Flesh and Bone Page 6

  “Jesus, no.”

  “Alright.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “They don’t approve of girls.”

  “They’d rather you date boys?”

  “That would get me killed.”

  “Really?”

  “Things are pretty dangerous at my house.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s how things work.”

  “Have you ever made it with a boy?” she asks.

  I stare out at the cattle in the field and the sheep dotting the hill behind them.

  “Once or twice.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “It’s just sex.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s just something I do. Sometimes.”

  “How sad.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Out in the field, the cattle disappear into the shadows. I wish I could. I wish I could just fade away.

  Ed’s dad shows up and gets out of the car. He shines a light on us.

  “What’re you doing standing in the cold?” he asks.

  “Waiting for you,” Ed says. “Talking.”

  “It’s the transmission?” he asks.

  “I told you there was a problem.”

  “Jesus.”

  We drive through town. The night fragments under the streetlights. Shadows run black and sharp around the buildings. Ed’s dad drives with the caution of someone trying not to draw attention.

  “Have you been drinking?” Ed asks.

  “Don’t worry,” her dad says. “I’m fine.”

  We lean against the cushions in the back and Ed runs her hand up my thigh. Her fingernails etch electric lines in the muscles there.

  Ed’s dad pulls into the driveway. The living room’s lit, but I don’t know if anyone’s up still.

  “Kiss him goodnight,” her dad says.

  Ed slips her tongue into my mouth and gently cups my junk with one hand, a promise of what’s to come the next time we’re together. I get out and rush out of the rain. I stand on the porch and watch the car disappear into the mist. I can still feel Ed’s hand on my groin. I can still feel her tongue darting past my lips. I don’t know what to do with all the blood rushing to my dick. I need a shower. A shower’ll wash away the frustration. A shower will prepare me to lie in my lonely bed and dream of sex and fear. That’s the way things happen. They come and set me up and leave me to figure what they mean. I never really figure it out so I sleep and wait for the answers to come to me and I hope they’ll stay with me. I hope I’m more than just meat, more than a fuck buddy. Maybe someday, I’ll fall in love. Maybe not, but it’s a nice dream.

  A Literary Tangent

  “THE BEATS ARE insufferable,” Bekah says.

  I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “They run on and on about sex and jazz and drugs,” she says. “They add nothing to conversation.”

  She’s off on a literary tangent. I listen to her because I love the sound of her voice. But it drives me nuts that she talks literature after sex. There has to be a thousand other things to say, but she always goes back to whatever writer she’s reading right now. They seem more real than me, and they’re not even here.

  “Their work is juvenile,” she says. “And ill-conceived.”

  I don’t know who she’s talking about. I’ve never read the Beats. I don’t know who they are. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m comfortable enough to let her do my reading for me.

  “They led interesting lives,” she says. “But Kerouac and Cassidy let themselves die. Burroughs became a recluse and Ginsberg sold out. What about principles? What about integrity?”

  I close my eyes and rub one finger over her naked thigh. Soon, maybe, she’ll forget about poets and novelists. Soon, maybe, all she’ll think about is me. If I can get her to say my name over and over again I win.

  In the Morning

  RISING SLOWLY OUT of sleep, I open my eyes and I find that these are not my walls. The windows open onto a yard too small to be the yard outside my bedroom window at home. I turn and there’s Ed. Naked. Sleeping on her side, one breast hanging out on the edge of the blanket.

  I feel like shit. My head is packed with steel wool and glass. My eyes burn and I cannot blink. My mouth is a pit of soured cotton.

  Rising slowly, I dress in the dim light. I have to get home. I have to let Mom know what happened. No details, but enough facts to hopefully get her off my back.

  Out in the hallway leading to the living room, I run into Ed’s father. We stop and stare at each other. There’s no telling what’s going to happen next. He just stands there and stares at me. I finally duck my head.

  “I’ll tell her you had to go,” he says and presses past.

  This is strange. I don’t know what to do. I call my mother.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “There was a girl.”

  “I was worried.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Am I going to meet this girl?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Can you come get me?”

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “That’s no way to end a date,” she says.

  “I’ll call her later.”

  “Damn right.”

  Mom has strong feelings about these things. She has definite ideas about etiquette.

  I go to the yard to wait for my ride. I stand behind a tree so Ed thinks I’m gone already, so her father won’t see me abandoning his daughter. Some precautions are always necessary. Some days start with the knowledge that one bad decision can ruin everything.

  Hiding from Authority

  HORSES SHUFFLE THEIR feet in their stalls. The barn smells of shit and dust and hay. Leather saddles and bridles hang from large, steel hooks. Bekah lies naked in the loft. She and I are hiding from her dad who’s been looking for her for a while now. Bekah doesn’t want him to catch me here. Her dad doesn’t like me, not since he found out that Bekah and I have been fucking. He has a tendency toward violence. I don’t know if I could take him or not. Probably not. He’s a big man with big hands and big arms. He’s had years of practice fighting. I’ve never been in a real fight. I’ve always been able to talk my way out of them. He’s not the kind of guy who’d listen to anything I’d have to say.

  “He never comes up here,” Bekah says.

  I just want to go. I knew this was a bad idea, but I let Bekah talk me into it. Her dad stomps around the barnyard before getting into his truck and tearing out of the driveway like he has someplace important to go.

  I finish dressing.

  “You leaving?” Bekah asks.

  “I want to be gone when he gets back.”

  “You should just stand up to him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Coward.”

  “Maybe.”

  She dresses and walks with me out to the street.

  “You could come with me,” I say.

  “You’re mom doesn’t like me.”

  “She doesn’t like us fucking,” I say. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Do you think we could ever fall in love?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You love Zephyr.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do.”

  The walk through the woods is long. A little wind whispers around the trunks. Leaves are turning from summer green to autumn’s red, yellow and brown. Soon the rain will come again and winter will span eight wet months.

  I walk and cross a creek and smoke a cigarette, staying off the roads because there’s no telling where Bekah’s dad might be. The last bit of the walk is through the berry fields with their canes hanging into the rows, thorns catching on my sweater’s sleeves.

  Mom’s waiting in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and staring out the window. She looks at me when I come in.

  “You had a visi
tor,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  “He said you were fucking his daughter,” she says.

  “Bekah’s dad.”

  “Are you?”

  “Do you want me to answer that?”

  She shakes her head. She sucks smoke into her lungs and stares at me.

  “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.

  It Thumps But It Does Not Echo

  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.

  Morning with Mom

  SLEEP ENDS. THE 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.

  Going Nowhere

  TOO 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.