Deacon Locke Went to Prom

by Brian Katcher

  “Stop it,” she says severely. “You’re an adult now. That means facing some unpleasant facts. We both know what’s happening, and as much as we’d like to pretend otherwise, there’s nothing to be done.”

  She’s giving up. Giving up on herself. And giving up on me.

  “Please . . .”

  She stands. “Deacon, you know how an actor will dream that he’s standing onstage and doesn’t know any of his lines? That’s been me for the past year or so. You don’t know how often I’ve been talking to someone, nodding my head and agreeing, while I have no idea what they’re saying. It didn’t bother me much until it started happening when I was with you.”

  I grab at my hair with both hands. “It’s not just you. I don’t think I’ve been making a lot of sense lately.”

  “That’s probably true. But I can’t go on like this anymore. I was hoping to wait until you had moved out, but I think the time has come.”

  “But . . .”

  The doorbell rings. I hear Soraya answer it.

  “That’s my ride. Walk me out?”

  I’m suddenly seized with an icy dread. I give her my arm.

  There are two strangers standing in the entryway. One is a young black man in an EMT uniform. The other is an older woman in a business suit. They both smile at Jean when they see her.

  “Jean Locke?” asks the man. “Are you ready to go?”

  He sounds so sincerely polite that you’d think he was escorting his own mother. I hate him.

  Jean takes his arm. Through the open front door I see, not an ambulance, but a sports utility vehicle. The man begins to lead Jean out the door. I rush to her side.

  “I’ll follow you in the car. I’ll be right with you, the whole way. No matter what happens, I’ll be right there with you.”

  But my grandmother only smiles and shakes her head. “No you won’t. I don’t want you to come.”

  Soraya, who was standing out of the way in a corner, looks surprised. Not as surprised as I look, I bet. “What?”

  “Tonight’s going to be rough. I need to do this on my own, without you hovering around. Please try to understand, but I need you not to be there.”

  She’s having an episode again. She thinks she’s talking to my father or something.

  “Then I’ll hang out in the lobby. I’m not going to abandon you. Not now.”

  “Deacon Locke Junior!” I jump a little at her stern tone. “Listen to me. I know this is hard for you, but it’s much harder for me. I need to start the next phase of my life with a little dignity, and a little privacy, and I cannot do that with you hanging over me.” She smiles a little. “Please. Let me do this my way. I’ll call you when I’m ready to see you.”

  I’m too stunned to reply. She reaches up and touches my cheek. “Such a good boy. I love you, Deacon. Good-bye.”

  I don’t answer. After a minute, the medic leads her out of our house. And I have the horrible feeling she’ll never be back.

  Now is the time for me to run down the porch stairs after Jean, embrace her in a huge hug, and tell her everything she means to me. But the strange woman steps between me and the door, blocking my last view of my grandmother.

  “Mr. Locke? I’m Namey McName from the Meaningless Acronym Government Department. I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

  “Huh?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Huh?”

  Soraya steps to my side. “He’s eighteen. He’ll be fine.”

  The woman hands me a business card. “We have your phone number. Please call me at number number number if you have any difficulties whatsoever.”

  And she joins the others in the SUV. It takes off with a roar. I stand in the doorway and watch it vanish down the road.

  Soraya takes my arm. Not in a comforting gesture. She grips me tight, like she’s afraid I’m going to go racing down the driveway after them.

  But I’ve lost all energy. I can do nothing. Not even stand up. I drop to my knees.

  Soraya gently presses my head to her chest and holds me as I blubber and bawl like a baby.

  THIRTY-THREE

  SORAYA STAYS WITH ME FOR THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON. I do not leave the couch. She keeps trying to talk to me, to fix me food, to get me to go for a walk.

  Yesterday, such attention from her would have caused my head to explode.

  Today, all I can do is just sit here.

  Jean is gone. My only family. The only one who ever cared for me. My best friend.

  And I let her go.

  I grip a throw pillow so hard it tears.

  “You’ll see her tomorrow, Deacon. Things aren’t as bleak as they seem right now.”

  I turn and frown at her.

  She drops her eyes. “Or maybe they are. But Jean is a fighter, and she has you. Do you want me to come with you to the hospital tomorrow?”

  That would be nice. I’d truly love her support. But what’s happening . . . it’s between me and Jean. I think I’d rather have privacy.

  “Thank you, but I need to go alone. I have a feeling I’ll be asking for your help a lot in the days to come.”

  She gives me a one-armed hug. And she tries to be subtle about it, but I see her glance at the clock on the end table.

  “You’ve been here all day, Soraya. Go on home.”

  “I’m not going to leave you here alone,” she says emphatically.

  “I’ve got to make some calls, try to track down Dad and my aunt. Plus I somehow doubt your parents will let you spend the night.”

  She smiles. “They don’t even know where I am right now.”

  “What? You need to get out of here. I’ll call you when I know what’s going on.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not leaving. You’re not going to sit in this big empty house with your thoughts all night. I know you. You’ll go nuts. Come to my house. Have dinner with us.”

  Yeah. That’d be relaxing. “I’ll be fine.”

  Soraya looks at the clock, then back at me. “Call Elijah.”

  “Huh?”

  “Have him stay over tonight. I’m not leaving until you promise me.”

  “Soraya . . .”

  “Promise me, Deacon.”

  I give her a weak smile. “I promise. Now get out of here. Your parents are probably pacing the floor.”

  I walk her to her car. Twice she stops to offer to stay with me. And the offer is tempting, but I know she’ll catch hell when she comes home as it is.

  She stands in the driveway and looks at me. “About the other day . . .”

  “Shh. Don’t worry about it.”

  She hugs me, and I hug her back.

  “Anytime you need me, Deacon, just call. For anything. I’ll be there.”

  “I know you will.”

  And then she’s gone.

  And I’m alone.

  So very alone.

  I sit on the porch steps. I lied to her about calling Elijah, of course. The last thing I need right now is his cheery optimism and chatter.

  But I cannot go back into this house, where Jean is not. I cannot wander around those empty rooms. The kitchen, where Jean may never cook dinner again. The living room, with her crocheted lampshades and her three identical paintings of Elvis, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Bogart sitting in a diner. The back patio, where we’d sit and watch the sun set on nice days.

  But not anymore.

  I have never felt more confused and afraid in my life. And this is coming from a guy who once had to outrun security dogs at a scrapyard when his father needed to “borrow” some parts.

  Worst twelfth birthday ever.

  But now, it looks like I’m in charge. I’ll tell Mr. Delaney that I can’t do the show, of course. I’ll stay here with Jean. If she can’t come home, I’ll visit her every day. I guess she’ll have to go to a nursing home or something. God, how are we going to afford that?

  Well, I could probably get a job at the hardware store with Clara. And . . . I’ll figure out something.
/>
  I’m going to have to figure out a lot of things, I think. Like how to pay taxes and doctors’ bills and who do I talk to about Jean’s insurance and can I apply for some sort of assistance?

  I don’t know anything about that. Maybe that social worker, or whatever she was, can help.

  I can do this. I’ll work all day, visit Jean in the afternoons, and maintain the house in the evenings. It has to work. Jean is still in her sixties, she could live another twenty years.

  Twenty years.

  That reality show pays well, maybe . . .

  No! I’m not my father! I’m not going to take the easy way out.

  Except tonight. I can’t hang around here. I’m leaving. Somewhere. Anywhere.

  Yeah, this was a mistake. For starters, I decide to walk, so I’m alone with my thoughts for like an hour. And when I arrive in town, it’s filled with people looking for a good time. The bars are crowded, the people are strolling in the warm night, everyone is happy. I want to yell at them, to grab them by their stupid, ignorant fat faces and remind them that my grandmother is very sick and they have no right to be in a good mood.

  I’m sweaty and tired and twice as upset as when I left home. Part of me wants to go back, part of me wants to collapse on a bench.

  Part of me wants to go screaming off into the night.

  I settle for a cup of coffee at that joint where I last talked to Kelli and started all that trouble.

  And then, for the first time in a week, my luck is not shitty.

  As I walk into the café, someone is walking out. Someone with pretty clothes, luxurious hair, and a beautiful face.

  It’s Jason. I run into my nemesis on the very night my world falls apart.

  For a minute we just look at each other. Not angry looking, but kind of like two dogs who are meeting for the first time.

  Neither of us is wagging his tail.

  Eventually, Jason claps his hands once and speaks.

  “So, are we going to finally do this?”

  Any other night, I would have walked away. All those clandestine videos of me, and Soraya being angry with me for fighting . . .

  But tonight is different from all other nights.

  It’s Passover, Jason. Time to taste the bitter herbs of . . .

  Sorry, I’m not Jewish, and that was a bad metaphor to begin with. But I really want to kick Jason’s ass.

  I look down at my puny rival. “Let’s do it.”

  He glances over his shoulder. “C’mon then. The alley out back.”

  Oh, this is going to be therapeutic.

  The alley is the home to the coffee-shop Dumpster. It’s cramped and dirty, but well lit. I wait while Jason carefully removes his jacket, watch, and hat.

  Except for Skee-Balling that college boy the other night, I’ve never actually been in a fight before. Unless you count that time in Houston where I had to pull that dude off Dad’s back.

  But I am a big guy and Jason is fancy.

  I won’t hurt him too bad. I may even do the manly thing where I help him to his feet after I’ve knocked him down.

  He raises his fists. I raise mine.

  This is going to be sweet.

  Ten seconds later, he’s collapsed against the brick wall of the building, holding his jaw, not bothering to hide his tears.

  “You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” he whimpers. “You could have knocked out one of my teeth.”

  I’d take great joy in his low state, except I’m collapsed next to him, leaning forward, draining a pool of blood from my nostrils into the street.

  Somehow, we both managed to land a haymaker at the same time.

  “I think you broke my nose,” I mumble.

  “Really?” This seems to cheer him up greatly. He passes me a pressed and folded handkerchief. I eject a wad of blood into it, causing me a momentary flash of incredible pain.

  Yep, broken.

  We sit there and bleed for a while, as june bugs kamikaze into the light fixture.

  “Jason?” I’m still looking at the ground to avoid draining blood down my throat. “Is this about Soraya?” I know it is, but I want Jason to admit it. Admit he’s been trying to steal her.

  “Damn straight,” he replies. “You don’t deserve someone like that. She’s special, and you go and screw around on her.”

  That stupid video. “I know what it looked like, but nothing happened with that girl. Kelli’s just a friend.”

  “I know.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “malicious” before, but that’s the only way to describe Jason’s smile.

  “What are you saying?”

  He chuckles, then winces. “You think you’re so damn important that people just follow you down the street to take your picture? I know all the baristas here. One of them texted me that you were here with some girl, and I asked him to film you. And you totally looked like you were kissing that girl. At least you did when I finished editing the clip.”

  It takes a moment to process what he’s saying. “You son of a bitch. You set me up.”

  He shrugs. “So what if I did?”

  Is it time for round two? Or am I about to literally kick a man when he’s down? “What the hell is your problem, Jason?”

  He turns and glares at me, his split lip glistening in the harsh electric light. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve known Soraya for twelve years and I’ve been in love with her for eight. Maybe because I’ve always been the guy she cries all over when she’s scared and when assholes are mean to her. And every time I try to show her how much I care, how much she means to me, she says she just wants us to be friends! You know how many girlfriends I’ve had? None!” He says this like I’m supposed to be shocked. “Because I wasn’t willing to give up. Soraya means the world to me.

  “And then just when I think she might be beginning to maybe think about starting to feel the same way someday, you fee-fi-fo-fum in and I’ve been replaced. So maybe I didn’t play fair, but you know what? I’m glad. I’m glad I hurt you. I’d do it again.”

  His wrath kind of frightens me. He’s smart, and I wonder just what he’s capable of. I almost forget to be violently angry. “Well, your plan worked. She dumped my ass.”

  “Good. I was sick of you hurting her.”

  “I never hurt her!” I shout, spraying blood out of my nose and mouth.

  He just laughs. “You really are kind of stupid, aren’t you? You get famous and then plaster her picture all over your website. You think people didn’t figure out who she was? You know she caught hell for dating you, right?”

  “What?” This is all too confusing.

  He rolls his eyes, then pulls out his phone, a gesture that has proved disastrous for me this past month. “People sent Soraya messages. She always deleted them. Said the comments didn’t bother her. But they bothered me.”

  I look at the device. There is a string of screen caps, pictures he’s taken of Soraya’s page. As I read the comments, I start to Hulk out again.

  MUS-SLIME

  TERRORIST IN TRAINING

  WHY DOES DEACON WANT TO BE WITH SOME CAMEL LOVER?

  UGLY ASS MUZZIE

  I hand the phone back before I can read more.

  I truly, truly want to hurt someone tonight. Again.

  Jason is not done lecturing me. “That’s what happens when you decide to parade around a beautiful, intelligent girl like she’s one of your reality-star sluts. That’s how people treated her. And her family. It really upset Mr. Shadee. And you didn’t even realize it was happening. Too damn clueless.”

  I remember how Soraya’s father requested I leave her out of my quest for glory. I remember some odd comments Soraya made about the internet. I remember how Mr. Oinky came into her life.

  And still, I had no idea this was going on.

  Jason continues to rant. “Maybe I don’t have your build and your brooding-loner thing, but at least I care about her! At least I . . . I . . . um . . . oh, Jesus, Deacon, don’t cry.”
<
br />   I wipe my hand across my eyes, smearing blood everywhere. “I’m not crying.”

  “Yes you are.” Just a touch of glee under the false concern.

  “It’s not about this. It’s about . . . Jean.”

  “Your grandma?”

  “She’s in the hospital. She . . . her mind is failing. I don’t know if she’s ever going to come home again. I don’t know what the hell to do. And I never meant to hurt Soraya. I care about her too much. And when you showed her those video clips . . . do you think that made her feel good? Were you thinking of her, or thinking of yourself? Who really hurt her, Jason?”

  He doesn’t answer. We sit there in the grit and grime, pissed off as hell at each other and our own shitty luck.

  In an attempt to move on, I try to give Jason back his handkerchief, but he just shakes his head and stands up.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” I climb, unsteadily, to my feet.

  “The emergency room. You have to get that nose fixed before it heals like that and you get even uglier.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “C’mon. You’re twice my size. It’ll give me great pleasure to say I put you in the hospital.”

  I’m too tired, too confused, and in too much pain to argue. I follow Jason back around the building.

  “Deacon?” he says, just before we reach his car. “I’m sorry about your grandmother. I would have backed off if I’d known. But listen. Things look bad now, but I think you’ve kind of hit rock bottom. You can’t sink any lower.”

  “So that means things are bound to get better, right?”

  “No. Not at all. But I hope your grandmother comes through okay.” He smiles, just slightly. “Now get in the car. I don’t have all night.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AT EXACTLY SEVEN IN THE MORNING, JEAN CALLS me on my cell phone.

  “Deacon, if you’d like to come see me at the hospital, I’ll be ready at eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there, Jean.”

  Actually, I’m already there. Jason dropped me off at the emergency room, even bringing his car to a complete stop to let me out. After a surprisingly long delay in a surprisingly empty waiting room, a doctor bandaged up my nose. I’m not sure he believed that I fell in the shower, but I think all ER staff are used to evasive answers, half-truths, and outright lies.