moment, I do. And at the words,
surprise (or maybe disbelief)
contorts her pretty face. “What?”
Nothing. She smiles. It’s just …
wow. She undulates seductively,
the rise and fall of her body like
salty waves beneath my own.
Another first, this time no faking
climbing higher and higher, until
she finishes with an amazing
gush and tears of satisfaction.
I love you, too, she exhales softly.
We lie, tangled together, unmoving,
unspeaking. And we both know
this is what sex should be.
All Awesome Things
Must come to an end, damn it
to hell. Ronnie and I are slipping
toward sleep, still intertwined,
when the doorknob rattles. Cody?
It’s Cory. Good thing I locked it.
Are you in there? Can I come in?
Ronnie starts to scramble.
I hold her tight, put a finger
to my lips. “Shh.” Then I say
toward the door, “Just a minute,
okay?” I’ve never had a girl
in here. He probably thinks
I’m taking care of business,
solo. I really don’t want to let
Ronnie go. All the hurt will
come flooding back. But Cory
is waiting. I kiss Ronnie’s face,
her neck, lick the shimmer
of sweat from the deep fold
between her breasts. She sighs,
and that makes me want more.
But Cory again bumps the door.
I rest my chin on her belly,
look into her eyes. “Thank you.”
We Throw on Clothes
But dressed or undressed,
it’s obvious what we’ve been
doing in here. When I open
the door, Cory is pretty much
amazed. Oh. Uh … sorry. I, uh,
didn’t know you …
His face is the approximate
shade of an unripe plum.
Ronnie and I both have to
grin. “No problem, bro. Oh,
this is Ronnie. We’ve been
going out for a while now.”
Cory has no patience for my
method of dealing with grief.
His voice, curt, slices the air.
Yeah, well, people are starting
to leave. Mom’s looking for you.
He pivots sharply, leaves the room.
I start to apologize, but Ronnie
stops me, stroking my lips with
soft fingertips. It’s okay. He’s
hurting. And your mom needs
you right now. I should go. Her
kiss is a bittersweet good-bye.
One by One
Everyone leaves. Mom stands
at the door, looking worn. Torn.
Emptied. She has managed the day
so far without breaking down.
But now she dissolves. I go to her,
put my arm around her shoulder,
steer her to the sofa. “Sit down.
I’ll get you a drink.” Something
strong, to help her sleep. She hasn’t
slept much since the day Jack up
and left us. Mom isn’t much of
a drinker. I pour her three fingers.
She accepts the brandy without
protest. Sips it slowly, stares out
the window. Finally she says,
I never believed this day would
come. Some stupid part of me kept
insisting the doctors were wrong.
Oh God, I miss him so much already.
What am I going to do without him?
She swallows the last of her drink
in a giant gulp, throws her face
into her hands and sobs. I want to
help. But I have no answers.
I take her glass, go to refill it.
She deserves a good drunk, and
so do I. As I pour, Cory comes
in, checks out the brandy bottle
with covetous eyes. Oh, why not?
Mom won’t care today. We sit
on opposite sides of our mother,
downing alcohol that cannot warm
the death chill infiltrating us, inside
and out. Soon the silence becomes
overwhelming, and Cory turns on
the TV. Doesn’t matter what’s on.
The three of us get drunk together,
semi-listening to the announcer
on Sports Central, droning on about
Jet Fuel, the unlikely winner of both
the Kentucky Derby and Preakness,
his even unlikelier odds of winning
the Belmont Stakes, and so the Triple
Crown. When Mom starts to nod
off, I help her to her feet, down
the hall to her room, gentle her onto
her bed. “I love you, Mom. Don’t
worry. Everything will be all right.”
Why Do I Keep Saying That?
Will everything be all right? How
the hell would I know? Fuck this!
Jack, if you weren’t already dead,
I swear I’d … I’d … My legs
give and I don’t fight, sinking
to the floor beside the bed Mom
and Jack shared for so many years.
She snores softly, and I hope she
isn’t trapped in some disturbing
dream. I look around the room,
still so full of Jack. His clothes
drape the chair beside the window.
His shoes form a straight line just
inside the closet. The scent of Brut
deodorant lingers, as does a vague
hint of medicines, sweated despite
antiperspirant. Pictures of him and
Mom hang on the walls, and one of
my favorite family photos—camping
at Lake Mead—sits front and center
on the dresser, beside his belt and
wallet. Where are you now, Jack,
having left all this behind? Are you
whole? Is any of you left here?
Also on the Dresser
Is a stack of mail. From here,
I can see much of it is unopened.
I get up, go sort through it. Bills.
Power. Water. Trash. Mortgage.
Hospital. Doctor. American Express.
And there will be more coming.
Funeral home. Cemetery. Jesus!
Insurance won’t take care of it all.
Neither will Jack’s pension. I’ve got
a paycheck coming, but that barely
covers my own expenses. Stop!
Can’t think about this now. Not today.
One day, at least, to mourn. One
day to try and forget about death.
Mom’s totally gone. I need to get
high. Wacked. Out-of-my-brain
fried. No need for Mom to see
bills first thing when she wakes up.
I scoop everything off the dresser,
into an empty shoe box lying on
the floor. Jack wore new shoes
to his funeral. A big, fat joint is
calling my name. And after that,
I need to hear Ronnie’s voice.
Bud and Booze
May not exactly cure what ails
ya, but partner ’em up and they’ll
definitely make you forget it for
a while. I turn on my computer,
and the first thing that pops up
on my Yahoo page is news headlines.
And there, again, is Jet Fuel.
They’re laying odds against him.
Which makes me wonder … Yeah,
oh yeah, there it is—an online Sportsbook
and yes, they are most definitely
taking bets on the Belmont, as well
as just about every professional
sporting event out there, from soccer
matches to major league baseball.
Why didn’t I think of it before?
If there’s one thing I know about,
it’s baseball. Been a Kansas City
fan since I could spit, and the Royals
are looking good this year. I want
in on this action. First I need to set
up an account. Let’s see. All I need
is a credit card and something to
prove I’m eighteen, which I won’t be
for over a year. But where there’s
a will—and I’ve definitely got
that—there’s a way. It comes to me
suddenly that the way just walked
into my room in a shoe box, along
with a pile of bills. Jack’s wallet
has three credit cards in it, along
with his driver’s license. This may
be a gamble, but I’m betting they
won’t be checking to see whether
or not Jack Bennett is dead or alive.
Not as long as the cards are good.
I sort through the stack, locate
the AmEx and two Visa bills,
check available credit. Damn right,
more than I thought. Cool. In less
than five minutes, I’ve got an
account set up and a hundred
smackeroos riding on tonight’s
Royals game. When they win,
I’ll pay the electric bill and buy
some groceries. Meanwhile,
I’ll polish off this roach.
And I’ll give Ronnie a call.
The Pot Buzz
Should make me feel better,
but all it does is combine
with the alcohol to make
loneliness hit like a freight
train. Mom’s asleep, Cory’s
out somewhere, doing who
knows what god-awful things.
Jack’s dead. Dead. The word
repeats itself over and over.
Dead. Damn, man. Dead.
I need to hear Ronnie’s
voice. She answers her phone
on the first ring. I thought
you might call. Are you okay?
She knows I’m not, but waits
for me to tell her so. Do you
want me to come over? Vinnie’s
here. He’ll give me a ride.
“Oh God, Ronnie, yes. I need
you.” I do, and it feels awful
and wonderful, all smooshed
together. We’ll make love, and
I’ll forget about the Royals.
Forget about Jack. Forget … Dead.
Stinking Royals
Can’t believe they lost last night,
and to the stupid Mariners to boot.
Oh, well. That means they have to
win today, so I’ll lay down two
hundred. And while I’m at it, I’ll
put fifty on St. Louis. Why shove
all my eggs into one flimsy carton?
Mom never even missed Jack’s
wallet or the bills. She woke up,
fighting a hangover headache.
Me, being a hangover expert,
I convinced her to try a little hair
o’ the dog. Cory didn’t feel much
better. You’d think his tolerance
would be taller built by now.
The two of them are napping.
Good. I can’t stand seeing so
much pain in two pairs of eyes.
Speaking of two pairs, just won
sixty bucks at poker. Almost made
up for the hundred I dropped
yesterday. My luck is coming
around. Just in time. Because
beyond major league baseball,
I’m planning on laying a major league
bundle on Jet Fuel. The odds on him
just keep growing longer and longer.
I’ll wait a couple of days, see how
long they’ll go. But right now,
a thousand-dollar bet on the win
could net almost twenty big ones.
Twenty thou would pay an awful
lot of bills. And now I need money
for my insurance. Between Jack
and Ronnie and spending a lot
of time in front of my computer,
I lost my job. Not that I care. Jobs
like GameStop are a dime a dozen.
And anyway, I’ve got bigger plans
than spending my days directing snot-
nosed kids to Pokémon Purple. High
finance is in my immediate future.
A Poem by Eden Streit
My Future
Is meaningless now,
flavorless as an icicle
melting, drip by
drip
to puddle and freeze
again upon shadowed
ground. They say to
drop
the pretense, as if
confessing my heart
was a game of charades.
Tears
such as these could
only be born of soul-
ripping sorrow. They
fall,
in relentless procession,
summer rain upon
parched playa,
relentless.
Eden
Demon Possessed
Apparently, that’s the real definition of falling
in love—Satan implanted some evil angel
inside me to steer me away from God’s family.
And it isn’t only Mama and Papa who think
so. Or claim to, in the name of the Almighty.
Almighty dollar, that is. Samuel Ruenhaven—
who strongly prefers being called Father—
graduated seminary the same time as Papa.
But Father’s path led him to the stark sand
of northeastern Nevada, where he settled
a sizeable chunk of desert he dubbed Tears
of Zion. Oh, it’s a very special place,
where Father and his “disciples” rehabilitate
incorrigible youth. Exorcise demons.
I’ve been here almost a month. Mama delivered
me personally, after slipping enough Lunesta
into my tea to knock me out for eleven hours.
When I finally woke up, we were bumping along
hundreds of miles from home. It will never
be “home” again for me. I hate it. Hate Mama
worse. When she saw me conscious that day,
head thumping from a narcotic hangover, almost
immediately she started in quoting Old Testament
scripture. That was the extent of our one-sided
“conversation.” She never said another word
to me. I tuned her out, concentrated on trying
to connect psychically with Andrew, who
could have had no idea what happened to me.
I didn’t know the details then myself. Couldn’t
have guessed where we were headed. Even
when we pulled through the Tears of Zion gates,
I had no clue what was coming. I began to suspect
it wasn’t good when Father waddled out to greet
Mama. She offered a hand, free of emotion,
and her plea was simple: Do whatever
it takes to bring my daughter to her senses.
Father’s Methods
Are likewise uncomplicated. You can sum
them up in a single word: Deprivation.
No food for the first three days. Water only.
Flushing poisons, he claimed. Clean
sing
body before examining soul. Since then,
an unvaried daily thousand-calorie diet—
oatmeal, thin soups, flat bread. Minimal sleep,
even now. The subconscious is Satan’s
classroom. The worst thing is the isolation.
I rarely see anyone but Father and his disciples—
creepy guys who always dress in bleached white
jeans, matching T-shirts. And the sad, sick thing
is I’m almost glad to see them. I know that’s
the point. But I don’t know how to fight it.
I spend every day alone, silence squeezing
me until I think I’ll go totally crazy. Insanity
might, in fact, be better. I’m supposed to be
reconsidering my choices. But all I do is pace
the perimeters of this featureless room, thinking
about Andrew. And how completely I love him.
Is He Thinking
About me? Wondering where I am?
Where is he? Home? Looking for me?
Or has Mama decided to have him arrested?
I have no answers. Can’t process clearly.
My brain feels like day-old mush. Unstirred.
Undisturbed. Left for scavengers. And speaking
of bone pickers, the cloying scent of rabbit
brush precedes Jerome through the door.
As Father’s believers go, Jerome is the least
offensive. Not that he’s good-looking.
He’s short, partly because he carries himself
as if his shoulders are weighted with iron.
What hair he has left is thin, reddish. It reminds
me of an alcoholic’s morning eyes. His nose
is shaped like a toucan’s bill, and the watery orbs
just above it look at me with a mixture
of sympathy and … lust? He places a tray
on the splintered table. Eat hearty.
“Right. Lukewarm oatmeal. Mmm.” Unlike
some of the other disciples, Jerome allows
me a fair amount of sarcasm. Lukewarm
is better than cold. And … He glances around
the room, as if some voyeur stands in the corner,
watching. Then he takes something from the tray.
Look what I brought you. Promise you
won’t tell? He holds out a napkin, unfolds
it slowly, revealing three beautiful strawberries.
First crop. Delicious. And just for you.
Their sweet red perfume permeates
the room’s stale air. My mouth waters.
I start to reach for them, reconsider,
snatch my hand quickly away. “Why me?”
He creeps toward me, baiting, pallid
tongue circling his mouth suggestively.
Tricks Page 17
