by Nan Cuba
“He’s a good kid,” she said.
“I need to ask a favor,” he said shoveling a forkful of rice and beans.
I was flattered. Finally, I could do something for them. “What?”
“His new mom does this thing with women’s hair where she straightens it and weaves in wigs and stuff. Anyway, she makes pretty good money, but she plays hard and isn’t around much. Dad just up and split. I’d like to get Clarence out of there, but there’s not enough evidence yet. Meantime, I don’t like him being by himself.”
“How terrible. Poor kid.”
“He stayed one night with us, and it was great. Right?”
“I said he was a good kid,” Terezie answered.” Her tone was not subtle.
“As you can see, she’s not a hundred percent with me on this, but she’s getting there.”
His buildup made me nervous. “Just tell me what you want.”
“I want the boy to live with us.”
I glanced at Terezie, who looked away. “Really? Can you do that?”
Sam stared at his plate. “Not exactly, but this is a special case.” He brightened, leaning on his elbows. “His so-called mom and her new boyfriend are going to Vegas next weekend. So I thought he could stay with you. I need a little more time to figure out how to make this work.” He chewed a bite of tortilla and licked his fingers.
“That’s so exciting!” Sam smiled; Terezie didn’t. “But why can’t he stay with you again?”
“If he does and somebody finds out, it could spoil our chances.”
“But I can’t get in trouble, right? I mean, everybody’d be cool about him staying with me?”
“Absolutely. We’ll get approval first.”
I’d get to help my brother adopt the child he wants. What could be better than that? Bringing the boy to the compound would be easy. He’d probably think it was camp. Still, something didn’t seem right. “Terezie, what’s he not telling me?”
“When his supervisor finds out,” she said, watching him, “he could get fired. He could lose any chance of ever getting his license.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he said, shrugging. He shoved away from the table, leaned back, crossing his ankles, his arms. “And even if it does, having Clarence would be worth it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said to Terezie.
“This is crossing the professional line—it’s an absolute no-no—but he’s being the usual jughead. To be honest, I’m not even sure it’s okay for you to keep Clarence for the weekend.”
Sam threw his napkin at his plate, splattering picante. “You said yourself that you like him,” Sam said. “You said you’d think about it. What happened?”
“You’re right; I did say I’d consider it, and I will,” Terezie said. “Because I see how much it means to you, and I think he’s great. But only if Sarah agrees to help.”
“Excellent,” Sam said, turning, rolling up his sleeves. He scooted his plate, hiding the puddle of sauce. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s one tough dude.”
“I don’t know, Sam,” I said, thinking, convince me.
He poked my ribs, tickling. “You’ll see. It’ll be great, Aunt Sarah.”
“Stop that,” I said. “Adoptions are a big deal, Sam. He’s a kid, not a puppy.”
Sam cocked his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what? Get you fired?”
“I can make this work.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I need your help.” His request was the confession I’d longed for. “Have I ever asked you for anything else?”
“Isn’t there a way to adopt Clarence without getting you in trouble?”
“I can figure it out. I just need more time. He’s only five. He’ll be all by himself if you don’t take him.” His words pressed; his eyes were a torch. “I’m close to having the evidence. I’m working on my supervisor; it won’t take much longer. Now, are you going to help or not?”
Terezie slumped.
Would I help Sam adopt a son, or take the blame for something Terezie couldn’t bring herself to do? The answer leaked from my mouth. “I can’t. It’s not right, Sam, and you know it.”
“What?” he growled. “You’ve got to be kidding. You have to do it. Terezie won’t agree unless you do.”
I shook my head. “Please, Sam.” My heart collapsed, a burning house.
“Thanks! Thank you very much,” he said, standing, knocking his chair. He tossed money on the table, and while everyone watched, he walked out the door.
o
The next weekend, I went home to Nugent. I considered telling my parents about Sam’s moodiness, but, instead, Kurt distracted them. Apparently, he was failing anatomy at Galveston, and his pre-arranged fellowship with Denton Cooley at Baylor was already in jeopardy. He’d come home, too, but I didn’t get to spend much time with him. He and my father talked in the study.
Sitting in the living room, pretending to read the paper, I watched. They sat on either side of my father’s desk, books and the kettle of bones between. “Bones are composed of two types of tissues,” my father said, and Kurt pushed his glasses up, agape. “Compact or dense bone, a little like Sam’s head,” he laughed, “and spongy or canallous bone, like, well, I guess your head. But we’re going to change that, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said, scooting forward. He was twenty-three, built like a halfback, engaged to be married, and he could’ve been Hugh that morning so long ago.
“Two-point-six million red blood cells are produced each second by the marrow.” What he meant was, “Let men laugh when you sacrifice desire to duty.” They stayed two and half days in that room, their meals brought on trays, huddling again the following two weekends.
I had my last stopover at Sam’s during the first week in December. I hadn’t seen them for three weeks, time enough for noticeable changes. I didn’t call beforehand and arrived mid-afternoon, earlier than usual, so I wasn’t surprised when Cyril answered the door. “Thank God,” Cyril said, nervously touching my shoulder. “Good,” he said, nodding, “come in. Look, Sarah’s here.” He pulled me to his sister, who sat next to a chair propped upside down on the daybed. For some reason, all the furniture, including the piano, table, and chairs, had been shoved into the center of the room.
“What’s up?” I asked, assuming that Terezie had called Cyril to help with a redecoration. I hoped I could help.
“Your brother decided to try something new,” Terezie said. “Not exactly my taste. What do you think?” When she hugged her knees, Cyril paced the room. “Sam…” he said, shaking his head. This was the first time I’d seen Cyril criticize Sam.
“I detect his style,” I said, “contemporary chaos.” The braided rug draped their rocking chair. A brass lamp lay decapitated, its linen shade resting on a stack of books. “Where is he?” Obviously, something was wrong.
“In his temple,” Terezie said, chewing her lip.
“His what?”
“The bedroom,” Cyril whispered, pointing but not looking at the door.
I found mattress, bed frame, table, and aquarium piled in the middle of the bedroom. In the corner, swirled curtains formed a bloated cocoon. Sunlight glowed inside the room’s white walls. Sam sat near a window, naked, his legs folded into the lotus position, his head shaved, eyes closed. I couldn’t believe he’d lost so much weight. This was anything but his true self.
“Hey,” I said trying not to sound alarmed. I closed the door, but Sam didn’t move. “Sam?” I said, touching his shoulder. I squatted, checking his face.
He blinked, focused his gaze. He smiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Purifying,” he whispered.
“Bullshit,” I said. “I want to know what’s going on. Did you know Cyril’s here?”
He closed his eyes. I wondered if he was stoned.
I shoved him, stood. “I think he might be taking Terezie home to her parents. Sam, this is just plain we
ird.”
“The only way to cure suffering is to tame the flesh.” Slowly, he lifted his leg, lodging it behind his neck, straining even though he was double-jointed. He tipped to the side. “Be faithful,” he panted, his face blanching, “to that which exists nowhere but in yourself.”
He’s snapped, I thought. “You’re scaring me.”
“You’re only bothered by the unfamiliar.” Sweat dripped from his scalp to his cheek. “I’ve taken control.”
“Have you eaten? Where are your clothes?”
“Purity can only be attained by abstention from pleasure.”
I walked to the chest of drawers, found his jean shorts. “At least put some pants on, Mr. Indispensable.”
His smile hinted at mischief, giving me hope. When the phone rang, we jumped. “Did you and Terezie have a fight?” Could something have happened to that little boy?
Someone knocked. Cyril peeked in, his tenderness a jolt. “Sam?” He waited, but Sam looked straight ahead. “He says he’s a client.”
Sam eased his leg down. He stepped, feet smacking, into the corner next to the swirled curtains, picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said, nude, wan, staring at me. His face sagged, then hardened. “What happened?” Flicking sweat from his forehead, his fingers rubbed an imprint—two streaks, pink, then gone. “Jake, I met your supervisor. He wouldn’t do that.” Sam bent over then froze, listening. “You know,” he said, raising himself, “you’re full of shit. You need that job.”
Terezie tiptoed in, walked passed Cyril and me, then stood in front of Sam. He glanced while she shadowed him, shifting from side to side, her hand a plea on his naked arm. “I can’t talk to you now. I told you never to call me at home.” He climbed onto a window seat, Terezie his acolyte. “Jake, Jake,” he yelled. “You’re the problem.” He held the receiver away, shook his face, vibrating his cheeks, then brought the receiver back. “Yeah, is that right?” he said. “It’s pointless,” he shouted. “Don’t you understand?” He stared at the ceiling. “Uh-huh, sure, why not? Come see for yourself tomorrow.” When he stretched one pointed foot behind his back then lifted it, he reached over his bald head, arching his body like a bow, and he pulled the foot even with his shoulder, his other arm spread, balancing.
Terezie turned, eyes pooling. As soon as I could, I left, sadly relieved to go.
Terezie phoned one Sunday just before Christmas. I slipped out of Elijah’s morning service to take her call in the main office. “Sam’s been in an accident,” she said, her voice flat.
Fistfight? I wondered. “What now?” I asked, annoyed, thinking Sam had to change jobs, do something to get out of this cycle of bad luck.
“About four this morning,” Terezie said, “he dropped a fare at the airport then drove off the second story ramp.”
“Are you saying he was in an accident?”
“His spine’s fractured.” Heavy breathing became a cough.
“Who was driving?”
Terezie cleared her throat. “The doctor says he won’t ever walk again.”
“What?” I moved the phone closer, set it in my lap. “Sam’s passenger’s in the hospital?”
While Terezie patiently made me understand, I stayed calm. “Can you come?” she asked, whimpering. “Please?”
Saul insisted on driving, and during the next six hours, I tried to imagine what I’d find in intensive care: Terezie, of course; my parents; maybe Kurt and Hugh; and Sam. I wondered what he knew about his condition, and how much pain he felt. I pictured him on a gurney, his speckled eyes incredulous, his pouty lips strained.
When Terezie saw me, she blinked twice then wept on Cyril’s chest. His arms hung, clubs. Saul stepped forward, and she shifted her embrace to him. Mumbled consolations began as I shoved my way toward Kurt, who stood, reading stapled sheets of paper.
“Any update?” He’d have heard the doctors explain Sam’s condition to our father, and now he could translate that for me.
“It’s a T4-6 spinal cord injury. The prognosis is incontrovertible.”
“How did it happen?”
“That’s what nobody can figure out.” He handed me the paper. “His accident report says at 3:53 a.m., he crashed through the rail and sailed off the ramp like it was an exit.” He turned a page, pointing. “Dry pavement. No faulty lighting. He either fell asleep or somebody screwed up the lane markings. Apparently, a number of accidents have happened in that exact spot.” He took the report back, checking. “I think we should sue.”
“Did Sam say anything?”
“Yeah, it’s in the report.” He squinted, shuffled the pages. “Here,” he said, sighing, shaking his head. In the section marked, “Investigator’s Narrative Opinion of What Happened,” someone had written: “Driver says he dropped off a fare. He then moved to the ramp’s outer lane, but as he proceeded, the moon, being smarter than he was, told him to make a sharp left.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“Why would he say that?”
“You know Sam,” he said, folding the paper, pretending to straighten his glasses as he wiped his eyes. Our father walked around the corner. Kurt joined him.
Terezie’s parents arrived, ushering her to the family waiting room. When I moved toward Sam’s bed, Saul approached, while my father sprinted after two doctors down the hall. He’d only taken a few steps before he stumbled, then fell, landing prostrate in the passageway. Before I could move, one of the men trotted over just as Kurt bent down. Dad began talking, rising to his knees, so Saul and I instead slipped past the curtained doorway into Sam’s room.
My mother sat in a chair next to the bed, holding Sam’s hand. She stood when we walked in. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered.
“Are you all right?”
“No.” Her eyes watered. “He’s my child. It’s tough.” She faced the window, blew her nose. “I’m glad you’re here, though,” she said. “You’re better at this.”
“But Mama, I’m not.” I’d never seen her cry.
She turned around, straightened. “You and Sam have always been close.”
I walked to the bed. A metal device fit over his head with posts drilled into his temples. Tubes hooked to his wrists. His eyes were closed; one hand lay palm-open. A starched sheet and blanket covered his body, but his feet made a bulge. He can’t feel them, I thought. Sam’s trapped inside his body like that mouse inside the bass. I leaned, needing to hear breathing, and smelled antiseptic, sweat, something like glue.
“I’m going to check on your father. He’s not as strong as you think,” my mother said, patting my back.
“Daddy fell.” She blanched. “Don’t worry. He’s okay.”
“We’ll be right outside,” she said.
Sam’s eyes opened; he blinked. I tried to smile. “Hey,” he said.
Does he need a nurse? I thought. Pain killer? Does he know it’s me? I remembered Mary Jo sprawled across the train tracks; again, I hated myself for not knowing what to do. “Can I get you anything?”
“Terezie,” he said, “she’s tired. She needs something to eat.”
“Don’t worry. Her parents are here.”
“Hey,” he said to Saul, who stood in the corner, my sweater over his arm.
“Sam,” Saul said, stepping to the bed, “what exactly have you heard?”
Saul’s take-charge manner, his lean, mobile body suddenly made me furious. “We don’t need you right now,” I said.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Leave.” I pushed him. “Out.”
“All right, all right,” he said, nodding, passing me the sweater then stumbling through the door. I lay the sweater and my purse on my mother’s chair.
Sam said, “Sar, touch them.”
I moved to the foot of the bed, reaching toward the cover.
“No, underneath,” he said, his hooded eyes darting. He lifted his arm, rattling the tubes. The icy air smelled of alcohol, adhesive tape. The blinds lay flat, a plastic plank
.
“Let me get a nurse.” I turned toward the doorway.
“Don’t be scared, not of me.”
“No, I just—”
“I want you to do it, just us.” He motioned with his hand.
Slowly, I folded back the quilt, then the sheet. Wrapped in a hospital gown, his body lay limp, his feet turned out. I recognized his shape, his muscled calves, but his joints and limbs seemed tacked on, slabs of clay, cadaver-like.
“Pinch something,” he said. His breath was spoiled fruit, warm, turning.
I remembered him smoothing the cadaver’s mouth, his relaxed talk about the genitals. “You know what?” I said, unfolding the cover, pulling it into place. “This isn’t a good idea.”
His eyebrows lowered beneath the metal band at his forehead.
“You’re not supposed to feel anything the first few days.” I patted his hand. “Sleep is what you need.” I leaned in close, scowling. “And you better not give me any trouble.”
While Saul drove us back to Palestine, I told him I needed to be alone.
“That’s to be expected,” he said. Cows lounged at a manmade lake under an elm grove. “You have a great deal on your mind.”
“You’re right. But that’s not what I mean.” That morning, Sam had been moved to his own hospital room. Surrounded by our mother, Terezie, a nurse, and vases of flowers, he’d watched glumly as I walked out the door.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m moving to Baylor. I can’t see you anymore.”
At first, I wondered if he’d heard me. Then he squeezed the steering wheel, his fists a clinched nerve. “I understand,” he finally said.
“No you don’t. Don’t say that,” I snapped.
He gazed, his thin, mustached face no longer familiar. “This is a particularly difficult time—”
“Stop. You’ve got to listen.” I turned, leaning against the door. “Our relationship is over. I’m moving out tomorrow, and I want you to leave me alone.”
“Now is not the correct time—”
“I don’t think I can be any clearer.” Was I shouting? “Sam needs me. I don’t have room for anybody else.”
