Flesh and Bone

by William Alton

  “You can’t just move your girlfriend in here,” she says.

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  They look at each other and I can see the hesitance there.

  “You’re not old enough for this,” Mom says.

  “I’ve been old enough for a while,” I say. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

  “How long?” she asks.

  “A week,” I say. “Maybe more.”

  “You have to be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  Back in my room, Ed is curled on the bed. Her eyes are closed and her fingers rest on her busted lip. The air whistles through her nose and she seems so fragile. Ed isn’t generally a fragile girl. She gets what she wants when she wants it. She fights hard to seem tough, but all it takes is sleep to soften the edges she keeps so sharp when she’s awake.

  I stand at the foot of the bed and watch her dream. Her eyes flutter and her mouth works. I wonder what’s going through her head. I wonder what she dreams of when she’s sleeping. I can’t wake her. I write a note and leave it on the pillow next to her head.

  You can stay, I write. A week, maybe longer.

  I turn away and go to the living room and stare at the television. I have nothing to do and no one to talk to, so I stare at the actors with their problems that only last thirty minutes. None of it makes sense. Real trouble seldom resolves the way we want. Real trouble tends to follow you around, souring the day, making sleep impossible. I wonder how long Ed’s trouble will last. I close my eyes. Sometimes if you pretend everything’s okay you can fool yourself for a while. You fool yourself into thinking that the world isn’t out to get you.

  Visiting the Dying

  I WALK THROUGH the hospital. The air smells of disinfectant and floor wax. Lights eat the shadows. Nurses and doctors, patients and families stand around, go from room to room. We’re waiting for Harold to die. I don’t want to be here, but he’s been asking for me. It’s as if he cannot die without taking a piece of me with him.

  “You’re a good boy,” he says.

  His skin is pale and thin and yellow. Blood vessels pulse blue in his throat, his temples, the backs of his hands. Pain and morphine make him thin and misty. I stand at the foot of the bed waiting for him to say what he has to say.

  “I love you,” he says.

  Our secret is not a secret here.

  “You should sleep,” I say.

  My belly hurts now. My mouth tastes of bile and ash. I want a cigarette. I want to walk away, leave the hospital, go home and do something to forget the smell of shit and soap. A nurse comes and checks the IV. She shoots a syringe of something into the line and he smiles. His hands flutter. His face is loose and wrinkled.

  “I taught you things,” he says.

  It’s over now. There is no love here. Not for me. He drifts away. His chest rises and falls and his teeth whistle. I stand and stare and the nurse tells me he’s going to be out for a while. I walk away. All the people in the hall know nothing about me. They know nothing about Harold. For a moment, I feel him moving in me. I tense and my belly hurts and I walk out to the parking lot to be alone. I light a cigarette and wonder, is this love? Is this what it feels like to tie your life inescapably to someone? I wish he’d just die and let memory take over where he left off.

  The sunlight is clear and hot. Cars come and go. An ambulance pulls up to the entryway, lights flashing, but no siren. Sparrows peck through the grass in the verge.

  “Do you think he meant it?” I ask, aloud to no one in particular. “Do you think we’ll ever forget?”

  I know the answer already. I’ll never forget. Not in this lifetime.

  Pissed on a Stick

  “WE HAVE TO talk,” Bekah says.

  I don’t know what to say. I sit in the Commons eating a burrito that tastes mostly of saw dust and under done rice.

  “I’m late,” she says.

  “Late?”

  “I pissed on a stick,” she says.

  “Oh.”

  “I need to go to a doctor.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You’re the only guy I’ve been with,” she says.

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly.”

  I stare out the window.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No,” she says. “That’s why I need to see a doctor.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “I can’t go to my regular doctor,” she says. “He’ll tell my mom.”

  “You’re going to have to tell her eventually.”

  “But not right now.”

  My mind is a jumble of thoughts and images. I see blood and bruises. I see a fight coming.

  “Are you going to keep it?” I ask.

  She stares at me. My skin crawls and I want to go back and swallow the words. Blood rushes to my face. I can hear my heart beating, thump, thump, thump.

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  She sits with me.

  “I thought we were in love,” she says.

  “Oh.”

  “But then you turned out wrong,” she says.

  “I’m not the right guy for you.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll help out though,” I say. “With whatever.”

  “Just find me a doctor.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Do better,” she says. “This is important.”

  I nod. I don’t know about love, but I know this was not how things were supposed to work. How am I supposed to find a doctor? I don’t even know where to look. Everything feels brittle now, breakable. Everything hinges on the next couple of weeks. My whole life could change just because I didn’t mind myself for a few minutes. If I die right now I’ll burn in hell, if there is a hell. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’ll look for something in the phone book. I don’t even know what kind of doctor she needs. I’ll find an answer one way or another. I’ll figure it out. I close my eyes and watch the red and green paisley spinning there. I need a beer. I need to get high. Nothing’s too bad when I’m high. I can forget things for hours at a time. There’s no forgetting this though.

  Words come to me. Parenthood, pregnancy, babies, plans, abortions, doctors. They’re all there, in the phone book. Planned Parenthood. I don’t know what that means, but it’s the first call I make. I’m lucky. They know the answers to all my questions. I just wish I knew what questions needed answering.

  I make an appointment for Bekah. They ask if I’m the father.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “What’s that mean?” they ask.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” I say. “I’m learning as I go.”

  “It would be best if you came with her,” they say.

  “I’ll be there,” I say. “I need to know what’s happening.”

  “It’s all confidential,” they say.

  I tell Bekah about the appointment. She nods and touches my face.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  “You should try this side of it,” she says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You have it so easy,” she says. “My own body’s turned against me.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say.

  “Me either,” she says and walks away. I watch her go. It seems that the only time I see her anymore is when she’s walking away. It seems to be my lot to only see the backside of things, the side of things that have already happened and have moved to the point that I can do nothing to help or change it. I watch Bekah turn the corner and wonder if she’ll ever forgive me. I wonder if I’ll ever forgive myself.

  Death and Freedom

  HAROLD DIES IN the morning before the sun rises, before anyone’s awake. He dies alone. John John’s mom takes us to the hospital to see the body. We touch his face and push his hair off his forehead.

  Something washes ov
er me. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s sadness. Maybe a little of both.

  The funeral is in the afternoon days later. The church is mostly empty. Harold had few friends. People didn’t like him much. Some family comes to town and we all sit in the pews at the front of the church and the preacher reads from the Bible. The preacher didn’t know Harold. He has no memories to sustain his sermon. He tries to comfort us, but the words are empty. We sit through the service and drive out to the cemetery and stand in the sunlight, the grass pressing up against our feet.

  When he’s finally in the ground, we go back to the house and eat. There’s all kinds of food, meatloaf, potatoes, salads, beer and wine. John John and I take a couple of beers out to the yard. We smoke and watch the chickens pecking at the ground, the sparrows wing through the afternoon light.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” John John says.

  I sit in the grass. Clouds move through the summer sky like water moving over stones.

  “When was the last time he kissed you?” he says.

  “Weeks,” I say. “Months maybe.”

  “I’m not a faggot anymore,” he says.

  “I still miss him.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think people know?”

  “About him?”

  “All of it.”

  “I hope not.”

  “I want to tell someone.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I know.”

  After a bit, he goes inside. He disappears and I sit in the yard. In the field below the house buzzards circle and drop into the grass. I smash an ant, a beetle. Today everything dies. Today no one gets out intact.

  Last Date

  RAIN COMES AFTER a long dry spell. The wind is sharper now and the mountains stand on the horizon, green against the gray sky. Bekah drives us to the appointment. The blood work came back two weeks ago. She is definitely pregnant. She drives us to the clinic in sweats and I’ll drive us home. No one knows what we’re doing. We don’t know what to expect. The clinic stands on a busy road and we park behind the building.

  “You sure you want to do this?” I ask.

  She looks at me. Her face is plain, without makeup and her eyelids seems a little swollen. Her eyes are wet. Tears seem to stand there, but they do not fall. We walk to the door and go inside.

  The waiting room is empty. Posters and pamphlets hang on the wall. She goes to reception and checks in.

  “We can still go home,” I say.

  She shakes her head.

  “I want to help,” I say.

  She picks up a magazine and sits in a chair. She hasn’t spoken to me since she got the results of the test back. She seems to think this is my fault. She seems to think that I was the only one there when this happened. She’s forgotten that we were friends once.

  A nurse comes and walks her into the back. I go out to the street and smoke a cigarette. Cars and people go by without thinking once that a girl is killing her baby. They don’t think about those things. Everyone’s wrapped up in doing what they need to do to get through the day. I wonder what she’s told her folks. Will I need to keep my eye out for pissed off parents? Her parents already think I’m useless.

  Time passes. An hour, ninety minutes, two hours. I wait and finally she comes out. She seems a little fuzzy now. One hand rests on her belly. She looks at me and looks away. The anger’s still there. She says nothing. I hold the door for her. She shuffles out onto the sidewalk.

  We drive through town and she nods off in the passenger seat. Her folks would freak if they knew I was driving their car. They would completely go over the edge if they knew what Bekah and I had done.

  Home now. She goes in and I walk to the store down the street. It’s like the whole thing didn’t happen, but that’s only true if no one knows. The thing is, pain still hurts whether anyone knows or not. She may never speak to me again, but she’ll never forget me. I’ll always be the boy who fucked up her life.

  Talking with Mom

  “YOU WORRY ME,” Mom says.

  “Yeah?”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I think a lot.”

  “You should be happy,” she says.

  “Sometimes I am.”

  “But most of the time, you seem wrapped up with your head.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Is something bothering you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  She blows smoke at the ceiling fan. Light plays through the window. The whole house smells of burnt coffee and eggs. She’s dressed in her work clothes.

  “Are you alone too much?” she asks.

  “I’m okay alone.”

  “Do you miss your dad?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “Someday.”

  “What do you need?”

  “A life.”

  “What’s wrong with your life now?”

  “Nothing. Everything. It depends.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m worried.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I can take the day off.”

  “No.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Maybe you should see someone,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “A therapist.”

  “What would I say?”

  “Anything you wanted.”

  “I have nothing I want to say.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay.”

  She leaves for work. I watch her drive away and I light a cigarette. I go to my room and drink one of the beers I have hidden there. There’s nothing in my life I want to talk about. Even if there were, she wouldn’t understand. She’d try to fix it and there’s nothing to fix. I live with the shit in my life. It’s my shit and no one needs to fuck with it.

  In the Woods

  THE FIRE BURNS in the pit behind the trees. We roast hot dogs and marshmallows and tell jokes. All night we sit around the fire, too drunk to drive. Too drunk to walk.

  Wind comes down from the mountains, rippling the lake. I lie in the dirt listening to the fire sing. Ritchie stumbles in the undergrowth and pisses. I feel sick and the world spins and dips.

  “Billy,” Zephyr says. “You’re so sexy.”

  John John throws a beer can at him.

  “No faggot magic,” he says. “None of us wants to see that.”

  Zephyr lights the bong and the bong gurgles like a lung shot deer. The heavy scent of the weed washes over me. I’m going to be sick. I need to get up. I need to get to the trees.

  “Come on Billy,” Tammy says.

  She and Ed lift me up and drag me to the pickup they’d come in. They stretch me out on the bed and throw a blanket over me. I curl up and press my face to cool metal. Up above the trees, the stars wink at me like the lecherous eyes of a thousand child molesters. I float on the high and slowly slip away. I am indecipherable. I am a secret, a prayer everyone knows but no one understands. Slowly, slower than I want, I drop into the dreamless sleep too much booze always gives me.

  This is what death is like, I think right before passing out. I’m dying. In the morning they’ll find me here, frozen, stiff, a waste of flesh.

  Clubbing

  MUSIC AND SWEAT and people pressing me against the walls. Neon lights and strobes burn my eyes. Pain blooms in my neck, my shoulders. I want to go home, but Ed’s dancing with a drag queen in the middle of the floor. Everyone smokes, holding their cigarettes in the air over their heads. The smell of pot burning layers my nose, my mouth.

  “You ever make it with a boy?” Ed asks.

  “Not a boy.”

&nb
sp; She runs her hands under my shirt, into my pants. Her hair is pink tonight. Her eyes hide behind sunglasses. I don’t know if she can see anything. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to see.

  “I sometimes have sex with girls,” Ed says. That might be interesting to watch.

  I light a cigarette and close my eyes. The room is too full. The walls seem to fold and sway. I feel sick. Soon, I’m going to need to rest. Mom doesn’t know where I am. I told her I was staying at Richie’s for the night.

  “I want to fuck,” Ed says.

  “Here?”

  “Somewhere.”

  She drags me out to the parking lot and finds a dark corner near the Dumpsters. She hikes up her skirt and drops her panties. I’m not really into it, but there’s nothing I can do about it. At least we’re out of the crowd.

  “Make it quick,” she says. “It’s cold as shit out here.”

  I fuck her with a mindless drive. She pushes and bucks against the wall and when I’m done she arranges her clothes.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  “For what?”

  “You’re such a bore,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m going home.”

  “Pussy,” she says.

  “Whatever.”

  I walk down the street and stand at the bus stop. I’m alone and I can smoke a cigarette without fear of burning someone. I wait and the rain falls and the wind blows. There’s no blood in my hands. The skin is pale and blue. My fingertips ache and I shiver under my coat. I hate this. I hate the cold and the waiting. I hate the crowds and the pounding music echoing from the club all the way down the street.

  It’s close to midnight and Ed’s going to be here until the club closes. I’d wait for her, but I can’t. Crowds make me crazy. Dance music makes me nuts. It’s all about the beat. There’s nothing artistic about it. I like my music to say something.

  The bus comes. I sit in the back, alone, warmer than on the street, but cold still. Outside, people go about their business. No one sees me here. This is how it always ends. Every time the night wraps up, I find myself somewhere I’d rather not be, looking at a long trip home, miserable and anxious. It would be better if I never left my room. No one could bug me then and I could listen to the words I want to hear instead of the muttering crowds that make no sense.