by S R Savell
“Things got better for a while. We were making enough to live comfortably. And Nathaniel was at the age where not even those idiots at school would bother him. Life was coming together for us both.
“But of course it didn’t last.” She looks around the room, almost wistful. “It never lasts, does it?”
I don’t know if the last part is for me or for her.
Early in Nathaniel’s senior year, I got sick. I passed out at work, just fell on the floor, they said, though I don’t remember it. The hospital ran some tests, and they diagnosed me as terminal.” She glances over. “Still follow?”
I nod.
“Frank left us with few assets, and the little money I’d saved wasn’t enough to pay all the doctor bills. We had to sell the house, the car, and just about everything we owned. Nathaniel, bless him, had to drop out of school. Now he works two jobs, sometimes three, to try and pay the hospital bills for a disease that was supposed to have killed me off years ago.”
“You didn’t have anyone to help you?”
“We don’t have much family. I was a ward of the state until I turned eighteen. I never met my parents and never really wanted to.” She sort of shrugs. “Nathaniel and I have always made do without. Until this, anyways.” She motions around the room, showcasing suffering at its finest.
Some semblance of human decency must show on my face.
Her expression becomes apologetic. “I didn’t mean to depress you. I just wanted to tell you these things because, more likely than not, he won’t.”
The blue walls are crushing in, a cube collapsing. I see him bloody and beaten, sneaking into the house so his grandparents won’t worry. More recently, exhausted and not saying a word, still coming to visit me on his days off because he knows how lonely I get. Listening to me whine when he’s working his ass off to keep his grandma alive, never minding the things I say, grateful that I’m his friend.
It’s humbling, and it’s terrible. And I don’t know what’s worse—her apathy or that mine’s gone faulty.
“I know he’s not a boy and he’ll be fine, but I’d feel better knowing he has a friend like you when I’m gone.”
“You’re not dead yet, so shut up about it.”
“Agreed.” Her tone is good-natured, calm, and it makes me want to kick something, kick it until I break my foot, so even if only for a minute, I won’t think about it.
“If looks could kill.” She chuckles. “It’s just as scary as he described—”
“So that’s it? You give me a big sob story and bequeath Nathaniel to me, like he’s an heirloom? That’s pretty fucked.”
Hazel eyes glimmer from behind their glass wall. “It is, isn’t it?”
I want to stand, but my legs are locked. “Why’d you tell me all this?”
“Because it’s what’s best.” The covers shake with her hacking cough. It’s like sandpaper slamming into a drum, raspy and deep.
I stare at the door, willing Nathaniel or the nurse or, hell, the antichrist to interrupt us, but no one bothers.
“You go on if you want. I’ll tell him you had to go.” Her eyes are pinched, and her left hand clutches the sheets.
It reminds me of Mom, and I shudder.
“I’m staying. And I want to know everything about Nathaniel.”
“That could take a while,” she observes, one eye cracking open.
“Get to it, Grandma.”
“Well, what do you want to know?” One hand runs her hair back behind her head, then the other pulls it down over her shoulder.
“Where all does he work?” I lean forward, cradling my chin in my hand.
“First is the store, but you know that. Other days he unl—”
And the devil himself walks in with an armful of food and napkins, steps measured to prevent any mishaps. “I brought donuts and milk. I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine, baby,” she tells him, sitting upright.
“Did anyone ever tell you you have shitty timing?”
“Once, I think.” He starts food sorting, oblivious to the deadweight sarcasm I could sink a body with.
He smiles over at me.
Or maybe not.
“Till next time?” she asks me, hand outstretched.
“Next time,” and I shake her hand, hard.
Chapter 7
I set the charcoal down, admiring the image pressed into the pages. A small tweak on the bird’s skull, and I’m done, slapping the paper into my art folder for later.
I stand, stretch, and fall back in the chair, slumping. My shoes are way dirty, odd black smudges and a layer of general grime layered on. I reach down, rub at a black spot, and look at my finger. Nothing there. I untie them, knowing this is going to drive me nuts, and go drop them in the washing machine.
It’s weird having Nathaniel in my house. Good, but weird. He won’t let me watch him work because it makes him nervous. When I told him I saw him work at work all the time, he said it was different—there the work wasn’t hard, not like this work—so I shut my trap and let him do his thing.
I squeeze my lids tight until I see blue-and-red dots dancing in the dark. I focus harder, putting my palms over my sockets. Now it’s yellowish honeycomb shapes flying through the black, hitting my irises in a steady stream. I rub the blur away.
I tilt my head up. No sounds, not even hammering. Breakfast food sounds good, even if it is noon, so I head to the kitchen. I pull out the eggs and turn on the stove to get the grease hot. Can’t have breakfast without biscuits, so I get some, canned, from the fridge, turn the oven on, and try to remember where the baking pan is. I check the cupboards, the counter, then remember it’s under the sink.
I swing the door open. Right under the pipes and next to the blender, I find it. My hands grab, then shut the door.
I open it again.
And look at the pipes.
Listen.
I rap on the already leaky pipe, give it a shake for good measure until big fat water drops ooze and splash to the floor.
“Doesn’t anything work in this house anymore?”
“The house’s old. Stuff’s gonna break.”
Mom looks down into the sink, lips tight, eyes narrowed. The switch gets flipped and a god-awful screeaggggrrrrrruuurrrr tears into my eardrums.
“Mom, quit!”
“Well, we need the disposal, Michelle. Maybe if I keep trying, it’ll—”
“Break more? Give it a rest. It’s dead.” I turn back to my overdue English assignment, weighing how much the late grade is going to dock me and how much effort I need to pass it.
She sighs, a drawn-out sound that ends with her slapping her hands on the sink. “All right, fine. I’ll just call George. I’m sure he can fix it.”
“Pff.”
“What?”
“Like he fixed the toilet.”
She pours some coffee, gets out the milk, and stirs some in. “Well.”
“And the light fixture?”
“It was a tough job.”
“And the door?”
“Okay, so he’s not the best repairman. But he’s all we have.”
I start writing again, shaking my head. She pulls out her cell and dials.
“Wait.”
“What?” She holds her hand over the receiver.
“Hang up. I think I know somebody who can fix it.”
She hits the End button. “Who?”
“Nathaniel.”
“Oh, no, he’s not coming here. I’ll just call George and—”
“Why not?” I snap my book shut.
“Because I don’t like that boy.”
“Interesting. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with you. Which surprises me.”
She glances at me, annoyed, then takes a drink of her coffee.
“You’re being judgmental, and you don’t even know him. He’s a great handyman.”
She makes a harrumph sound down in her throat, curls her lips in an ugly way.
“What does that mean?�
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“He must not be that good if he’s homeless.”
I glare until she can’t hold my gaze. “You don’t have any idea who he is or what he’s been through, so keep your comments to yourself.”
Her face is colored red. She glowers a moment, then shakes her head. “Fine. He can come look at the disposal. If he doesn’t fix it, he doesn’t get paid. Got it?”
“Whatever.”
I started breaking things about five days ago. Since Nathaniel did so well on the garbage disposal and since he needed the money, I gradually worked on stuff. Their ends were imminent, so I just helped them get there a little quicker. I can admit selfishness. Yes, I really do care about the guy and want to help, but it doesn’t hurt that it’s pissing Mother Dearest off. It’s a win-win.
Mom decided he could come over, but I had to tell her via phone message the exact time he got here, how long he worked, and the time he left.
Like I’m doing all that.
I flip the switch so I can hear the now steady hum of the machine. Nathaniel fixed it in an hour. I wasn’t even allowed downstairs while he was working, like I was gonna jump the table and start fondling him or something.
“Um, Michelle?”
I startle.
“Shit, you scared me. Yeah?”
He smiles, his right hand in his pocket, his left holding his green toolbox. “Sorry. I fixed the cabinet. Oh, and the faucet too. Do you want to go look?”
“Nah, I trust you.” I check on the biscuits, point at the table. “Now sit. It’s food time.”
The toolbox jangles against the side of his leg when he shifts. “I—”
“Nathaniel.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and eat with me.” I motion to the chair. “Please?”
“All right.” Instead of sitting, he walks to the door and places the toolbox on top of his shoes. “Can I help with anything?”
“If I recall, you’re clumsy with dishes.” I crack an egg in the pan. “Hey, grab two plates from that cabinet, would you?”
He takes one down and puts it on the counter. Then he eases up, takes another, and puts it next to the first plate. He hands one to me, right as I’m going to ask for it.
“Thanks. And would you hand me that roll of napkins? Behind you, next to the toaster.”
The kitchen is pretty big but not built for someone bigger than the fridge. He’s standing to the side, giving me room to maneuver.
“How’s work been?” I say.
“Good. Mr. Tibbs said he might need me more at the docks, and Mrs. Hines said if I keep working hard, I can really go places.”
Where to—the grave? I scratch my wrist. “How many crates do you think you’ve unloaded this week?”
“Not sure. A couple hundred, maybe.”
“And at the docks?”
“About the same. They say I’m the best worker they’ve had in a long time.”
The yolk breaks. Yellow bleeds into the skillet, then starts to harden. I turn down the temperature and scoop the mess up. “That sucks. And would you hand me that other plate, please?”
“Sure. And why does it suck?”
“It just does.”
Snapping and hissing are the only sounds that play for some time. Hot oil bites my face. I wipe it off with a napkin.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
I pull out another egg. This one stays whole in the pan but breaks on the plate. “I know.” I give him a half grin over my shoulder.
He doesn’t look convinced but smiles back anyways.
“I’m normally a decent cook, but I can’t seem to keep the eggs together today. Can you cook?”
“Lasagna, but that’s about it.”
“Mm, lasagna.” I keep bathing the eggs, giving them their hot-oil treatment. “Mom used to make good lasagna.”
“Used to?”
“She hasn’t cooked in God knows how long, so I’m thinking it won’t be that great when she does.”
I can feel the difference in the air even before I hear it in his words. “Grandma says my mom was the best cook she ever met.”
My throat cramps.
He’s lost in his own mind, black eyes bottomless in the low light. “She said my mom was amazing. Smart, pretty, strong. I try to remember her, but I can’t, not even when I look at her picture. Not Dad either.” His hair is messy where his hand has run through. “I think about them a lot.”
He’s a thousand miles away, gone from this moment. We’re in the same room, only a few feet apart, and I can’t reach him.
I turn back to the stove, running the napkin back and forth across the handle. “Your grandma told me how they died. I’m sorry.” My pulse is heavy. It brings a dull ache to my arms, so I wrap my left one around my waist.
It takes a second for him to reply. “It’s okay. Grandma said . . . that they didn’t suffer.”
“They’d be proud of you, you know.” I turn the heat off and move the skillet to the back burner.
“Of me?”
“Yes, you. Any parent would be proud to have you as their kid.” I turn around to make sure he agrees.
No words, just a nod.
I keep staring until he ducks his head. “Do we need to have a pep talk?”
He shakes his head.
“Good, ’cause I’m not too good at—” I whip around and jerk the oven door open. The biscuits are about fifteen seconds from overdone. “Crap. Mitten, please.”
He hands it over.
“Thank you, sir.” I plop the pan onto the counter. “If you want anything, just get it. My house is your house.”
“Thanks.”
I grab the salt and pepper, put them on the table with my plate. Two cups of orange juice, one jar of jelly, and a handful of napkins later, I’m starving.
He’s still standing.
“Would you sit and eat before it gets cold?” I go to sit, and he pulls my chair out.
My cheeks warm. I sit.
He does too. “Are you feeling bad? You look like you have a fever.”
“I’m fine.”
The hand that touches my forehead isn’t soft, but it’s comforting. “You are warm. Do you have any medicine?”
Only Nathaniel, I swear.
“It’s called blushing, fool. You should know; you do it enough.” I saw open a biscuit with my knife, then cram an egg into the middle.
He doesn’t say anything else about it.
Clawing forks and chewing mouths are all I hear for some time. The silence hurts because it’s not the usual easy quiet that we have, and it’s my fault, even if he was being a bit ditzy.
“Nate.”
“Yeah?”
“I felt bad for yelling at you when you were trying to be nice, okay? That’s why I was blushing.”
“It’s okay. And you weren’t yelling.”
“I might as well have been.”
“It’s okay.” He wipes his mouth. “You weren’t being mean. I wasn’t listening, so it was really my fault that you got upset.”
I stare at him for the longest time.
“You’re nuts. You know that?”
“Am I a good crazy?” he asks in all sincerity, worried he’s a Type A Psycho instead of a lovable Type B Eccentric.
I chomp down. “The best kind.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I sigh, knowing who it is. It’s not like anyone else texts me.
“Mom,” I tell him.
It buzzes again.
Egg drips down my hand. I lick it off, trying to enjoy my food.
And I get another buzz.
I wipe my hands and yank the phone out.
Is he done yet?
Finished and gone. Ttyl.
“She’s wanting to know if you finished yet.” At his look, I say, “She’s weird about you being here. She thinks we’re going to have passionate sex on the couch or something.”
“Oh, um, I
didn’t know she thought like that.”
“Yeah, she thinks all teens are sex-driven maniacs. I, for one, am not sex driven. Are you?”
He laughs and shakes his head.
What all did he fix? And why can’t you text?
I silence the phone.
“How’s your grandma?” I ask.
“She’s the same. She asked about you yesterday.”
“Tell her I’m visiting next week, would you?”
“All right.” His smile is contagious.
We eat without speaking, enjoying each other and the peace.
For the most part, that is.
Because I can’t resist the phone.
I look to the screen.
Michelle, are you there?
Michelle, text me back. You know I’m on a short lunch break.
“She’s going to make me hurt her.” I feel bad for complaining about my mother when his is dead, so I shut my mouth.
“She cares, at least.”
I grunt.
“Maybe she’s not good at showing it?”
Mouth doesn’t stay shut for long. “She’s not good at anything besides failing miserably as a parent. I mean, really, she tries to talk shit but then doesn’t back it up. It’s one or the other, you know? Either stay off my ass or stay on it, but don’t crap out halfway.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t know what to do. And I bet it’s hard being a single parent, having to be a mom and a dad.”
“She needs to be a mother and not worry about being both.” A nerve’s been struck, and it’s a raw one.
“I didn’t, um . . . I meant to say it must be hard being single and that, you know, two parents are easier for the kids to be around and, uh—” He sinks in his seat, avoiding my eyes. “I’m an idiot.”
“Don’t call yourself an idiot,” I snap.
He nods, startled.
I rub my twitching eye, then look at the phone.
Two missed calls.
I wait for another text or call. A few minutes later, I have nothing, so I turn the ringer back on, erasing the call history and my in-box while I’m at it, before dropping the phone on the table.
His chair squalls on the tile, making my back tingle, when he stands up. “Thank you for lunch.”
