him, eyebrows raised. Then he roared with laughter and sat on the couch. “C’mere, boy.”

“It’s okay, baby. Come see Vincent.” His mother pulled her skirt down and lit a cigarette.

He approached the man, wary of the tattooed arms, the eyebrows like black caterpillars clinging for dear life to the weathered face.

Vincent pulled Reese onto his lap and ran a hand over his curly, blond hair. “How about I do this pretty thing instead?”

“Aw c’mon, Vinnie. He’s just a kid. Just do me, okay?”

“If you let me, I’ll double it.”

His mother looked at him, then back at Vincent. “Double? Really?” She only hesitated for a few seconds. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Vincent picked him up with ease and carried him toward his bedroom.

He held on to the man’s neck and looked back at his mother. “Mom? What’s happening?”

“Be a good boy, baby.” She sucked on her cigarette, exhaling smoke straight up into the stale air. “Vinnie’ll treat you right. Do it for Mommy, okay?” She turned away and flopped into the ratty upholstered chair with her back to him.

He reached out for her over the man’s shoulder, fear aching in his chest. “Mom! Mom, help me!”

The man clicked the door shut and stood him on the bed, held him around the waist with one arm and unsnapped his jeans with the other hand.

He cried and pulled at Vincent’s hand, pushed against his chest.

“Relax, kid. It’ll go easier that way. Come on, your momma needs a fix and she needs it real bad.”

He slapped at the man’s head and twisted in his grip. “Let me go! Mom, help me!”

Vincent picked him up and laid him on the bed, held him down with one strong arm across his chest and pulled down his pants. “Stop squirming, you little shit.” Vincent flipped him over onto his stomach and covered the back of his head with a huge hand.

He tried getting out from under it, but his face was pushed into the mattress. He couldn’t catch a full breath. His arms flailed at his sides and he kicked his legs. Then an arm went under his hips and lifted him up to his knees. His body was thrust forward, excruciating pain ripped through him. Vincent let go of his head and held him at the hips. The dealer slammed into him again and again. He sobbed into the sheets. His mother didn’t come running. His screams went unanswered. He was on his own.

When it was over he lay curled on his side. He wept and mewled for his mother. She still didn’t come to his rescue.

Vincent zipped his pants and walked out of his room. “There you go, double. Worth every bit of it.” His rumbling voice rushed back into the room.

“Thanks. Is it good shit?”

“Only the best for you, you know that. Call when you’re low. I’ll double it again. If you let me.”

“Double every time?”

“For now.”

“Yeah. Just come by. Anytime.”

The apartment door squeaked opened and then closed with a hollow bang.

His mother stood in the doorway to his room and leaned against the jamb. She looked absently at him lying on his bed. “Go have a bath, you’re all bloody.” She moved to the side of the bed and shooed him off it. “Damn it, you ruined the sheet! Jesus H. Christ.” She pushed him toward the door and ripped the sheet off his bed, balled it up and tossed it in the corner. She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Go already! Get washed up. I’ll make you a sandwich or something.” She brushed past him, no attempt to comfort him, to make him feel better. Not even one touch.

His tenth birthday came and went, unnoticed and uncelebrated. Just another winter day like every other in that dank apartment, the complete lack of compassion and love within those walls more chilling than the icy draft that slipped in between the plaster cracks and through the window panes.

For a while, life returned to normal. His mother got high all day, went out all night. Sometimes Vincent would show up and hell would rain down on him again. Once in a while Vincent preferred his mother. Fine by him.

He took himself to school some days, just to get out of that apartment. Human contact was nice when it was touch-free and the humans in question weren’t wasted.

After a few months, his mother couldn’t even find the energy to go looking for drugs anymore. She made it come to her – and more men started coming to the apartment. Sometimes they would fuck her on the couch while he sat on his bed with his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth to any music he could think of to fill his head and block out the sex noise. But the more strung out she got, the less those men wanted her – and the more they turned to him. The visits from Vincent were the worst.

When school started at the end of summer, he went more often. He found solace in the company of the kind teacher. It was fun being with kids his own age, most of whom had no bigger worries than what their mothers had packed them for lunch. That didn’t concern him. His mother never packed him anything.

One Sunday in late October, Vincent spent the entire day at their apartment. After shooting up his mother and then himself, they all ate potato chips. Vincent ordered take-out and he and Reese’s mother smoked small cigarettes that smelled sweet and earthy. Then Vincent raped him like most every time he came by.

Afterwards, Vincent lay on his bed next to him, smoking, one burly arm around his neck in some perverse and uncomfortable hug. He stared at the opposite wall, hoping to be left alone soon.

Then Vincent tightened his grip and pain seared below his jaw, the smell of burning flesh overpowered the cigarette smoke. He screamed and kicked, but Vincent just squeezed tighter and did it again. When he was finished, three burns were grouped together on his neck like finger holes in a bowling ball. Some evil, unholy trinity.

As usual, his mother didn’t respond to his cries. Never came to his rescue. Wasn’t interested in him at all. If curiosity killed the cat, then she should live forever.

When he woke up the next day, Vincent was sleeping beside him. That had never happened before and he didn’t like it one bit. He sneaked out and went to school without even brushing his teeth. He just couldn’t take another day like yesterday.

Before first period ended, his teacher noticed the burns on his neck. She sent him to the nurse’s office to get cleaned and bandaged. A few minutes later, two police officers filled the small space, standing in front of him as he sat on the small cot.

“Hey, Son. We hear you’ve been hurt. Can we take a look?”

He pulled down the collar of his shirt and tilted his head back. “They’re cigarette burns.”

“I see. Do you smoke?”

He looked at the man like he was an idiot. “I’m ten. I don’t do anything.”

The officers chuckled. “Understood. So, who did that to you?”

When they took him home, his mother and Vincent were strung out, drugs and paraphernalia all over the coffee table. The cops arrested them and took Reese to a group home.

The next two weeks were the best days of his life. He shared the home with other boys his age, was fed hot meals every day, had a comfortable bed to sleep in. There was a recreation area with television, video games, board games. No one came to his room uninvited. No one got high. He never wanted to leave. But then they found him a foster home and his world shifted again.

His case worker took him to the door that first day. It was nothing special, kind of small and a bit rundown, but it was an actual house with a yard. As soon as the door opened he was hit with a weird, warm smell, like a cheese and dirt and mold casserole.

The foster mother gushed over how handsome he was, how pretty his eyes were, how much he’d love it there, they had a son, Joey, just a bit younger than him, they were happy to have him in their family. Words poured from her mouth without pause, she didn’t even take a breath.

He couldn’t help but grin. She was like the anti-mother – instead of scrawny and drug-addled she was rotund and cheery. And her arms were track mark-free.

The family gathered around their kitchen table for dinner that first night. The father, a tall, stocky man, arrived home from work just in time to eat. He seemed as jolly as the mother and they joked around and teased each other. Unlike the parents, Joey was small for his age and mostly kept quiet.

They fed him hot dogs and baked beans, filling his plate twice. It was the best meal he’d ever remembered.

For a couple of weeks he was happy. The case worker visited every few days, the family smiled, Reese smiled. He started to relax and didn’t worry whether anyone was going to bust into his bedroom to violate his privacy or his body. He went to a new school and got a bag lunch handed to him on the way out the door every morning. He walked Joey to and from the bus stop. They told Reese it was up to him to take care of the boy. That was weird, he was only ten years old. But if that was the weirdest thing he had to deal with, he could handle it.

But with longer periods of time between case worker visits, the foster mother’s true colors started to show.

The father never came home for dinner after that first night. When he did walk through the door he stunk of booze. The parents always went straight upstairs. Sometimes the squeak of their bed would go on for half an hour. Most of the time they just yelled at each other. Reese heard it all in the living room below. The floorboards must have been made of paper.

“If I have to be here taking care of these stupid shits all day long, the least you could do is come home on time.”

“I work hard all fucking day. I need to wind down. If you have a problem with it, then fucking leave.”

The slam of a door was followed by water running. The father always escaped to the bathtub. The mother stomped down the stairs.

Reese peered out from behind his math text and eyed the woman, her hair mussed up, her cheeks blazing red.

She narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her ample hips. “What the fuck are you looking at, retard?”

When the case worker would appear unannounced at the door, the mother would put her arm around his shoulder and ooze fake kindness – what a good boy, aren’t we all one big happy family? Yeah, right. After a month, child services never checked up on him again.

Despite the yelling and the tension in the house, his life was still ten times better than at his mother’s apartment. Until a week before Christmas.

After dinner Reese was watching television with Joey. The kid was lying on his stomach on the carpet, feet in the air. Joey swung his ankles back and forth and knocked a glass of juice off the coffee table. The cheap glass broke easily, purple grape staining the already filthy carpet.

The crash brought the foster mother running into the room. She looked right at Reese. “What the hell did you do?” she screamed, then grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. “I’ll teach you to be more careful.”

“No, it wasn’t me! Joey broke it. It was just an accident. He didn’t mean to.”

Joey jumped up and ran to his mother, hugging her around one large leg. “You’re a liar! I never did it, Mommy, It wasn’t me!”