Tricks (19 page)

one else has even noticed her presence. Good. "Let's go to my room, okay?" I want

*

to hold her, want to make love to her. Need to feel something

warm and alive. Need to fill

that empty space inside. I lead her to my disheveled bedroom.

"Sorry it's so messy," I whisper,

*

pulling her into me. "God, you

smell good." Like baked apples.

Not like flowers. Don't want to smell those. They remind me of death. Ronnie rises on her tiptoes, lifts her slick, honey-sweet lips

*

to meet mine. It's the sweetest

kiss ever, but it soon becomes

more. I lock the door, guide her to my bed, and for maybe the very

first time, sex is more than getting

off. This time, sex feels like love.

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For the First Time

I stop myself before Big Bang, look down into Ronnie's violet blue

eyes. "I love you." And at this

moment, I do. And at the words, surprise (or maybe disbelief)

contorts her pretty face. "What?"

*

Nothing.
She smiles.
It's just...

wow.
She undulates seductively, the rise and fall of her body like salty waves beneath my own.

Another first, this time no faking

climbing higher and higher, until

*

she finishes with an amazing

gush and tears of satisfaction.

I love you, too,
she exhales softly.

We lie, tangled together, unmoving, unspeaking. And we both know

this is what sex should be.

316

All Awesome Things

Must come to an end, damn it to hell. Ronnie and I are slipping toward sleep, still intertwined, when the doorknob rattles.
Cody?

It's Cory. Good thing I locked it.

Are you in there? Can I come in?

*

Ronnie starts to scramble.

I hold her tight, put a finger to my lips. "Shh." Then I say toward the door, "Just a minute, okay?" I've never had a girl in here. He probably thinks

*

I'm taking care of business, solo. I really don't want to let

Ronnie go. All the hurt will

come flooding back. But Cory is waiting. I kiss Ronnie's face, her neck, lick the shimmer

*

of sweat from the deep fold between her breasts. She sighs, and that makes me want more.

But Cory again bumps the door.

I rest my chin on her belly, look into her eyes. "Thank you."

317

We Throw on Clothes

But dressed or undressed, it's obvious what we've been doing in here. When I open the door, Cory is pretty much

amazed.
Oh. Uh... sorry. I, uh,
didn't know you...

*

His face is the approximate

shade of an unripe plum.

Ronnie and I both have to grin. "No problem, bro. Oh, this is Ronnie. We've been going out for a while now."

*

Cory has no patience for my

method of dealing with grief.

His voice, curt, slices the air.

Yeah, well, people are starting to leave. Mom's looking for you.

He pivots sharply, leaves the room.

*

I start to apologize, but Ronnie

stops me, stroking my lips with soft fingertips.
It's okay. He's

hurting. And your mom needs

you right now. I should go.
Her

kiss is a bittersweet good-bye.

318

One by One

Everyone leaves. Mom stands at the door, looking worn. Torn.

Emptied. She has managed the day so far without breaking down.

But now she dissolves. I go to her, put my arm around her shoulder,

*

steer her to the sofa. "Sit down.

I'll get you a drink." Something

strong, to help her sleep. She hasn't

slept much since the day Jack up and left us. Mom isn't much of a drinker. I pour her three fingers.

*

She accepts the brandy without protest. Sips it slowly, stares out the window. Finally she says,

I never believed this day would

come. Some stupid part of me kept

insisting the doctors were wrong.

*

Oh God, I miss him so much already.

What am I going to do without him?

She swallows the last of her drink in a giant gulp, throws her face into her hands and sobs. I want to help. But I have no answers.

319

I take her glass, go to refill it.

She deserves a good drunk, and so do I. As I pour, Cory comes

in, checks out the brandy bottle with covetous eyes. Oh, why not?

Mom won't care today. We sit

*

on opposite sides of our mother, downing alcohol that cannot warm the death chill infiltrating us, inside and out. Soon the silence becomes

overwhelming, and Cory turns on the TV. Doesn't matter what's on.

*

The three of us get drunk together, semi-listening to the announcer on
Sports Central,
droning on about

Jet Fuel, the unlikely winner of both the Kentucky Derby and Preakness, his even unlikelier odds of winning

*

the Belmont Stakes, and so the Triple

Crown. When Mom starts to nod

off, I help her to her feet, down the hall to her room, gentle her onto her bed. "I love you, Mom. Don't

worry. Everything will be all right."

320

Why Do I Keep Saying That?

Will
everything be all right? How the hell would I know? Fuck this!

Jack, if you weren't already dead,

I swear I'd... I'd... My legs

give and I don't fight, sinking to the floor beside the bed Mom

*

and Jack shared for so many years.

She snores softly, and I hope she isn't trapped in some disturbing

dream. I look around the room, still so full of Jack. His clothes

drape the chair beside the window.

*

His shoes form a straight line just inside the closet. The scent of Brut

deodorant lingers, as does a vague

hint of medicines, sweated despite antiperspirant. Pictures of him and

Mom hang on the walls, and one of

*

my favorite family photos--camping at Lake Mead--sits front and center on the dresser, beside his belt and wallet. Where are you now, Jack, having left all this behind? Are you

whole? Is any of you left here?

321

Also on the Dresser

Is a stack of mail. From here,

I can see much of it is unopened.

I get up, go sort through it. Bills.

Power. Water. Trash. Mortgage.

Hospital. Doctor. American Express.

And there will be more coming.

*

Funeral home. Cemetery. Jesus!

Insurance won't take care of it all.

Neither will Jack's pension. I've got a paycheck coming, but that barely

covers my own expenses. Stop!

Can't think about this now. Not today.

*

One day, at least, to mourn. One

day to try and forget about death.

Mom's totally gone. I need to get

high. Wacked. Out-of-my-brain

fried. No need for Mom to see

bills first thing when she wakes up.

*

I scoop everything off the dresser, into an empty shoe box lying on the floor. Jack wore new shoes to his funeral. A big, fat joint is calling my name. And after that,

I need to hear Ronnie's voice.

322

Bud and Booze

May not exactly cure what ails

ya, but partner 'em up and they'll

definitely make you forget it for a while. I turn on my computer, and the first thing that pops up on my Yahoo page is news headlines.

*

And there, again, is Jet Fuel.

They're laying odds against him.

Which makes me wonder... Yeah, oh yeah, there it is--an online Sportsbook and yes, they are most definitely

taking bets on the Belmont, as well

*

as just about every professional

sporting event out there, from soccer

matches to major league baseball.

Why didn't I think of it before?

If there's one thing I know about, it's baseball. Been a Kansas City

*

fan since I could spit, and the Royals are looking good this year. I want in on this action. First I need to set up an account. Let's see. All I need is a credit card and something to prove I'm eighteen, which I won't be

323

for over a year. But where there's a will--and I've definitely got

that--there's a way. It comes to me

suddenly that the way just walked into my room in a shoe box, along with a pile of bills. Jack's wallet

*

has three credit cards in it, along with his driver's license. This may

be a gamble, but I'm betting they

won't be checking to see whether or not Jack Bennett is dead or alive.

Not as long as the cards are good.

*

I sort through the stack, locate the AmEx and two Visa bills, check available credit. Damn right, more than I thought. Cool. In less than five minutes, I've got an account set up and a hundred

*

smackeroos riding on tonight's

Royals game. When they win,

I'll pay the electric bill and buy

some groceries. Meanwhile,

I'll polish off this roach.

And I'll give Ronnie a call.

324

The Pot Buzz

Should make me feel better, but all it does is combine with the alcohol to make

loneliness hit like a freight

train. Mom's asleep, Cory's

out somewhere, doing who

*

knows what god-awful things.

Jack's dead. Dead. The word

repeats itself over and over.

Dead. Damn, man. Dead.

I need to hear Ronnie's

voice. She answers her phone

*

on the first ring.
I
thought

you might call. Are you okay?

She knows I'm not, but waits for me to tell her so.
Do you

want me to come over? Vinnie's

here. He'll give me a ride.

*

"Oh God, Ronnie, yes. I need

you." I do, and it feels awful and wonderful, all smooshed

together. We'll make love, and

I'll forget about the Royals.

Forget about Jack. Forget... Dead.

325

Stinking Royals

Can't believe they lost last night, and to the stupid Mariners to boot.

Oh, well. That means they have to win today, so I'll lay down two

hundred. And while I'm at it, I'll

put fifty on St. Louis. Why shove

*

all my eggs into one flimsy carton?

Mom never even missed Jack's

wallet or the bills. She woke up, fighting a hangover headache.

Me, being a hangover expert,

I convinced her to try a little hair

*

o' the dog. Cory didn't feel much

better. You'd think his tolerance

would be taller built by now.

The two of them are napping.

Good. I can't stand seeing so much pain in two pairs of eyes.

*

Speaking of two pairs, just won

sixty bucks at poker. Almost made up for the hundred I dropped

yesterday. My luck is coming

around. Just in time. Because beyond major league baseball,

326

I'm planning on laying a major league

bundle on Jet Fuel. The odds on him

just keep growing longer and longer.

I'll wait a couple of days, see how

long they'll go. But right now, a thousand-dollar bet on the win

*

could net almost twenty big ones.

Twenty thou would pay an awful

lot of bills. And now I need money for my insurance. Between Jack and Ronnie and spending a lot of time in front of my computer,

*

I lost my job. Not that I care. Jobs like GameStop are a dime a dozen.

And anyway, I've got bigger plans than spending my days directing snot-nosed

kids to Pokemon Purple. High

finance is in my immediate future.

327

A Poem by Eden Streit
My Future

Is meaningless now, flavorless as an icicle

melting, drip by drip to puddle and freeze

again upon shadowed

ground. They say to drop the pretense, as if

confessing my heart was a game of charades.

Tears

such as these could

only be born of soul-ripping

sorrow. They

fall, in relentless procession, summer rain upon parched playa, relentless.

328

Eden Demon Possessed

Apparently, that's the real definition of falling in love--Satan implanted some evil angel

*

inside me to steer me away from God's family.

And it isn't only Mama and Papa who think

*

so. Or claim to, in the name of the Almighty.

Almighty dollar, that is. Samuel Ruenhaven--

*

who
strongly prefers
being called Father--

graduated seminary the same time as Papa.

*

But Father's path led him to the stark sand of northeastern Nevada, where he settled

*

a sizeable chunk of desert he dubbed Tears of Zion. Oh, it's a very special place,

*

where Father and his "disciples" rehabilitate

incorrigible youth. Exorcise demons.

*

I've been here almost a month. Mama delivered

me personally, after slipping enough Lunesta

*

into my tea to knock me out for eleven hours.

When I finally woke up, we were bumping along

329

hundreds of miles from home. It will never

be "home" again for me. I hate it. Hate Mama

*

worse. When she saw me conscious that day, head thumping from a narcotic hangover, almost

*

immediately she started in quoting Old Testament

scripture. That was the extent of our one-sided

*

"conversation." She never said another word to me. I tuned her out, concentrated on trying

*

to connect psychically with Andrew, who could have had no idea what happened to me.

*

I didn't know the details then myself. Couldn't

have guessed where we were headed. Even

*

when we pulled through the Tears of Zion gates,

I had no clue what was coming. I began to suspect

*

it wasn't good when Father waddled out to greet

Mama. She offered a hand, free of emotion,

*

and her plea was simple:
Do whatever
it takes to bring my daughter to her senses.

330

Father's Methods

Are likewise uncomplicated. You can sum

them up in a single word: Deprivation.

*

No food for the first three days. Water only.

Flushing poisons,
he claimed.
Cleansing

*

body before examining soul.
Since then, an unvaried daily thousand-calorie diet--

*

oatmeal, thin soups, flat bread. Minimal sleep, even now.
The subconscious is Satan's

*

classroom.
The worst thing is the isolation.

I rarely see anyone but Father and his disciples--

*

creepy guys who always dress in bleached white

jeans, matching T-shirts. And the sad, sick thing

*

is I'm almost glad to see them. I know that's the point. But I don't know how to fight it.

*

I spend every day alone, silence squeezing

me until I think I'll go totally crazy. Insanity

*

might, in fact, be better. I'm supposed to be

reconsidering my choices.
But all I do is pace

*

the perimeters of this featureless room, thinking about Andrew. And how completely I love him.

331

Is He Thinking