THE NINETY-FIRST DAY . . .
(Thursday, September 10, morning)
MACK:
“Mister Morse, you
will recall I told you publicity is most important to our
program.”
“I do recall that,
Mister Thompkins.”
“That was a
statement, not a question. Eye contact please. Good. A member of a
prominent VFW organization read your interview. On behalf of the
membership, he has applied for a dog, specifically the Cosmos
mentioned in the article. This is an exceptionally strong
submission. Sixty-one letters from veterans accompanied the
application. The recommendations are unanimous in their praise for
the wounded soldier. We are grateful for the opportunity to work
with enthusiastic sponsors, and I personally would very
much—very much, Mister Morse—like to
work with this group again. It’s extremely important that this site
visit go smoothly.”
“What
visit?”
“You will assess the
living situation, the physical plant, its layout, for special needs
and considerations. You will tailor the remaining training time you
have with the animal accordingly. I’m saying you’ll have to go to
the house, Mister Morse.”
That’s what I thought
he was saying. A field trip? A day in the free air, no bars or
barbed wire? “Well, I guess if I have to.”
“Indeed,” Thompkins
says. “You will be cuffed and shackled from the moment you step
from this cell to the moment you return. You will be blind on the
way over and back. You will have no contact with these folks after
the visit. You are not to give them your name, nor are you to ask
for theirs. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
I look to Boo. Dopey
tongue sticking out, tail whirling on my look. “Mister T., does
this mean Boo passed training?”
“Not yet, but he
would not be placed, tentatively, if we
did not suspect that he might
pass.”
“That mean I’m a
suspect for passing too?”
“I can be nothing
less than honest with you. Some of your training methods are
entirely unorthodox and certainly not in the manual my team and I
worked so very hard to develop. You are under review. We’ll see how
you do with the site visit.”
“Whatever the vet
needs, I’m sure I can make it happen.”
He crosses his arms
and nods toward the chair. “Sit.”
Me and Boo
sit.
Thompkins takes off
his glasses, rubs his tired eyes, and hides his left hand under his
right arm. “Boo’s prospective adopter was wounded in an explosion.
He—”
“Car bomb,
right?”
“Something like that,
and Mister Morse at this stage of our association, do I really need
to remind you not to interrupt me?”
“Sorry.”
“May I continue,
then? Thank you. The soldier lost his
legs. Boo can’t be knocking him out of the
wheelchair.”
“He doesn’t pounce
anymore. I trained it out of him.”
“Did you train him to
respond to whisper commands? The young man’s voice box is partially
compromised secondary to shrapnel. There’s a chapter in the
manual—”
“Boo, down,” I
whisper.
Boo flops over to
offer up his big fat belly for a scratch.
Thompkins
frowns.
“I interrupted you
again, Mister T. I’m toast, right?”
Thompkins looks at me
for a long time. I have to say one thing about him: He never rolls
his eyes at me. He glares straight on. “Look, these site visits are
almost always emotional for the family. You have to be strong. You
must remain calm. Your job is to keep your focus on what you can
control, and that is the dog. After that, your job is finished.” He
leaves.
“Boo, we found you a
home, boy. You’re gettin’ there, bud. You’re almost
free.”
(Two days later, Saturday, September 12, late morning of
the ninety-third day. . .)
Me and Boo huddle in
the backseat of the beat-up Department of Corrections van. I’m in a
bright orange jumper, cuffs at my ankles and wrists. The shackle
chain threads a ring on the floor. Handcuff chains tie into a chain
belt around my waist.
Wash signed up this
other guard to be the driver. I seen him around. He never says
much, but he’s all right. Him and Wash go back pretty far, Wash
told me. They’re both wearing guns today. Wash readies the hood.
“Sorry, son.”
“I understand,
Wash.”
Boo’s asleep and
snoring in my lap before we’re two turns into the ride. I give up
trying to figure north, south, east, west after the fifth turn. Sun
flickers through the gauzy mesh hood. The windows are open, the
breeze soft. I smell cheap perfume, crackling chewing gum,
cinnamon, vanilla incense, pizza, chicken gyro smoking on a cart
vendor’s grill. I hear birds. A street preacher rages. Trucks bang
over potholes, bass beat booms, talk radio, planes, sirens, a car
door shuts, a dribbling basketball, a sneaker squeak, the ball
rattles the rim, a skateboard scrapes a rail, a jackhammer far off,
shopping bags rustle, pigeons fuss, flapping wings. The elevated
train rumbles, then a long squeal of brakes. A trash picker’s cart
clicks over sidewalk cracks. Bottle glass tinkles. The clinks
ripple out and melt into the bricks of buildings. Somebody drops
his keys.
“Pizza smells pretty
good, huh, Wash?”
“It
does.”
“I hope they have
lots of hydrants.”
“Hydrants you
say?”
“On Boo’s new block.
Dogs need their hydrants.”
“Yes they do.” Wash
chuckles and I chuckle too, because I copy people like that
sometimes, I don’t know why.
“Wash, you ever had
pineapple on a pizza?”
“Nope.”
“Me either, but I
heard it’s pretty good, though.”
“Doesn’t sound too
good.”
“Boston told me he
had it all the time. He was like, ‘You got to try it, you got to
try it. Don’t judge it before you eat it.’”
“Hmph,” Wash
says.
“Yeah,” I
say.
Boo licks my hood and
whimpers.
“Easy, boy. We’re
gonna be there real soon.”
“I had macaroni and
meat sauce on a pizza once,” Wash says. “Was pretty
good.”
“Yeah, I had it once
too. Was pretty good, like you just said a few seconds
ago.”
“Mack?”
“Yessir?”
“Don’t be nervous
about this. I’m sure everything is going to work out just
fine.”
“Yessir.”
“That’s right,” Wash
says. “Now, when we get there, I’ll walk you to the front door.
Then we’ll get that hood off you, let you see some free
world.”
“Amen.”
(Saturday, September 12, noon)
CÉCE:
“Ma, you seriously don’t need to give the guy
cornbread.”
“Will you
relax?” Carmella says.
“All we need: The
dude strokes out on your Jalapeño Halleluiah.”
“Where the flip is
Vic? Try his cell again.”
“Just did. Straight
to voicemail.”
A green van idles in
our driveway. The engine cuts out. Two guys in the front. One of
them gets out, looks up and down the block. Grills cover the back
windows.
“Don’t smile, Ma. You
have lipstick on your teeth.”
“Well, can you wipe
it off?”
“You had to pick the
sluttiest red in your arsenal? This guy’s a criminal.”
The van driver smiles
at us as he climbs the porch steps. He tries not to do a double
take on Carmella’s hair, Day-Glo Sun. “Ladies, would you mind if I
do a quick walk-through?” He checks the rooms, for what he doesn’t
say. He asks Ma to unplug the phones as we go through the rooms
“—to minimize the possibility of distraction.”
“You think he might
try to do something bad while we turn to answer the phone or
whatever?” I’m seeing a montage of all my
there’s-a-convict-in-your-house movies.
“Not at all. Please
don’t worry about that. It’s just that we have less than two hours,
and we want to keep everybody focused on the site
assessment.”
“Oh.”
“If you could turn
off your cellular devices too, I would appreciate it.”
“But we’re expecting
somebody else,” Ma says.
“This is the
application sponsor, Victor Apruzese?” the driver says. “And you’ve
tried calling him? Then I suggest you leave word on his voicemail
that your phones need to be off.” He explains the rules to us:
Don’t touch the prisoner—like who would want to? Keep arm’s length
from him at all times. Don’t ask his name, don’t give him yours. If
he asks personal questions, don’t answer. Keep your conversation
about the dog. “Now, when he comes out of that van, he’ll be
wearing a hood.”
“That’s horrible,” Ma
says.
“We’ll take it off as
soon as we get him inside.” The guard tells us to wait in the
vestibule, and he heads back to the van.
First out is the
dog.
Oh. My.
God.
Ma and I claw each
other’s arms. “He’s so cute.”
“Huge.”
“Look at that
tongue.”
“Look how
fat!”
“How
pretty.”
“That tail.”
“Those
eyes.”
The giant one-eared
pit bull sits and waits, looking into the van. The other guard
helps the prisoner out. Tall thin dude in a baggy orange jumper.
That hood. A white mesh sack with patches over the eyes. Ghostly.
The guard has him by the arm and coaches him as he turns him toward
the house. Toward us. Shackles clink on the driveway. The driver
has the dog on a leash, but he doesn’t need it. The dog walks
behind the prisoner. The shorter guard helps the dude up the porch
steps into the house. “All right,” the guard says, and the prisoner
stops. The dog peeks from behind the prisoner’s legs to look at me
and cock his head. That tongue hanging out of his mouth. When I
smile, his tails whirls.
“Ladies, my name is
Sergeant Washington.” He indicates the prisoner with a nod. “My
friend here would like to have a look around your house. Would that
be all right?”
“Please,” Ma
says.
“Hold still now, son.
Close your eyes and open them slowly, till they adjust to the
light.” Sergeant Washington takes off the hood.
Suddenly the house is
freezing. And dark. Airless. I think I’m breathing, but I can’t be.
My lips and fingers are numb. I half fall into the couch. I know
where all the heat went now: into my stomach. It’s cooking
something up down there, making squishing noises—loud—as it twists.
I’m going to cough blood.
Ma yells at Sergeant
Washington, “What the flip is this? You think this is funny?
Seriously, why are you doing this?”
The sergeant squints
at her, then at Mack. Mack’s mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him.
He’s talking to me, though. I read his
lips, and he keeps saying, “Céce.”
“You come heavy,” I
say.
“What?” he
says.
“You’re finally
inside my house, and you come in chains.”
“I’ll kill him,” Ma
says. “Victor Apruzese is a dead man.”
“Let’s all settle
down,” Sergeant Washington says. He’s calm. The other guard is too,
but they’re resting their hands on their gun butts. “Now,” the
sergeant says, “nice and easy, what all’s going on here?” His eyes
dart from Ma to me to the other guard to the kitchen door to Mack.
“Son, how do you know these folks?” He turns to Ma. “Ma’am, are you
the one who makes the goblin breads?”
“They’re snowmen,” I
whisper, my eyes on Mack, his eyes on mine. Ma explains how Vic
must have duped us. As she talks, Mack and I stare. His face is
hard, tight lips, jaw clenched. Two tears, his, spike the carpet.
“Tony?” he says. “But he’s still training, no?” His eyes drop to my
chest.
The stickpin. I still
wear it every day.
I’m a fool. I’ll
never be more embarrassed in my life. Letting him see that I still
love him, even after he treated me like I was weeks-old garbage our
last visit—or what I thought was to be our last visit. But this is
the one. This is the final time I’ll be with him. I’m sure of it
now. The chains on his arms and legs. I can’t bear to see him like
this.
“The dog?” I say.
“What’s his name?”
Mack looks down at
his feet.
If he did, I’ll never
forgive him. I make a clicking sound, my tongue against the inside
of my teeth, the way he taught me. The dog looks my way. “Boo,” I
say.
The dog comes to me.
He rolls into my feet and over onto his back for me to scratch his
stomach. But I don’t. The new Boo does a wiggle worm dance for me.
I back away.
“How could you?” I
say. “How could you do that to her? To me?”
“I did it
for her,” he says. “For you. Céce, please.” He’s stepping toward me,
reaching out to me, his arms stunted by the chains and the guards’
pushing them down. They’re pushing Mack back into the wall, trying
to calm him. He’s crying out to me. I almost can’t hear him. Now
I’m the one drowning in white noise, the whoosh of a UPS truck
flying by the house. He yells from where they have him pinned to
the door frame, as I back away, “Céce, hold up, just for a second!
I gotta tell you something!”
No, I can’t hear it,
not again, no matter how nicely he says it, the truth he needs me
to know so we can move on, what he tried to tell me in the visiting
room: that we can’t love each other anymore.
My legs are shaky as
they hurry me through the hall, to the front door, out onto the
porch, toward the street.
“Céce?” Ma says.
“Céce!”
I’m running to the
corner, pulling the stickpin from my shirt, throwing it, pulling my
phone, waiting for it to boot up. Hurry—dialing—before I change
my mind. Ringing. “Bobby, you wanna go to the
movies?”
(Saturday, September 12, ten past
noon)
MACK:
“Wash, I swear I
didn’t know—”
“I know you didn’t,”
Wash says. “Let’s everybody just stay calm now. It’ll be all
right.”
“What do you want to
do here, Wash?” driver says.
Wash sizes up Mrs.
Carmella. She’s got her arms crossed, and she’s tapping her foot
fast. She’s glaring at me. “I think we’re okay here, Jack,” Wash
says. “Why don’t you go on out to the front porch and wait to see
if this Vic gentleman shows up.” Wash backs up a bit to the kitchen
doorway, turns half away, pretends to check his phone.
I force myself to
look Mrs. Carmella in the eye. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“You ought to be. Do
you know how worried sick we’ve been about you? Do you know what
you put her through? Not even a word
from you. That poor girl, laying her heart out for you, going all
the way over there? You were awful to
her, Mack. You were mean to my daughter.”
Boo leans into my
leg. His tail whirls, shaking him, shaking me. “I had to be mean to
her.”
“No. Hey, look at me.
No. You didn’t have to hurt her like that. You could have explained
it to her. You could have let it wind down slowly. You should have
given her the time to take it in, that you two had to let
go.”
“It would have hurt
too much, the slow fade.”
“You’re not giving
her enough credit. She’s a smart girl. A strong
woman.”
“Not her. Me. It
would have hurt me too much.” I know I’m right too. Seeing her just
then? Her soft brown eyes? Sucking her lips to hide their
shivering? I saw my lips on hers.
The stickpin. Still
wearing it after all this time.
How many times have I
fallen asleep to the memory of us, and there she was right in front
of me, and I didn’t even get to hold her hand, to tell her what I
need her to know?
If I’d touched her,
even for a second, I would have started it all over again, the lie
that someday we can be together.
Boo nudges my hand.
He just has to show me he’s a whirly-tail Boo.
“I meant I was sorry
about Tony, ma’am. Can I just peek in on him and say
hi?”
Tony’s name gets her
misty and madder. “He’s still down south, in rehab. The two of you.
What’s wrong with you? Throwing everything away, for
what?”
Boo crosses to her
and leans into her leg and looks up at her with that dopey tongue
sticking out of his mouth. His tail is spinning so fast you almost
can’t see it. She bends to cuddle him. She squeezes him. “Look at
his eyes,” she says. He licks her head like it’s ice
cream.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.
I’m sorry about everything.”
“Let’s get you some
cornbread,” she says, or I think that’s what she said. I can’t
really focus on anything but the door. Damn me, but after all that
pushing her away, I pray she comes back.
The weeks of seeing
her only in my mind, the details of her fading.
That little gold
fleck in her left eye—I can’t ever forget that. I have to burn it
into me to carry me through the nights. I need to look into her
eyes, just for a minute, to kiss her one last time, no matter what
it costs us.
(Saturday, September 12, an hour and a half
later)
CÉCE:
Me and Bobby have a
seat between us. In the empty seat are two jumbo buckets of
popcorn. I’m eating, not tasting; watching, not seeing. Popcorn
shrapnel speckles Bobby’s gut. He spills his soda bucket. “Yup.
Yup. There I go again. Sorry about—”
“It’s fine.”
I just had to pick a
comedy. I should have picked the tearjerker, for cover. The last
person I want to talk with about Mack is Bobby. I don’t know how
I’m not losing it in front of him. Fortunately, he’s really into
the movie. His tongue is sticking out of his mouth.
I can’t see the
screen. My eyes are blurry with the memory of Mack in my living
room and the movie I want to see: The guards fade away. Carmella
fades away. Mack’s chains fade, and now it’s just the two of us—the
three of us. The new dog. The new Boo. We run. We escape. We’re
together, forever.
Maybe they’ll give us
one last minute alone together. How could they not?
He was supposed to be
at the house from noon to two, and then they were taking him
back.
“Bobby?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Don’t tell me what
time it is.”
He checks his phone.
“It’s one forty.”
“Don’t let me leave
this seat, Bob.”
He stands up to make
room for me to get out. “You look like you have to puke,” he
says.
I’m heading for the
aisle. “Trip me.”
He trips himself as
he waddles after me with a near-empty popcorn bucket. “Here, barf
into this.”
I’m running through
the lobby. Out the door. Into the warm afternoon breeze. Once I ran
a mile in eight minutes. Twenty pounds ago. I’m sprinting for the
bus, pulling away . . . gone, but I’m still hauling. My lungs are
like, Are you insane?
I flag down an
unmarked cab, the only kind that comes around here, but the drivers
are fast. Twenty minutes. I’m going to make it. I can be there for
him—
“—here for you,” he says. “Céce, you can tell me anything
and everything.”
“Not everything. Not this.”
“Yes, this.” We’re in the hutch, just after being together
for the first time. It’s July 19, and I’m
shivering.
“When I was nine. When that dog bit me in the alley that
time. When it bit me in the face? I wasn’t
alone.”
“All right?” he says. “Who—”
“Marcy. Marcy was with me. She said we shouldn’t cut
through the alley. That the old man who lived in that house had a
pellet gun, and he was crazy enough to use it. He’d shot Marcy’s
sister for cutting through his yard. One of the pellets was still
in her ass fat. I laughed. I thought that was funny for some
reason. Like it was something that happened in a cartoon, not in
real life. The radio said the temperature was a hundred and two but
felt like a hundred and sixteen with the humidity. It was either
cut through Pellet Man’s yard and be home in the air-conditioning
in three minutes, or go all the way around the block and be home in
ten. I can’t believe I was so stupid. All for seven
minutes.”
“I would’ve done the same,” Mack says.
“No. You would never do what I did that day. The guy
didn’t even seem to be home. No car in the driveway, shades drawn,
outdoor light left on from the night before. So I hop the fence.
Marcy’s calling me an idiot and telling me to come back. I’m
laughing at her, telling her to have fun melting as she hikes
around the block. I fill the dog’s water bowl, go to kiss its head,
the dog latches on and won’t let go. Marcy hops the fence. She’s
jerking on the dog’s collar—”
“And the dog spun on her and latched on to her arm,” Mack
says. “A dog tied up like that? He’s cornered. If he thinks he’s
under attack and he can’t run, he has to fight. That’s why you grab
the back legs and lift them high. Marcy was done for the minute she
grabbed the dog’s collar. You didn’t break her
arm.”
“Break it? It was destroyed.
Do you know how many surgeries she had? The rods and
pins—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is my fault. It went on
and on. The dog won’t let go of Marcy’s arm. Marcy’s screaming for
help, and what do I do? I leave her there. Now the idea that Pellet
Man is going to shoot me doesn’t seem so far-fetched. And in my
mind he’s not shooting pellets, but slugs. I hopped the fence and
ran, Mack. Covering my ears to block out her screams. After she
warns me not to cut through, she hops the fence to save me, and I
left her there.”
“You couldn’t have pulled the dog off
her.”
“I could have run for help.
Instead I ran because I was afraid I was going to get in trouble,
for trespassing, for getting bitten in the face, for getting Marcy
bitten. I hid in somebody’s hedge and just froze there. The police
came ten minutes later, and then the ambulance got there ten
minutes after that. Ten minutes of being with that dog. And all the
while I’m in that hedge, sucking the blood through the cuts in my
lips until I threw up.”
“Céce.”
“She never made me feel bad about it, either. She talked
about it like it was something that just happened to her, not
something I caused.”
“You were nine years old.”
“I deserted her.”
“No,” he says. “You’re a friend to
her.”
“Some friend.”
“You take care of her. Getting her the job at the Too.
Being on the phone with her all the time, listening to her, hanging
with her.”
“Out of guilt.”
“You’re a friend to her.
To me. That’s
gold.”
Gold so bright I see
it after I close my eyes. The sun. I feel it falling. I’m running
out of time. The cab has moved a quarter mile in the last ten
minutes. The traffic on the highway stretches as far as I can see.
“If you get off the highway and take the side streets it’ll be
faster, I think.”
“More mileage,
though,” the cab driver says. “It’ll be cheaper to stay on the
highway.”
“Please, the side
streets, hurry. How fast can you get me to my
drop-off?”
The driver revs into
the service lane, toward the exit ramp. “If the streets are clear,
five minutes.”
I’ll make it with
time to spare. I’ll be in his arms, telling him what I need to tell
him, face-to-face. Looking into his eyes as I say what he never
gave me the chance to say.
(Saturday, September 12, 1:45p.m.)
MACK:
Mrs. V. is holding my
hand. She has to sit close to me. The chains that run from my
wrists to the chain around my waist are short. I’m happy she’s
friends with me again, but I wish it was Céce’s hand in
mine.
I don’t blame her for
not coming back. I was weak, wanting that last kiss with her. It’s
better this way, that the last time we touched was that long kiss
in the rain, at her front door, the night before everything
changed, when we had hopes, when we felt safe with each other,
keeping each other’s secrets.
I’m in the basement
apartment, where Tony will be. I’m sitting at his desk. Boo lays
his giant head in Mrs. Carmella’s lap for petting. She cradles him.
Wash is in the corner, talking soft into his phone.
It’s quiet down here.
You can’t hear the traffic too much. On the side of the house Vic
built a ramp that leads up to the street for when Tony and Boo go
walking. Wheeling. We practiced with Mrs. Carmella playing Tony in
the wheelchair. Boo followed behind, except when he got to a narrow
hallway. Then he went onto his belly and crawled under the
wheelchair. I can train him out of that, no problem. Couple of
other things I need to do to get him ready to live in this house,
but I can knock them out in the time we have left together. Eight
days ought to be enough time.
Eight
days.
“Mrs. Carmella, I saw
the utility shower when I peeked into the laundry closet off the
hall there. I trained Boo to make water over the grate. You rinse
it down right after.”
“You trained him to
pee in the drain?”
“It’s like a cat box.
For when folks are out of the house and Boo is alone. Or if Tony’s
having a tough time getting outside to, like, walk
Boo.”
“The burns,” she
says. “Apparently they’re worse at night. He’ll be on painkillers.
For a bit.” Boo nudges at Mrs. Carmella and gives her his big brown
eyes. “That tail,” she says. And then to me: “Show
me.”
We take Boo to the
drain. “Boo, pee.”
He cocks his head and
gives paw.
“Pee.”
Gives other
paw.
Mrs. Carmella touches
Boo’s muzzle, points to the drain. “Boo, pee.”
Boo trots in, makes
water over the drain, and hops out for his cookie reward. Cuffed, I
have a hard time getting it out of my chest pocket. Mrs. Carmella
helps me and leaves one of her hands on my heart while she gives
Boo the cookie.
“Amazing,” she
says.
“You have a special
dog here, ma’am.”
“Mack, look at me.
You’re amazing.” She’s reaching out to me.
I look past her to
Wash. He pretends to be studying his fingernail beds. He gives me a
quick look and a nod that it’s okay.
In me is this feeling
of lightness. It’s a one-way hug with my hands chained, but she’s
hugging me fierce. Her arms are strong from years of carrying trays
full of food.
“Mack, all those
times we invited you to come in, you never wanted to?”
“I wanted
to.”
“Why didn’t
you?”
I close my eyes and
remember the walk-through with Boo. The pictures on the walls, on
top of the TV, in windowsills and on tables. So many pictures. The
faces. The Grumpy that Céce was always talking about. He’s not
grumpy at all, smiling in every picture. Pictures of Tony and Mrs.
Carmella and Céce and sometimes Vic and plenty of Marcy too. I
swear Céce looks so pretty in every picture. They’re in different
places, the family. Snowy places. Beach places. But they’re always
together no matter where they are. There’s a feeling of forever in
those pictures, on these walls, in this house. Especially the
kitchen. The pictures cover every inch of the kitchen
walls—
“The kitchen walls were empty,” I tell Céce. The wind is
hard through the hutch windows. It’s July 19, but she’s cold, and I
draw her close to me. “All the walls in the apartment were the
same, just bare. Curb junk furniture. We were always moving every
time the old man’s work ran out. He was at work that night, though.
Bar back at a roadhouse, I think. It was my birthday. Lucky seven.
By then I was in the special classes, and around the schools they
were starting to call me retard. The doctor told my folks I’d
likely always be behind. That even if I improved some, this wasn’t
something that had a cure. That it was gonna be a long hard haul
for me, and for them too.
“My mother pulled a couple of Scooter Pies from the
package. She got them free from the motel snack bar. She was a maid
there. She set the pies out and candled one. She said, ‘Macky, that
time in town, in the alley there. That scraggly pit bull. Why’d
y’all name it Boo?’ ‘Because he was a surprise,’ I said. And she’s
nodding at me, and she’s smiling, but she’s sad, I don’t know why.
She says, ‘That was real smart of you, Macky. That is beautiful.’
She lit the candle. ‘Macky, sometimes I think I have to go away
from your father. How would you feel about that?’ I didn’t know
what to feel about that, tell you what. ‘We don’t love each other
anymore,’ she said. ‘He’s content that that’s the way it is. That
love fades and you just got to stick with each other anyway,
because what else are you gon’ do? But there has to be more, don’t
you think?’ I didn’t know what to think. She never talked much and
never this way and I felt like she was a stranger at the table. ‘If
we go,’ she said, ‘it’ll be hard on you. I feel God is calling me
to do something big, Macky. Something special, so that we’ll have
everything we need later on. We’ll have enough money left over to
give it away to folks like us. But that kind of money don’t come
cheap. We’ll be moving around a bunch. You would be alone a lot and
your heart would hurt all the time and what ever would we do about
your reading problem? Now, Macky, don’t look away like that. I need
you to look at me. Macky, what do you want to do? Be with me or
your father?’ I hugged at her so hard and said, ‘I don’t want you
to go. ’ ‘That’s not an option,’ she said. ‘I have to go. I know
this is tough, but you have to choose: me or him. ’ ‘Please, ’ I
said. ‘Just stay. ’
“And she sighed and we hugged for who knows how long, and
she’s rocking me and humming the happy birthday song but real slow
when the old man comes in. And he is mad, tell you what. And drunk.
He gets to slapping her around and calling her a whore.
‘He’s bragging about it all over town,’
the old man says. ‘Telling everybody that you and him are getting
ready to head north together.’ And Mom doesn’t deny it. She says,
‘What do you expect? He’s sweet and kind, and you’re just cold all
through you. You don’t love me. You don’t love anybody, not even
yourself.’ And then the old man just lit into her. He hit her like
it was ten seconds left in the fifteenth round, and he was fighting
for his life. And then, mid-swing, he stops. He turns to me. ‘Go to
your room,’ he says. Mom’s kicking and clawing at him, drawing
blood, and he’s pushing her off. ‘Cario!’ he says. ‘Go to your
fuckin’ room, I said!
Now!’
“I ran into my little room there and shut the door and
dove into my mattress and put the pillow over my head, but I could
still hear it. The banging around. The old man screaming she ripped
his ear. Mom’s yelling to me through the wall, ‘Macky, run! Get
help! He’s killing me!’ But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The old man is
saying, ‘Crying out to that boy? You
think he’s gonna put it on the line for
you?’
“There’s all this slamming into the wall. Sheetrock
breaking. And I was afraid to go out there. Afraid to see it. To
hear it. I turned on my little radio Mom got me for my birthday. I
rolled that tuning dial back and forth and found nothing but
static. We were so far out from the cities, you couldn’t get a
station. It was all I had, so I rolled the volume all the way up
and held the radio to my head to deafen myself with the
hissing.
Cops came sometime later, I don’t know how long it was.
They locked up the old man and Mom went to the hospital, and I
stayed at some lady’s house for the next day or so. Mom didn’t
press charges—she never did—and two nights later, we were all
around the kitchen table, and the old man was crying and
apologizing to Mom and me, and he was just sure he was drunker than
he’d ever been, and it would never happen again, and couldn’t we
all just stay together? And Mom stroked his hair and said it would
be all right, we would see. The way she was looking at me . . . I
don’t know. Sad, sure, but a little disappointed too. I don’t think
she meant to think it or wanted to or even knew she was thinking
it, but I could read her clear: She thought I let her
down.
“We finished dinner, the old man read me a baseball story,
and I fell asleep, and when I woke up, my father was reading the
letter she left, and she was gone for good.
“I feel real bad for her, Céce. I bet she isn’t even alive
anymore. And I still can’t help loving her like crazy. Thanking her
for a couple of sweet memories. How she taught me the way of dogs.”
I’m lying back on the sleeping bag, but inside I feel myself
falling over.
“I’ll never leave you,” Céce says. And the way she holds
me, I believe her. How she quiets the static as I’m rolling into
her, her arms crossing my back.
“Why, sweetheart?”
Mrs. Carmella says. “Why wouldn’t you come into the
house?”
“I’m here now,
ma’am.”
I have Boo too,
leaning into my thigh and shuddering me with his tail wagging. Big
old dopey head cocked and that slack tongue.
“Son?” Wash says.
“I’m afraid it’s time to go.”
We hear the upstairs
door swing in hard. Her feet pound across the floor overhead on a
fast run, down the stairs.
My heart is running
so full I feel it in my eyes, the lids twitching, the light dialing
up, everything turning hot gold. I turn to the stairs and fight the
shackles to hold out my arms for her.
Mister Vic almost
runs me down.
“You’re a dead man,”
Mrs. Carmella says.
“Could you pick up
your goddamn phone?” Vic says.
“Could you check your
voicemail?”
“This is Vic?” Wash
says.
“This is Vic,” the
other guard says, coming downstairs.
“I called you like
sixty times from the cop’s phone,” Vic says. “Oil tanker jackknifed
on the interstate. Half-milelong fire. The Vic-mobile is no more.
Consumed in the swell of angry traffic. The engine simply died in a
hideous puff of smoke. In my blindness, I coasted into a little
fender bender with this Mercedes SUV, no damage to the fancier
vehicle, mind you, nil. Okay, perhaps a
mere nick to the rear bumper, yet the driver has to be a spaz,
everything must be documented. No faith
in humanity, this driver. Waiting two hours for a tow truck,
missing out on the playing out of my machinations. It has been an
afternoon, I must say. My phone, my car, everything’s breaking
down. I couldn’t even flag a fake cab to pick me up.”
“Have you seen
yourself, you sweaty mess?” Mrs. Carmella says. “Your comb-over
isn’t combed over. You look like you ran out of the barbershop
halfway through the haircut. You look crazy.”
“I am crazy. Howyas
doin’?”
“We’re hangin’ in. I
don’t know whether I want to kick you or kiss you,
Victor.”
“Ey, I know what I
know. Will you look at this dog! Where the hell is
Céce?”
(Saturday, September 12, 1:58pm)
CÉCE:
The highway traffic
is spilling into the side streets. I reach over the seat, slap my
money into the driver’s hand, and I jump out the door. The driver
screams I gave him too much. I run down the main drag, past the
CVS, past where we saw our first satellite together, along the
route we used to walk Boo. People think I’m insane, sprinting in
one Croc. I lost the other when I jumped out of the cab because the
strap on that one never stayed up.
Turning the corner to
my street.
Down the block: a
green van in the driveway. Backing out.
I scream for them to
wait, but they don’t hear me. Don’t see me. They’re pulling away,
toward the traffic light, turning yellow. The van speeds up to make
the light and then stops as the light turns red.
I’m screaming his
name. Screaming please. Screaming
wait. Stay. I’m close. The light turns
green. The van turns. I’m too breathless to scream now, but I’m
going to catch up to the van. Fifty feet and gaining. I kick a
crack in the sidewalk and trip just like I did that first night he
walked me home. Except this time he isn’t here to catch me. To keep
me from skidding over the pebbly concrete, skinning my hands and
knees.
The van accelerates
through loosening traffic, toward the west side freeway, until it
turns another corner, out of sight.
I wasn’t even going
to tell him I love him. I know he doesn’t want to hear it. All I
wanted to do was say good-bye.
(Saturday, September 12, 2:05pm)
MACK:
Mrs. Carmella gave me
a hat she knitted. It’s pink and yellow stripes. Maybe I’ll give it
to one of the lady guards. But for now, I pull it low over my eyes
to block out the world on the way back. Wash doesn’t bother with
the hood. I know where I was, where I am. I don’t think about where
I’m going.
Tell you what, I’m
shot. Boo’s shot too, belly up and snoring in my lap.
I just don’t know.
Tony. Why did he do that? What is he going to do now? Boo feels me
sinking, and he wakes and wags me through the feeling. The feeling
like the good guy can’t win.
I keep going back and
forth. My brain knows this is the way it has to be, with Céce and
me. That she was right to run. But my heart knows that’s all wrong.
That even if the price of one last kiss with her was Wash having to
shoot me, it would’ve been worth it.
I wonder if it’s
possible to forget her. To forget that night we were at the shore,
watching that old couple hunt for treasure they must have known
wasn’t there. Here I’m fifteen already, and I don’t know a damned
anything. I just don’t know.
Halfway into the ride
back, Wash tells the driver to pull over there for a minute. He
comes back fifteen minutes later with a pizza box.
The van turns gentle
here then there and eases me into a nice, halfway sleep. Must be
twenty minutes later, Wash has the driver pull over a second time.
The engine cuts out. I lift the hat off my eyes.
We’re at the
waterside, in the visitor parking lot ahead of the jail’s
checkpoint trailer and the guard tower. The parking lot is full of
folks sleeping in cars, waiting for visiting hours to start up
again tonight. Lots of folks waiting for the bus, ladies mostly.
The parking lot is dirty, pint bottles, spent rubbers. Fast-food
wrappers tumbleweed.
The driver checks my
shackles and helps me down the rocks to the water. Wash leads Boo.
We settle on a flat rock. Wash’s radio starts up. He clicks it off.
He opens the pizza box. Pineapple pizza, man.
Wash shrugs, hands
out slices. I pull off some cheese, give it to Boo. And here we
are: three dudes and a dog, eating pineapple pizza. Tell you what?
It is good.