Bones are Made to be Broken

by Anderson, Paul Michael

  Nick reached the trunk of his Mitsubishi, thumped against it.

  “And when some shit does hit the fan, and Karen falls on hard times, what do you do? Do you try to work with the mother of your child? No, you do the very grownup thing and go behind her back with this custody suit! Great thinkin’, Dad!”

  Nick’s eyes held the fevered gleam of a cornered animal.

  “So you can tell yourself that you’re just trying to help Karen and Kevin both—y’know, two birds with one stone—but let’s call a spade a spade. Seeing your son and ex-wife struggle because of your absenteeism was just too fucking much. Kevin’s more like a toy than a son to you. A token. Anything more would require you to be a father, wouldn’t it?”

  And then Nick slapped her, hard, across the mouth.

  It was such a sudden movement; one instant Lisa had Nick all-but pinned against the car; the next, Lisa was rocking back, hand going to her face. Moira froze halfway down the steps. Karen froze as well, unsure of what to do first.

  And then Lisa solved that problem for everyone.

  “You son of a bitch! ” she yelled and drove one sneakered foot squarely into Nick’s balls.

  The color drained from Nick’s face. His eyes bulged. The tendons of his neck stood out like tent-cables. His knees unlocked, spilling him to the driveway, hands going to his crotch.

  Lisa circled him, bouncing on the heels of her feet, grunting out a steady stream of obscenity and kicking him as he rolled this way and that.

  Karen and Moira both broke through their paralysis and bolted forward, colliding at the steps. Their legs tangled and Moira fell as Karen hop-staggered away. Moira’s head connected with the cem-ent with a thunk. Karen crashed into Lisa, pulling her awkwardly away.

  Lisa caught her balance and gaped around, as if surprised to find herself here. “Oh, shit.”

  Karen grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back towards the car. Moira sat up on her elbow, holding the back of her head and wincing. Karen opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say to the other woman.

  (i know you want to do what’s best for kevin what you don’t seem to believe is that so do we)

  Karen let go of Lisa when they reached the car. As Karen opened her door, she glanced into the backseat. Kevin watched his father and stepmother. He glanced at her, his expression too old for his face, then went back to watching.

  She climbed in. Lisa turned the key and the Toyota roared to life.

  “Holy shit,” Lisa breathed as she pulled away, and Karen didn’t know how to respond to that.

  Kevin was the first out of the car, dragging his duffle bag to the porch.

  “Karen,” Lisa said, “I am so sorry. I did it again—I jumped before I saw what I was jumping into. Do you think they’re okay? Do you think they’ll call the police?”

  “Probably not,” Karen said, not knowing one way or the other. “He’d have to explain why it started, and that means him explaining him slapping you.”

  A beat of silence. Kevin waited on the porch.

  “I don’t know if this fucks up the suit or not,” Lisa said. “But I’m paying for your lawyer.”

  Karen wheeled on her. “Lisa, no—”

  Lisa waved a hand. “Shut the fuck up. I am and you’re going to accept. I acted like an asshole and don’t tell me you have the spare cash flow to hire a lawyer yourself, kid.”

  Karen bit her lip and looked back at Kevin. He watched them expressionlessly.

  “Thank you,” she said to the window.

  “You daydreaming, Karen?” Dick Cavanaugh said.

  Karen jerked back from her computer, where she’d been reading and rereading a memo Tina had given her to type.

  “No, Dick,” she said, facing the other man. “What can I do for you?”

  Cavanaugh stepped beside her desk. He had his hands in the pockets of his khakis. She kept her eyes on his face; whenever he had his hands in his pockets, he invariably had an erection.

  “Just checking in,” he said. “Seeing how you’re doing.”

  “Working,” she said, and turned back to her computer screen.

  “Well, of course,” he said, “and the guys have all been talking how well you’re fitting in. You’d be a good addition to the secretarial pool. You type fast, you’ve already gotten all the phone business figured out—” He flapped a meaty hand at her multiline phone, as if figuring out phones was a task beneath him. “—and already know all the departments. You’ve been here, what? A month?”

  “Three weeks,” she said, eyes moving along the last paragraph she’d typed. None of it made sense to her.

  “Right, right,” he said. A movement out of the corner of her eye—he rocked back and forth on his heels, hands still in his pockets. “You’re good, kid. We like you.”

  (good i was worried)

  “If there was one thing I’d say you could work on,” Cavanaugh continued, “it’d be your congeniality.”

  Karen tried reading the last paragraph again, couldn’t make it stick, and gave up; she just stared at the monitor. “You don’t say.”

  “You hide out here in the reception area—”

  “Where my desk is.”

  “—so the others don’t really know you,” he continued. “They don’t get to see you.”

  (which i’d planned thanks for noticing)

  “I mean,” Cavanaugh said, his voice lower, “to get along, you have to get close to people, y’know? Be friendly with them. You understand?”

  She glanced up at the clock on the wall. A little after ten a.m. Her eyes fell, landed on the school picture of Kevin from last year, and, all of a sudden, she could think of no good reason to be here. Not while her family was falling apart. In two weeks, she and Nick would face off in family court over the custody of their only son, who was doing god knew what at school at that moment. Whatever he was doing, was one of those Perozzi girls watching? Promising revenge for the righteous smiting Lisa—not Karen, but Lisa—had wrought upon their brother?

  Meanwhile, she sat here, attempting to read a letter that should’ve made sense but didn’t, all while this man thrust his cock into the side of her head as he prattled on. She was doing nothing of merit. She was doing nothing good.

  (because i don’t know what i should be doing anymore)

  Nick last night:

  (kevin deserves a normal life and i can provide it)

  She blinked and her eyes were hot.

  (what kind of mother are you?)

  Cavanaugh’s voice faded back in. “It’s all about being a part of the team, Karen. Doing your part.”

  Her hands, poised over the keyboard in the home position, curled into fists.

  “You want to be part of the team, right?” he said and, Jesus, he was nearly panting; she could feel his breath on her ear.

  Without looking, she cocked her right arm and drove it directly into Dick’s crotch.

  He squawked and suddenly his presence disappeared from her side. She turned to see him staggering and holding his balls. He bumped into the side of the doorway and slid down to the floor.

  “Keep your dick out of my face, okay, Dick?” she said.

  He goggled at her, his tongue poking out from between his teeth.

  She turned away, looked around her desk, her computer, but her eyes just slid off everything. Finally, she grabbed her purse, her photo of Kevin, and left the computer on, the phone line open.

  She went to St. Jude’s. She could think of no other place to go, but this wasn’t immediately obvious to her. Up until then, she left her body in automatic while her mind retreated into the static-y, panicked roar that had dominated since Saturday. It was only when she passed the Hathaway Bridge, its big BRIDGE CLOSED FOLLOW DETOUR sign flashing in the center, did her destination become apparent.

  (oh there okay)

  But she pulled into the bowling alley’s parking lot to find the building dark, the lot empty.

  (of course it is it isn’t Friday)

  She pulled
into a space where she could look through the glass doors and killed the engine. She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, tried to quiet the roar in her head. Did she just walk out of a job after punching a coworker in the dick?

  A single migraine throb struck her in the center of her head. She pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the pressure. That was the word—pressure. All things considered, the fact remained that the pressure had never dwindled. She’d found temp work, but she still had to worry about bills. She still had Kevin—

  (for the time being)

  —but had to worry about him not talking about whatever might be bothering him.

  (he hurts all the time but he never talks)

  The pressure had shifted, not dwindled. If anything, St. Jude’s was distracting her from it, helping her focus on her reaction to the pressure instead of doing something about the pressure. And, if she didn’t do something soon—

  A knuckle wrapping on her window. “Karen?”

  She jumped and Roberts stood there, hunched over to see through the glass. “You okay?”

  She rolled down her window. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I’m—”

  “—hanging out in front of a closed bowling alley,” Roberts finished. Behind him sat the green Subaru. She could see the handle of a vacuum cleaner in the back. “What’s up?”

  She opened her mouth, with no idea what would or should come out of it: “I just punched a guy in the balls and left my job, which I’ve only had for three weeks. My ex-husband is suing me for custody of our son, who I allowed to get into a fight with a bully because I thought he would finally talk to me about the things bothering him.”

  Roberts studied her for a moment. “Uh-huh.” He stepped back and straightened, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “So you came here,” he said.

  She nodded.

  He gestured at her to come out of the car. “I can’t talk all hunched over like that.”

  She stepped out. They looked at each other, each against the side of their cars.

  “Why’d you come here, Karen?” he asked. It came off lightly, but his eyes locked on her, the way they did on people speaking during the meetings.

  She shrugged. “I …” Her shoulder slumped. “I don’t know. I could think of no other place to go.”

  His eyes didn’t waver. “I think you do know.”

  She just looked at him.

  “I think you’re looking for the one thing I said I couldn’t and wouldn’t offer,” Roberts said. He crossed his arms. “You came here for help.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then slowly closed it.

  He nodded and glanced first at the bowling alley, then at his sign, hanging off the skeleton of the older sign. “The name’s a kind of joke, you know.” He turned back to her. “Or a reminder. For me, anyway. Do you know what it means? The name?”

  She shook her head.

  Roberts took a breath. “St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.” He looked down and toed a loose pebble in the macadam. “I’m a lost cause, Karen. Before I came here, I was a more … traditional minister. Had an official church—as far as the government was concerned. It … ended. Badly.”

  “What happened?” she asked, her voice a croak. “You always ask that when we start to gloss over things.”

  “I’m not glossing over. Every single meeting is a reminder for me. Every single meeting, listening to you all talk, wondering which of you will be standing right here in front of me, is me examining my failure.”

  Roberts grinned then, but it was cold and squirming, like he pressed his lips together to keep from screaming. “I failed some members and they killed themselves. The law never charged me, but that didn’t take away what I’d done wrong.”

  Lisa whispered in the center of her head:

  (but they wanted to)

  “I’d given them hope,” Roberts went on. “Hope that I could cure all their ailments. Say some prayers, hold hands, quote the Bible and—” He snapped his fingers. “—all better. I didn’t intend to, but it happened.”

  He leaned at the waist a bit and his face was dead. “Now look who’s here in front of me.”

  She opened her mouth and he cut in, “Every meeting, every little P.S. I put on every little story—I look at you all and ask myself, ‘Who’s going to misinterpret? Who’s going to read more into this than they should?’ Every time. And I remember what I’d done wrong. It’s a fine line I walk, but I can’t stop.”

  “Why not?” Karen said. “This isn’t even a real church, according to you.”

  Color rose into his cheeks. “Because I do believe in what I do. Too many preachers forget they aren’t the salve of the soul, that the Bible doesn’t hold direct answers to your individual problems. At best, it offer stories of what god’s chosen have done, so you can set your own course. I do the same, but with your own stories.”

  He coughed, looked away, hugged himself tighter with his crossed arms.

  “You came here today looking for answers,” he said. “Like those other three members. I don’t have any. You telling me about what’s happening doesn’t absolve the pain it is causing, or make you feel better. Worse, you’re using the same logic on your son.”

  She opened her mouth again, then slowly closed it.

  “You think, since you feel pain, and talk about it, that it becomes bearable. You can—” He gestured vaguely. “—move on from it. You’ve applied that to your own son. You allowed your own son to be attacked so that he would be in so much pain that he wouldn’t be able to help himself from talking.”

  (what kind of mother are you?)

  “That’s all bullshit,” Roberts said. “Our pain has two functions—identifier and tool. For ourselves.”

  She hugged herself. “I think I’m a terrible mother.”

  His words landed like blows: “I can’t tell you one way or the other.”

  Silence fell between them. Then, he asked, “Do you know why your mother hurt you so badly? When you were a child? Do you remember telling us about that?”

  She nodded, not looking up.

  “It hurt because we see our parents as examples,” Roberts said. “They are the scouts that have seen the distant lands and are reporting back to us. Your mother didn’t do that; she saw the distant lands past the death of your father and reported back that it was all your fault.”

  He cleared his throat. “A good parent, to me, is someone who sets an example for their child. You lead by example. You want your child to talk? You talk. You want your child to act a certain way? You set the standard. This isn’t to say you, for example, should go into detail about your cutting. But you can show your child the pitfalls of going down the path you did, or reacting the way you did. He will have pain, but it will be different than your pain and he will, hopefully, act differently than you did.”

  More silence between them. A cool breeze picked up and her joints ached, as if with arthritis.

  “I don’t think you should come back here, Karen,” Roberts said finally. “I don’t think I’ve done you any good. Go home. Go to your son. Guide him. Don’t hang around here, looking for answers that don’t exist.”

  She turned, unable to look at him, and got in. When she pulled away, Roberts stood by his car, watching her leave. Even before she was out of the lot, he appeared small, a single man in an ocean of broken pavement, standing before a long, low faceless building. Alone.

  (i’m a lost cause karen)

  She watched the kids spill out of the school bus. Kevin came out next to last. No one walked with him. No one even looked at him.

  (our kid doesn’t even have any fucking friends didn’t you even fucking notice that?)

  No, she hadn’t.

  He made his way over to her car and let himself in. She leaned in and kissed the side of his head. Christ, he felt as cold as he was pale. “How was your day, hon?”

  Kevin shrugged, looked down at the pack in his lap. His fingers played with the zipper. “Nothing special. Ms. Lake’s trying to
teach us cursive.”

  “Do you like it?” Karen asked, pulling away from the curb and rolling to the light.

  Another shrug.

  The crossing guard left the center of the street and the bus lumbered by. Traffic filled the gap.

  Karen kept her eyes on 54th Street. “Are you all right, Kevin?”

  A pause. “Yeah.”

  She glanced at her son. “Do you want to talk about last night?” she asked. The light turned green.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Do you have any questions about it?”

  “Am I going to live with Dad? Is that what you two were fighting about?”

  She turned onto Keystone Street. “Do you want to?”

  A shrug. “I dunno. Can’t imagine it.” He glanced at her and she felt something soften in her chest; his gaze wasn’t nearly as flat and cold as his voice. “I mean, I’ve always lived with you.”

  “We’re trying to figure that out, hon,” she said. “It’s not easy. We both want what’s best for you, but we disagree on how to get there.”

  He looked back out the window.

  She turned left onto 53rd Street and parked in front of their house.

  Kevin went fishing through his backpack for his key.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I took the afternoon off.”

  (one way of putting it)

  His hand froze in the pocket. “You did?”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. In case you wanted to talk.”

  He studied her for an awkward moment. “Oh,” he said finally.

  “There are possibly going to be some big changes,” she said, feeling her way as she went along. “And you’re getting bigger. You have some say over what happens.”

  He studied her another moment. “Oh,” he said again. “I don’t know about any of that.”

  (join the club kid)

  “Is that something you want to do?” she asked. “Talk?”

  “Not really,” he said. His hand left the pocket of his backpack. “I have to trust you and Dad. You have to take care of me.”

  Her brain immediately wanted to turn his tone accusatory, his words sharp jabs. It short-circuited any kind of reasonable response she might’ve given, so she didn’t give any.