Getting Off Clean

by Timothy Murphy

  “Oh, Eric, for God’s sake, you shut up!” he exclaims, sitting up and putting his hand over my mouth. I’m taken aback, and I let out a muffled “Hey.”

  “What was that for?” I ask when he uncaps my mouth.

  “Eric,” he says, putting his hand up against my shoulder and pinning me, effectively, to the wall. “There is something you simply must understand, once and for all. I don’t want your idea of success. There’s nothing in the world that I’d like less than going off to some constipated school like Yale or Harvard or Amherst”—he makes a special, exaggerated point of dropping the “h,” prep school style—“or whatever, and hanging around a bunch of brain-dead idiots like the ones here for another four years. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be a Rhodes Scholar, I don’t want to be a lawyer, I don’t want to be an investment banker. I don’t want anything to do with anything you could even remotely call an American success story. I just want to get out of here; I don’t ever want to be picked up by the police for walking at night again; I love walking at night. I just want people to leave me alone.”

  He’s got his eyes fixed on me and his upper lip is curling. I’m a little hurt, because I feel implicated in everything he’s telling me he hates, but I say it anyway: “Do you hate everybody just because they’re white?”

  “No, I don’t hate everybody just because they’re white,” he says, mimicking me, sneering. “I’ve had just as few black friends as white ones. I hate everybody because they’re idiots.”

  “Well, then, why do you stand me? I’m white, and I want to go to college. And I guess I want to be some kind of American success story.”

  “You already are,” he says acidly. “You won the big Boston Globe high school essay contest. You’re the new Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I say. “Can’t you give me a straight answer?”

  “Why do I put up with you, you want to know?” he says, crushing out his cigarette. “Because you amuse me. Because I think on some level, you honestly believe that the more books you’ve read, the more places you’ve been, the more intellectual sheen you can accrue, the happier your life’s going to be someday. You think you’re going to get out of your miserable little Dickensian town and go to Yale—and then, God knows where, New York! London! Paris! And you’re going to be the life of the party. You really are a Horatio Alger hero, but you believe in the currency of cocktail banter instead of the currency of money. And I guess I find that sweet—”

  “That’s about the most condescending thing I’ve ever heard!” I say, but he ignores me. He really seems to be on a roll now.

  “I find it sweet, and I also wonder if we’ll ever meet again in a few years—maybe in London! Or Paris, darling!”

  “Would you stop that stupid lisp?”

  “At some smashing party on the cliffs at Antibes, and you’ll finally tell me that now you know I was right when I told you that, all the way back in dreary West Mendhem in that chilly little barn.”

  “Told me what?” I ask.

  He looks away for a minute, lights another cigarette.

  “Told me what?”

  “You really want to know, Eric?”

  “Yes!”

  He grabs me by the chin and talks right into my face, like I’m a child. “That you’re not going to have a happy life, Eric. And neither am I. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to you. Because I’m a loner here and you’re a loner right in the middle of your own family, your own town, or why would you be consorting with me? They don’t pass out happy lives to boys like us, Eric.”

  “Boys like what?”

  He laughs out loud. “Oh, good Lord, would you finally stop lying to yourself? What do you think we just did up here an hour ago? Eric, when you picture yourself in ten years, who do you see yourself with?”

  “What do you mean, with? I don’t know. Friends, I guess, like I have now. Like Phoebe and Charlie.”

  “I mean with with. Who do you see yourself getting into bed with every night? Who are you fucking, Eric? Where are you putting your cock, other than into your own hand? Or into a pound of chopped liver?”

  I push him away. “I don’t want to think about this stuff right now.”

  But he keeps on. “I mean, you tell me you’re so very devoted to your mother and your grandmother and your knocked-up older sister and your three million cousins, or kissing cousins, or whatever they are—your whole tribe. Well, Eric, what would they say if they could have seen you a minute ago, jerking off a black boy? What if I got it on tape, and I sent it to them?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” I say.

  “Of course I wouldn’t, but you’re missing my point. What would they say? They probably wouldn’t say anything. They’d probably just hold a big cross up to your face and excommunicate you from the family, if they didn’t stone you first.”

  “I think that’s a little extreme,” I say with a scowl.

  “And what about your teachers, and the terribly prestigious Boston Globe? Do you think they’d like to know about the private life of their star contest winner? You want to take me to your awards ceremony?”

  “Très drôle,” I say feebly.

  “Eric, all I’m saying to you is Think about your life. Why are you killing yourself to please these people who would rather erase you from the books than let you be yourself?”

  Now I’m the one who explodes. “What the fuck do you want me to do? Tell my whole family and my whole school to fuck off, and run away to Paris like you? Well, I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t have a trust fund! Why do you think I work so hard? It’s not to please them! It’s so I can get the hell out of here and go somewhere more—more—I don’t know—progressive. I hate it here, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m not a trained puppy, though! I’m not Ragged Dick!” And I’m just about to start bawling, he’s made me so unhappy, but he breaks out laughing, convulsively.

  “How can you say those horrible things to me, and then start laughing?” I ask, aghast.

  “I’m amazed at your ability to start crying every time you feel like you’ve been slighted, like you’re Vivien Leigh in the final shot of Gone With the Wind. It’s almost like you can see the close-up of your tear-stained face and hear the orchestra swell up behind you.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I say, which makes him laugh harder.

  “All you need is a big radish in your hand to complete the picture.”

  “What about you?” I finally say. “You almost flooded us out of this loft today.”

  “I missed my mommy,” he says, deadpan. “And I was still a little stoned when you got here.”

  “Then you broke your promise to me.”

  “I promise that’s the last promise to you that I ever break,” he says, lifting up the army blanket and throwing it over the two of us, easing us down into a lying position.

  “Yeah, right.” I wrap my arms around him under the blanket, lace my legs inside his, bury my mouth in his neck.

  “Solemn promise,” he says, pressing against me.

  It feels good under here, and I realize I’m tired. “I’ve gotta leave soon,” I mumble. “It’s gotten dark outside.”

  “Stay five minutes,” he says.

  “All right,” I say. “Five.” And we settle into each other against the cold and I close my eyes and start to doze off, as the phrase “Don’t fall asleep” starts repeating itself in my head until it becomes a bloated, disjointed chorus.

  “Eric,” he whispers, and I mutter, “Uh-huh,” and he whispers, “Je t’aime,” and I grab him tighter and mutter back, “Je t’aime aussi.”

  * * *

  I dream we’re accepting the award together, but not the Boston Globe award, some other award. I don’t know what it’s for, but we’re on stage together in an enormous hall, before a huge adoring crowd, getting a standing ovation. We’re dressed, in this dream, in black tie, and there’s no hostility coming from the crowd, only great waves of mirth and approval. I hold the award aloft, and hold out my ha
nd to him, smiling, and he accepts it, smiling devilishly, and leans in, kissing me on the cheek, and whispers underneath the roar of applause, “We’ve arrived.”

  It’s freezing and pitch dark in the barn when I wake up with him sleeping beside me. I look at my watch; the digital glow reads 12:30 A.M. “Oh shit!” I yell, and he wakes up with a start.

  “Who is it? What, what?” he says, groggy, panicked.

  “I’ve gotta get out of here,” I say, throwing off the army blanket, groping around for my backpack.

  “What time is it?” he asks, coming to.

  “It’s after midnight!”

  “Oh, good Lord.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” I say again, frantically lacing my shoes. “I was supposed to be home for dinner tonight. They must be freaking out! I’m dead! Why did you ever let me fall asleep?”

  “I didn’t tell you to fall asleep,” he says.

  “We can’t do this anymore.” I grope on all fours toward the ladder at the edge of the loft. “What the fuck am I going to tell them?”

  “Why don’t you wait a minute and figure that out before you just run out?” he says, so matter-of-fact I want to hit him. “You’re already eight hours late for dinner. Another five minutes isn’t going to make a difference.”

  “Oh, shit!” I say again. “No. I can’t wait. I’ve gotta go. I’ll figure it out on the way home. I hope the car’s still there.”

  “Aren’t you going to help me figure out something to say? I’m in deep shit, too, you know.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I snap, lowering myself onto the ladder.

  “Will you call me and tell me what transpires?” he asks. “Don’t you get anything?” I want to yell at him, but I don’t. “I’ll try” is all I say; then I scurry down the ladder, out of the barn, and out onto the terrifying dark of the soccer fields. Thankfully, the car is where I left it. I race home along the deserted roads, trying to formulate a story in my head, hoping that maybe there’s some chance they just thought I was caught up at school, putting together the next issue of the newspaper or something, and forgot to call home, even though I know it’s a slim chance.

  Which it is. When I get home, the lights are on in the house and my father’s car isn’t in the driveway. I haven’t even turned off the car when I see the front door fly open, my mother standing there, still dressed in her nurse’s uniform. I swallow, and brace myself.

  “Where the hell have you been? Where the hell have you been? We thought you were dead!” my mother is screaming at me before I’m even in the door.

  “Ma,” I say, wedging past her and throwing down my backpack in the hall. “Just let me explain, okay?”

  “You damned well better explain,” she says, pointing a shaking finger at me. She looks like she’s either going to strangle me or start crying. I notice there’s a plate of half-eaten eggplant parmigiana on the kitchen table, and a platter full of the stuff sitting atop the stove. “I have been on that thing all night,” she screams, pointing now to the phone, “with everyone. Phoebe, Charlie, your teachers, your principal, Auntie Winnie, Auntie Reenie, everyone! And your father is out right now with the police driving all over town trying to find you. We thought you were murdered—or kidnapped—or God knows what.”

  “Ma,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I’m okay. Would you just let me explain?”

  “Go ahead. I’m waiting. I haven’t heard anything yet.” She’s rooted to the same spot in the middle of the hallway. She’s got huge black circles under her eyes and she looks absolutely possessed. In the living room, the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle serenely; they forgot to turn them off after ten o’clock, like they usually do.

  “Would you just let me talk?” I yell.

  “Go ahead and talk!”

  I pause a moment, then plunge in. “I went to see Brenda—”

  “That’s bullshit!” my mother cuts me off viciously. “I called Brenda and she said she hadn’t seen you all night. How can you just look me in the face and lie?”

  “Would you let me finish?” I say. For some reason, the sight of the Christmas tree is making me feel incredibly sad as I go on with this lie; so far, this hasn’t felt like any other Christmas season I’ve ever had. “I went to see her, but I never got there.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to go get Brenda and see if she’d come to dinner tonight, to celebrate,” I say.

  “Well, then, why didn’t you just call her?”

  “Because I thought if I called her, she wouldn’t listen. I thought I’d go to the card store and try to talk to her there.”

  “She wasn’t even working this afternoon,” my mother says, coldly.

  “I didn’t know that. I thought I’d take a chance. But then, on the way there, I took the wrong exit or something and I pulled into this parking lot at a shopping plaza to ask somebody directions.”

  “And?”

  “And then—I don’t know. I just felt so incredibly tired all of a sudden that I put back the seat and lay back, just to rest my eyes. And I fell asleep.”

  My mother looks at me like I’m crazy. “And you slept for, what—eight hours?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say, feeling as though I’m over the worst part of the lie. “I just—crashed so hard. When I woke up, it was totally dark and the parking lot was empty. I looked at my watch, and I thought it must be wrong. But then I heard the time on the radio in the car and I freaked out.”

  She just looks at me, stunned, and then she finally laughs, a long, harsh laugh that sounds like a rip. “Well! Well, I am so glad that somebody is rested, because your father and I certainly aren’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma. I didn’t know what happened.”

  Then she looks at me, and her whole face crumples—it’s like her whole body crumples—and she walks past me and says “Oh, Eric,” and sits down at the kitchen table, throws her head down on her arms, and starts to cry, exhausted. “Oh, Eric. Oh, baby. Do you know you had me and your father worried sick? I thought one of the sickos had gotten you. I thought, That’s it. I’ve lost my daughter, and now I’ve lost my son, too. God must be punishing me for something.”

  “C’mon, Ma” is all I can say. I can’t go over to comfort her because I feel too disgusting.

  “Grandma’s been praying all night,” she says, looking up at me, bereft, her face stained with tears. “She made this nice dinner and everything.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” I say again, weakly. It’s becoming a mantra. “I’ll tell Grandma I’m sorry.”

  “And you’d better go upstairs and wake up Joani and show her your face or she’s gonna have nightmares all night. She was terrified.”

  “Okay,” I say, suddenly feeling insanely hungry—but too guilty to ask for food.

  We hear cars outside. My father comes running in, saying hoarsely, “Any word?” Then he sees me, like I’m an apparition, and he says, “Oh, God.”

  “He just got back,” my mother says dully.

  “Kid, where the hell have you been?” he says, out of breath. Now I’m really scared, but I give him the nutshell version of the lie. He just looks at me like I’ve completely unraveled, then he says, “I gotta tell De-Marco he’s back,” and he steps back outside. Meanwhile my mother doesn’t look at me, just stares blankly at the half-eaten plate of eggplant parmigiana.

  When my father comes back in, he takes off his coat and gloves, unplugs the Christmas tree, and pours himself a glass of scotch. My mother goes on staring at the plate. Then my father comes back in the kitchen, puts down his scotch, and just stares at me—not in anger so much, it seems, but bewilderment, like he doesn’t even know me. Tonight, they both look older to me than they’ve ever looked.

  “Would you mind telling us how you managed to sleep in a cold car for eight hours without waking up?” my father asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I say, trying to seem as astounded as he is. “I just closed my eyes for a minute, and next thing
you know…” (At least, I think to myself, there’s some truth in the story. Even if I was at St. Banner, I wasn’t awake.)

  “Eric,” my mother says, “is there something wrong that you’re not telling us about?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. Keep it simple, I’m thinking.

  “Do you have too much work at school?” my father asks.

  “No more than I usually do. I guess I was just more tired than I thought I was.”

  “Maybe you should go to Dr. Dineen,” my mother says, feeling my neck for swollen glands. “Maybe you have mono.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “But I’ll go if you want me to.”

  My parents just stare at each other. Nobody says anything as my mother gets up, puts some eggplant parmigiana on a plate for me, and puts it in the microwave oven. For moments, the only sound is a warm atomic whir. My father holds his drink; my mother sits back down. I wish they’d both just go to bed, but they seem to be holding out for something.

  “Eric. Honey,” my mother finally says. “We’re all tired these days, and stressed out. There’s Grandma with us, and Brenda gone, and all the crazy stuff going on around town. I know it seems like in all the commotion we tend to forget you, because you never give us a problem. But you gotta know: if something’s bothering you, we want to hear about it. We really do.”

  “That’s right,” my father adds, looking into his drink, and their entreaty catches me so off guard, moves me so deeply, that for one split second I want to just collapse, just tell them all about him and be out with it; I’ve been keeping it in for almost four months now. I feel something balling up in my stomach and rising to my throat—not nausea, really, but a greater release, and it’s just about to come out, now unbidden by me, more like a natural ejection, beyond prudence, beyond reason, when my mother says, “Is it something between you and Phoebe? You can tell us, honey, you know,” and the pressure in my throat evaporates, and I come hurtling back down to earth.

  “No, it’s not. Honestly,” I say. “I guess it’s just school pressure. And missing Brenda.”