Or maybe, no matter what, it would have.
BASH
We haven’t spoken since it happened.
I know Kyle’s freaked, because his mouth is shut, which almost never happens. He pulls into my trailer park, Grand Estates, and coasts up along the unpaved road. The absent hum of the engine is obvious now that we’re just sitting here in the silence. With my hand clenched on my seat belt, I notice he’s hovering over the steering wheel, his eyes still darting around in a panic.
I lay my hand on his shoulder, but I’m not sure what to say. “Don’t stress until we check the car. I’m sure it’s fine.”
He nods. “Tomorrow? We have to get it done tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
We step out of the car. The rain has let up on this side of town, just a drizzle trickling over us, clanging on the trailer’s rickety roof. He’s not worried about his perfectly coifed hair or expensive leather jacket like usual. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he examines the front of the car. I make my way up beside him, afraid to look at the damage.
“Shit,” Kyle says. He rubs his hand over a small dent on the hood, trailing down to the hole of a cracked headlight. He sticks his finger inside, pulls it out, then pushes back in, and looks up at me with a grin. “Remind you of anything?”
I punch him in the arm with a balled-up fist while he continues to laugh. “You’re sick.”
His laugh fades as I squat down for a deeper look. I feel him tower over me, his vodka breath souring the air. “When does your dad get home from his trip?”
Dude can barely keep his balance, wobbling like a tree ready to drop. He burps, holds his stomach. “Next Monday, I think.”
“There’s a sweet place up the road that will give us a good deal. I’ll chip in what I’ve got saved, and he’ll never know.” I dip my hands into my pockets, where holes line the edges, the place where money should be.
He’s shaking his head. “I know a guy who knows a guy. He’ll get it done on the DL. Fast and cheap. Like Layla.”
I stand up and meet Kyle’s drowsy eyes. If I punched him, he wouldn’t remember. I think on this for a few seconds until I remember he’s an idiot with no filter. Besides, not that I’m not tough as shit, but my knuckles are too delicate for his GQ chiseled chin. I refocus to his swaying frame and attempt to steady him with my index finger on his chest. “That sounds super sketchy, man. Let’s just take it to the place Ma used to go. They know me.”
“No, nope, no. This isn’t for public consumption. In this small town, word would get out before we could say ‘banana hammock.’” He giggles. “Banana hammock. A hammock for your banana.”
Now I know he’s gone. I roll my eyes, place my hands square on his shoulders and draw his attention to my words of reason. It’s a helluva lot harder than it sounds. “Kyle. Look at me.” He does, barely. “It was probably just a big-ass dog. We’ll get the dings fixed; your dad, and anyone else, will never know. Hear me?”
He takes a long time to respond, rubs his lips together, and pulls his phone from his pocket. I watch as he slowly and haphazardly punches a few numbers. One second later, my phone rings.
I sigh. “Really?”
He nods, his eyes urging me to answer, so I do, though, really, really pissed. “What?”
“Banana hammock,” he says. He hunches over, hand pulling at his shirt, barely containing his laughter. Drunk Kyle is officially the worst, which isn’t much better than sober Kyle, and coincidentally, they’re both Wild Kyle, and I’m stuck with him, er … them. No one else can handle it, and if they could, wouldn’t want to. Hell, if I knew for sure I wouldn’t feel like utter shit for bailing on a decade-long shadow, however annoying, I’d stop handling it, too.
“Thanks for wasting my time, douche,” I growl, knowing I have exactly twenty-nine minutes left on my pay-as-you-go card, and those are reserved for emergencies only. This doesn’t count.
He’s still laughing, waking the nosy-ass neighbors now. Their lights switch on, one by one, illuminating the Benz even more. I stomp over and shove my hand over his mouth with force. “Unless you wanna go to jail for being a high-ass drunk who hit something and fled, shut the hell up. I doubt even Daddy’s money could get you out of that one.”
His eyes are alert now, and with my hand acting as duct tape firm over his mouth, he nods. I let go, shake his germs free, and circle the car to warm the shivers prickling my skin. The rain left a bitterness in the air that bites into my veins. Part of me wants him to get out of here, fast, and the other knows what’s waiting for me once I go inside—nothing.
With an out-of-character calmness, Kyle casually walks over to the row of withered bushes that are really just a pile of connected sticks surrounding the rusted tan trailer. It’s the place where, every spring, Ma would attempt to plant something, and lo and behold, every spring, nothing would bloom in the weed-covered patch. His finger is waving at me like I’m trying to talk, and he’s shushing me, but I’ve been quiet.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He hunches over, near the brass numbers, 17, which are barely hanging on, grabs his stomach, and vomits a thick stream of everything he’s eaten today. I turn away, wrap my arms together, and rub, try to ward off the wind while he cleanses. The sounds remind me of Ma, and suddenly I miss her so much I want to drive across town. That’s weird, right? Yeah. But with beer and cigarettes on my breath, if she’s having a clear night where she isn’t higher than Kyle, she’ll kick me out before I’m halfway through the doorway. Why are you killing yourself with those cancer sticks when I don’t get to choose how I go? she’ll ask. To which I’ll probably respond, Because even the thought of losing you is its own kind of slow death, and this just eases the pain. And then she’ll lecture me about what it’s doing to my body, which will lead to a discussion about life and death and all the things I don’t want to hear or say. Not now. So instead, here I am looking at Kyle, realizing this is all I can handle right now.
Kyle clears his throat, jolting me from my thoughts. “I feel like a million bucks now!” He wipes the slime from the stray hairs on his chin.
“Get it all out?”
He begins to talk, his mouth half open as if he’s going to say something profound. One finger pointed in the air, he runs back to the row of sticks, head hunched over. He always said cleansing is the soul’s way of finding balance, so I hope this asshole comes out Even Steven when he’s finished decorating our “front yard.” This is why I don’t drink hard liquor. A beer or two is cool. Beer confirms my beliefs on just about anything, doesn’t change the way I act or think. But liquor, it changes people, usually in a very, very bad way. Like my ex-stepdad, Joe. I don’t want to be anything like that son of a bitch. So I stay away from the stuff.
This time, when Kyle’s finished, he doesn’t have that smug grin I’m so used to. “Dude,” he slurs.
I throw my arm around him and guide him to the passenger seat of his dad’s car. “Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
He doesn’t argue about the expensive wheels, and doesn’t question how I’m gonna get home after. But that’s not just Drunk Kyle. He wouldn’t give a shit if he were Sober Kyle (which is a rare form, anyhow). But with only a few miles between us, it’s not like I haven’t done the walk of shame in days past. Though, it should be known, it was only a few times, when I felt a slight twinge of loneliness at the exact same moments Kyle felt a surge in clinginess. Similar to a weirdly platonic one-night stand, I always disappeared before his witch of a mom ever found out, and definitely before Kyle decided I couldn’t live without him. Because let’s be clear: I CAN.
He falls into the still-warm seat and slouches over to the side, with his head resting on the door panel. I buckle up, twist the keys, and slowly, carefully, drive him home. There comes a point in this small town, that has exactly three schools and a handful of traffic lights, where a definitive line is drawn. There are few good parts in East Clifton, where people drive Mercedes-Benzes and stand on pedestals from which
they judge everyone else while waving their gold and arrogance around like flags. Then there are the places I live, which are the exact opposite. West Clifton has more of those cookie-cutter houses, completely lacking in originality, but better than my hood. There isn’t much middle ground here. You’re either making it or you’re not. A town within a town. Those that live like Kyle’s family sure as hell don’t make their money here. They commute in their fancy suits to their big desks. These places, things, I know nothing about, except in my big pipe dreams. Maybe someday, I think to myself. And then I look around at what I have versus what Kyle has and realize, Not really, though.
We pull onto the long, winding drive where the front yard boasts a stone bird bath that spits a stream of water from its long beak. Careful not to press on the gas too hard, I coax the car into the open space of the five-car garage. With the engine now off, I look over at Kyle, who is sound asleep, snoring through his clogged nostrils—not a goddamned care in the world. Must be nice, I think, being the one who lives here instead of works here.
The day we left, the day Kyle’s mom, Linda, kicked us out, she said she wouldn’t be undermined by “the help.” That we should go back to where we came from. She implied we’re from Mexico by pointing to a bag of tortilla chips and a container of salsa, like the racist bigot she is, but we’re Brazilian, and damn proud of it. My beautiful ma, so dignified and classy, ripped off her uniform and threw it at the salsa with a burly force. It knocked the plastic vessel onto Linda’s ivory dress, to which Ma said “We’re not Mexican, bitch.” She packed our things and moved us into the place I now call home, which isn’t home at all. Just a shack with sheets of thin threads to block the wind and light while I sleep. It felt a lot smaller when Joe was here, but he left when his next meal ticket came around. Thank God for that.
But another thing about Kyle is, he never really treated me like “the help.” He defended us to his mom, cried when we left, begged for us to stay. Maybe that’s why I let him hang around all these years (even though he’s the actual worst). I feel like I abandoned him or something. Let him rot in that wretched mansion with all that money and freedom. Maybe I’m the one who’s the actual worst.
I nudge Kyle awake with my elbow. His head pops up, eyes bulging in alarm. “Where am I?” he blurts in a huff.
“You’re home. Go to bed. Sleep it off.”
“Got anymore weed?”
“Get out of here.” I shove him out. He stumbles before catching his footing as he mutters something, not a thank-you, and drags himself inside. I linger in the car for a minute, because it’s still warm, think about the night, and walk around the front to inspect the dent once more.
I lean down, something between the headlight’s jagged teeth catching my eye. My fingers pinch a small, almost invisible piece of fabric. I angle the green, wet patch up against the light. A chill startles me as it sinks deep into the muscle. Animals like deer or stray dogs don’t wear clothes. Unless it was a pet tortured by the kind of people who raise their dogs like kids. People like Kyle’s family.
I spend a few long minutes rationalizing with myself before deciding the cloth was there before. It’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing I can accept right now. I shove the fabric into the corner of my pocket, close the garage, and exit through the side door like one of Kyle’s girlfriends.
The cold thrashes sharpened waves of face-numbing wind at me. I march on, press my feet deeper into the ground as I walk parallel to the highway, through the bare forest and trees. The fallen leaves crunch beneath me, step by step, for a couple miles. Whatever buzz I had is gone, and I’m fresh out of the cigarettes I stole from Vinny at the rink.
I walk up to my door and easily twist the knob because it’s never locked, because we have nothing worth stealing. Unless you count dreams and faith. The door won’t close, so I slam my body up against it, then flip the light switch. But it’s still dark, still cold. Might as well go back outside and sleep in Kyle’s warm vomit. I flip again, hoping the house just needed a warm-up flip and this is the one that will cast a light onto all our treasures and gold.
Nothing.
My foot catches on a piece of paper on the sticky floor.
NOTICE: DISCONNECTION OF ELECTRICITY
“Who disconnects on a Sunday—God’s day of rest? Sacrilegious a-holes.” I think back to the last bill I used as a napkin. Must’ve been the electric. Ma would lose her shit if she knew I let them “take our light,” even though I’ve explained a million times that’s how utilities work. That you have to pay for them to keep them.
I wad the paper into a ball and see how far I can toss it. Considering the space is only about twelve feet wide, it’s not far. With my stomach still churning, I figure a sandwich could calm the storm, so I throw together a slice of stale bread and a slab of bologna that—I hope—hasn’t spoiled yet. The jacket stays on in this icebox, and I wander back to my room, where the old spring mattress lies on the floor. My body falls like someone yelled “timber,” sandwich still in hand, and I pull my chem homework from the faded backpack I’ve had since I was twelve. Shuffling through the problems by the light of the moon, I press Play on my phone—more Johnny Cash—and use the extra light to boost my vision.
Staring at summary number three, it’s talking about catalysts. How hydrogen and oxygen need a catalyst, like a lit match, to explode. I read a little further.
When a catalyst is added, a molecule shifts its structure or makes two molecules combine, and they release more energy. That extra energy might create a chain reaction. A catalyst is like a bridge. It can redirect the chemical pathway to skip all the other steps that require energy.
I lower the paper and think of Kyle, the car, and the cloth. Maybe I’m overthinking, maybe I’m too sober.
Or maybe I’m onto something kind of huge.
birdie
The red and blue lights bleed into the night sky like melting crayons.
Three police cruisers and one EMT arrive exactly four minutes, thirty-seven seconds after Dad made the call. They drove just a few miles from the local emergency room, but they say it’s too bad; Benny needs to get to Children’s over in Grove City, and now. Mom crouches beside him, tries to hold him, move him, but they tell her not to, beg her not to. With a face ghostly white, Brynn says there’s blood everywhere, and by the way she tells me, she’s not processing what has happened. They’re just emotionless words, a record on repeat.
As the rain settles, it is clear Mom’s in shock. She won’t let go of Benny. Dad tries to pull her fingers loose from the threads of Benny’s shirt. She cocks a fist back and wallops him in the arm with the strength of ten men. I’ve seen her do this before, but not like this. She was joking then. This is different. This isn’t light. This is pain.
Their mouths move, open and close and close and open, but I can’t hear their words. I pull the camera that’s covered in bile up to my face, focus carefully with my fingers, and snap a dozen pictures. The smooth black frame knocks my glasses onto the bridge of my nose. I capture the moment so I can go back and remember this, figure out how to fix it. Without the pictures, the proof, I might not believe this is happening. Because this isn’t happening. It can’t be.
I stand in the garage, camera smashed to my face, until Sarge gently pulls me, and Chomperz, inside. He drags me into the kitchen and plops me down onto a chair before sorting through a drawer. With shaky hands, he runs a cloth under the faucet, silent. I don’t move as he wipes the vomit from my chin and sets my camera on the table next to, of all things, Benny’s bedtime book. He’s slow and deliberate, steadying his hands against my cheeks. I don’t make eye contact; I can’t. Just look at the floor. It’s all I see. The diamond-shaped pattern that weaves through the kitchen and dining room. Connected, like a family should be, not broken.
When he’s finished, he pulls back, soft, hands planted down on both my shoulders. There is an obvious shift in the room’s energy. He says so much without uttering a single word. He pats. Once
, twice, three times, then walks away, leaves me to my thoughts as if to say, I’m here if you need me. The red and blue lights now pour into the living room, coloring our new home with feelings, I can’t escape. So I don’t even try. I just … sit.
I don’t remember much, like how long the EMTs work to keep my brother alive, or maybe, bring him back to life. I only remember those lights. Like the pulsing rays of a disco ball, alerting the whole town something horrific happened while we wait, another fourteen minutes, nineteen seconds, for the CareFlite helicopter to land near our front yard. We all know that puttering sound of sadness. When it’s flying overhead, something bad has happened, something inevitably fatal. At some point, as I sit here, he’s airlifted to Grove City PICU and Trauma Center, a half an hour away, with Mom by his side.
Dad and Brynn rush in, and without even speaking to me, Dad grabs his keys. They rush back out, hop in Dad’s car to leave. I should go with them. Or maybe I should stay? Or … maybe I would be better off melting into the foundation to never be seen again. I vote for the latter. They don’t wait for me to decide anyway. I wander back into the garage to see Dad furiously back down the steep drive, darting into the highway without much care. Sarge quietly follows after me. He tugs on the young cypress that’s still attached to Mom’s SUV. Moments pass as he struggles with the cords that have the tree wrapped snug. I consider offering help, but don’t. I can see on his face, he needs to do this on his own. This is how he must process the events, so I let him.
Through Sarge’s grunting, I fall to my knees on the garage floor, just inches from the vomit puddle. An officer, all dressed in blue, as they say, slowly walks up the hill, his head hung just low enough, his eyes are hidden. He approaches with caution.
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 4
