Flesh and Bone (12 page)

Time passes. An hour, ninety minutes, two hours. I wait and finally she comes out. She seems a little fuzzy now. One hand rests on her belly. She looks at me and looks away. The anger's still there. She says nothing. I hold the door for her. She shuffles out onto the sidewalk.

We drive through town and she nods off in the passenger seat. Her folks would freak if they knew I was driving their car. They would completely go over the edge if they knew what Bekah and I had done.

Home now. She goes in and I walk to the store down the street. It's like the whole thing didn't happen, but that's only true if no one knows. The thing is, pain still hurts whether anyone knows or not. She may never speak to me again, but she'll never forget me. I'll always be the boy who fucked up her life.

“Y
OU WORRY ME,”
Mom says.

“Yeah?”

“You seem distracted.”

“I think a lot.”

“You should be happy,” she says.

“Sometimes I am.”

“But most of the time, you seem wrapped up with your head.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Is something bothering you?”

“Not a thing.”

She blows smoke at the ceiling fan. Light plays through the window. The whole house smells of burnt coffee and eggs. She's dressed in her work clothes.

“Are you alone too much?” she asks.

“I'm okay alone.”

“Do you miss your dad?”

“I'm fine.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“Someday.”

“What do you need?”

“A life.”

“What's wrong with your life now?”

“Nothing. Everything. It depends.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really.”

“I'm worried.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We have to do something.”

“Maybe later.”

“Tomorrow.”

“We'll see.”

“I can take the day off.”

“No.”

“But I want to.”

“Maybe you should see someone,” she says.

“Who?”

“A therapist.”

“What would I say?”

“Anything you wanted.”

“I have nothing I want to say.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.”

She leaves for work. I watch her drive away and I light a cigarette. I go to my room and drink one of the beers I have hidden there. There's nothing in my life I want to talk about. Even if there were, she wouldn't understand. She'd try to fix it and there's nothing to fix. I live with the shit in my life. It's my shit and no one needs to fuck with it.

T
HE FIRE BURNS
in the pit behind the trees. We roast hot dogs and marshmallows and tell jokes. All night we sit around the fire, too drunk to drive. Too drunk to walk.

Wind comes down from the mountains, rippling the lake. I lie in the dirt listening to the fire sing. Ritchie stumbles in the undergrowth and pisses. I feel sick and the world spins and dips.

“Billy,” Zephyr says. “You're so sexy.”

John John throws a beer can at him.

“No faggot magic,” he says. “None of us wants to see that.”

Zephyr lights the bong and the bong gurgles like a lung shot deer. The heavy scent of the weed washes over me. I'm going to be sick. I need to get up. I need to get to the trees.

“Come on Billy,” Tammy says.

She and Ed lift me up and drag me to the pickup they'd come in. They stretch me out on the bed and throw a blanket over me. I curl up and press my face to cool metal. Up above the trees, the stars wink at me like the lecherous
eyes of a thousand child molesters. I float on the high and slowly slip away. I am indecipherable. I am a secret, a prayer everyone knows but no one understands. Slowly, slower than I want, I drop into the dreamless sleep too much booze always gives me.

This is what death is like,
I think right before passing out.
I'm dying. In the morning they'll find me here, frozen, stiff, a waste of flesh.

M
USIC AND SWEAT
and people pressing me against the walls. Neon lights and strobes burn my eyes. Pain blooms in my neck, my shoulders. I want to go home, but Ed's dancing with a drag queen in the middle of the floor. Everyone smokes, holding their cigarettes in the air over their heads. The smell of pot burning layers my nose, my mouth.

“You ever make it with a boy?” Ed asks.

“Not a boy.”

She runs her hands under my shirt, into my pants. Her hair is pink tonight. Her eyes hide behind sunglasses. I don't know if she can see anything. It doesn't matter. There's nothing to see.

“I sometimes have sex with girls,” Ed says. That might be interesting to watch.

I light a cigarette and close my eyes. The room is too full. The walls seem to fold and sway. I feel sick. Soon, I'm going to need to rest. Mom doesn't know where I am. I told her I was staying at Richie's for the night.

“I want to fuck,” Ed says.

“Here?”

“Somewhere.”

She drags me out to the parking lot and finds a dark corner near the Dumpsters. She hikes up her skirt and drops her panties. I'm not really into it, but there's nothing I can do about it. At least we're out of the crowd.

“Make it quick,” she says. “It's cold as shit out here.”

I fuck her with a mindless drive. She pushes and bucks against the wall and when I'm done she arranges her clothes.

“Ready?” she asks.

“For what?”

“You're such a bore,” she says.

I shake my head.

“I'm going home.”

“Pussy,” she says.

“Whatever.”

I walk down the street and stand at the bus stop. I'm alone and I can smoke a cigarette without fear of burning someone. I wait and the rain falls and the wind blows. There's no blood in my hands. The skin is pale and blue. My fingertips ache and I shiver under my coat. I hate this. I hate the cold and the waiting. I hate the crowds and the pounding music echoing from the club all the way down the street.

It's close to midnight and Ed's going to be here until the club closes. I'd wait for her, but I can't. Crowds make me crazy. Dance music makes me nuts. It's all about the beat. There's nothing artistic about it. I like my music to say something.

The bus comes. I sit in the back, alone, warmer than on the street, but cold still. Outside, people go about their business. No one sees me here. This is how it always ends. Every time the night wraps up, I find myself somewhere I'd rather not be, looking at a long trip home, miserable and anxious. It would be better if I never left my room. No one could bug me then and I could listen to the words I want to hear instead of the muttering crowds that make no sense.

W
E WALK IN
the woods at the bottom of the hill, just the two of us, Mina and me. Spruce and cedar and pine spread their limbs to the first sun we've seen in weeks. Elms and oaks, maples and chestnuts begin to bloom. Mud and ferns and blackberry brambles dictate our path. Even with our coats, the wind is cold.

We walk along and watch the squirrels in the trees. Our feet catch in the roots. Mina's hair glows white in the sunlight. Finches and sparrow, crows and jays flit from branch to branch.

“Do you hunt?” she asks.

“No.”

“I hunt,” she says. “I like the feel of the rifle in my arms.”

Killing things seems to me to be unnecessary. You can buy your meat in the store. You can leave the killing to people better suited to it.

“Meat tastes better when you bring it home yourself,” she says.

I watch the curve of her lip, the arc of her brow. Her nose is perfect, her eyes blue and clear as water. Long, pianist fingers stretch from strong-looking hands. She seems too delicate to kill her own food. The thought of her sneaking through the woods, rifle in hand, tracking deer or elk or whatever doesn't fit in my head. Mina belongs in a concert hall or a classroom, a laboratory or office.

“My father made this for me,” she says and hands me a pocket knife. The handle is bone of some sort, yellowish with dark streaks, smooth to the touch. A thin steel blade folds out of the grip. Blue waves in the metal catch the light. The edge is fine, silky even. I imagine it gutting something, cutting through the hide and muscle of an animal to drop its innards to the ground.

“Beautiful.”

“I carry it everywhere I go,” she says.

It makes her more dangerous than I thought. She holds the knife like it's part of her. It rests comfortably in her hand. There's no doubt she knows how to use it.

“It reminds me to be safe,” she says. “It reminds me that there's always a way out of any situation.”

I never learned that trick. Mostly, I ricochet from one crisis to another like a drunken whore. Would a knife give me the grace and strength to control my own life? Would I feel safer with a blade in my pocket?

We walk back to the house. Mom's in the kitchen making dinner.

“We're having a roast,” she says, inviting Mina to say.

“I have to get home,” Mina says. “Homework, you know.”

I take her out to her car. She kisses me goodbye.

“See you tomorrow?” she asks.

“Tomorrow.”

And now she's gone. Back in the house, Mom stares at me.

“You and Mina?” she asks.

“Just friends.”

“She kissed you.”

“She does that.”

“I like her,” Mom says.

“I like her too,” I say. “But she's not interested.”

“Make her interested,” Mom says.

“It doesn't work that way.”

“You have to try.”

“Whatever.”

Soon it'll be dark. I'll eat supper with Mom and Grandma and they'll sit in the living room watching
Dallas.
I'll go to my room and read Simic. I'll lie in bed and think of Mina and her knife. I'll think of her hands covered with blood and fur and guts. She's more dangerous now than she was yesterday. I'll need to be more careful with her. I'll
need to make sure she never has a reason to show how she uses her knife. Maybe that's why I can't think of her body the way I think of Bekah or Ed or Harold. Maybe she scares me. Maybe I need to just pull it together and ask her out. Surely she'd protect me if something goes wrong. She's strong that way. Stronger than me. Maybe that's why I'm scared.

I
DREAM OF
Ed and Richie turning on me. They toss their fists at my face and there is nothing I can do to stop them. I dream of them kicking me in the ribs and belly, stomping my head against the ground, laughing and shouting over the blood pouring from cuts and smashed bone. I don't know where the dream comes from, but it leaves me sweaty and scared and trembling.

I wake and the sun's not up yet. Four hours before school starts. I can sleep another two hours, but I cannot lie here anymore. I need to be moving.

The floor is cold and the heat is off. My feet ache and I shiver. Without the blankets, the room is unbearable. I dress as fast as I can and light a cigarette, the smoke burning into my lungs. Out in the living room, the furnace keeps the worst of the cold out. I sit on the floor and press my bare feet against the vents.

Mom comes home from work. She's later than usual. Bobby must've been waiting for her. I shudder and my belly cramps. Soon Grandma will get up and scramble
some eggs. She'll fry bacon and make gravy for the biscuits from last night's dinner.

“What're you doing up?” Mom asks, coming through the door.

“Nightmares.”

“Again?”

“I don't know what to say.”

“What's going on with you?” she asks.

“Nerves, I guess. I don't know.”

She gets the afghan from the couch and wraps it around me. She turns up the heat and warm air finally escapes the vent. It's soft on the hard skin covering my feet. Mom goes to the kitchen and starts the coffee. She comes back and sits with me.

“I worry about you,” she says. “You need to sleep.”

“I sleep,” I say.

“Sometimes.”

“I'm fine.”

But I'm not fine. Fear and sadness are the only constants in my life. Suicide is a constant companion. Bloody images, visions of lying naked in a tub, overdosed and dead, play through my mind. I cannot seem to help it. I don't want to die, but I don't want to live either. Secrets weigh on me like lead plates pressing against my bones.

“You could stay home from school,” Mom says. “Try to sleep some.”

“It won't work,” I say. “The sun keeps me up.”

“Should I call the doctor?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Not yet,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

What would I say to a doctor? Would I tell him that I'm gay? But I'm not, not completely. I have sex with girls too. I'm twisted. I'm confused. No one has any answers, but then, I don't which questions to ask.

Tonight there's a gathering of folks in the field below the house. Mina's going home and we're sending her off with vodka and beer, pot and a fire. Shadows jump in the trees. Bright points of light in the undergrowth show the coyotes and 'possums watching us, waiting for us to leave so they can't hunt in peace.

Music blasts from a radio. A bonfire burns large and hot in a hole well away from the trees. The sky is clear and the smoke rises straight up. The smell of people getting high floats the night air. I sit with Renee and Mina, Lloyd and Richie and Ed and Bekah on a log we've dragged out of the woods.

“Back home,” Mina says. “The pot sucks.”

I take the pipe and burn a lungful of smoke. The buzz comes on fast. People's faces begin to stretch and I imagine them staring at me. Fear roils through me. I don't know what I'm afraid of, but there's a panicky feel to this high. I don't like it. Even the beer tastes poisoned. I watch
everyone around me and wait for them to fall over dead. No one topples. No one notices my wide-eyed stare.