by Jason Beech
She shoves a bottle of water in my hand and tells me goodbye. I blink away my tears.
I ran a burger van once.
Should Have Been a Son
I didn't realize how much I preferred the company of my sons until I traipsed from one house to another round Atlanta. I'm looking for a house for myself now I'm divorced from that scumbag, Davis, and my daughter Arlene is with me every step of the way.
“So this place is very airy, lots of windows for natural light.” The realtor is very helpful. She's a flamboyant lady with hair I can't help crane my neck at to check for bees. I know she's after commission, but I like her positivity.
Arlene tuts – a dental drill right into my nerve. “I don't know – I mean the natural light is very nice an’all, but this place needs work. Look at the cracks in the wall – I mean, maybe something structural is wrong with the place.”
I pat the small of her back and wonder if my daughter is chewing one of the bees from the realtor’s beehive hairdo. “It's a fixer-upper is all. Your brothers are willing to help any way they can.”
***
Next day, we appraise a little house in Lilburn. It's small and I doubt I can fit a fifth of my extended family in the living room, never mind the kitchen. But it's all finished and gleaming, even if I think a little soulless.
The realtor wears a multicolored something or other over leggings. I don't know whether to shade myself from the sun beneath her, or launch her into the sky and control her with a tug of string. I stand a little stiff, annoyed I've wasted my morning. She makes little touches on my forearm to comfort me, as if she watched a truckload of Bill Clinton videos and I would also melt at her personal touch. No way, lady, your shine has truly faded.
My daughter, because my sons spend their days productively, accompanies me again. I don't know where she gets that mouth from – all mangled and twisted from years of disapproving everything.
“It's a little over your price range, but it's all finished. You'd have little to do in here bar add some personal color.”
Maybe red. Which is all I see right now.
“I have two sons. Two daughter-in-laws. Five grandkids. I'm not sure I could fit them all in with any kind of comfort.” I fan my face with an open hand to accentuate the claustrophobia.
My daughter sees fit to add that she's my offspring, too, though I'm sure I mentioned that, so I don't know why she has to reiterate. I didn't ask my daughter anything, but she offers her opinion anyway. “It's a bit small, you're right, ma. And it's over your budget. Daddy didn't leave you a dime, and your office job won't cover much.”
She adds a few lines to my old lips, I'm sure. I don't know if you could see them through my red lipstick, but I imagine them crack long as if a stone hit my windshield. Just like she haggard my vagina. The damn thing withstood two strapping boys, but this one really blew it open.
“Thanks for sharing that, sweetheart.” I glance at the realtor. “You needed to know all that, right?”
The realtor’s forced grin has no impact on Arlene. She just shakes her shoulders and peeks round various corners. “Well, it's true. If you're going to sleep around, don't get caught. No wonder daddy left you nothing. I'm not here to judge –”
“Of course not, darling.”
“– but, well, it's all in the past.”
“I can see that.”
***
“Ah, this is more like it.” This house, all brick, had more to it. “Love the ceiling shape, really like the old light fixtures … originals?”
“They certainly look like it.” My realtor’s face had, since yesterday, fixed that smile so tight you couldn't chisel it away. She wants me to buy something, anything, to get rid of me. I don't blame her – I can no longer stand the over-dressed flooze anymore, either. Today she wears a shawl you might see at a play in a theater. All she's missing is a bunch of pearls she could clasp at any revelation my daughter cared to reveal today.
Arlene arrived an hour before I even stuck a toe from under my sheets this morning. The flat feels smaller and smaller, and this house the realtor shows me seems palatial.
“It's rough.” Arlene cannot see beyond the scratches in the hardwood floor and the shitty paint job the previous occupants inflicted on it. She has no artistry. No vision. My boys would see its potential. They'd guide me through options, support my opinions, and work to solve its many problems.
The basement seals it for me. The house sits on a slope, so the basement has a high ceiling and I could fit all kinds of distractions for the grandkids.
That intake of air through her teeth makes me wince. I stare at my daughter long enough to recognize any value – but I see not a modicum. That north-eastern haircut could have come right off the Mayflower, along with her judgements.
“That's such a steep staircase, ma – I mean, it could break your neck.”
I really don't think my boys beat her enough when they were this high to our German Shepherd. She doesn't have an ounce of danger. Avoids it at all costs. God help any kids she ever has, because I don't reckon I could call them my grandsons if she does. They'd mince around until they got their heineys kicked from here to Kingdom Come.
I run a hand over the vintage fireplace, shuffle my feet on the rough hardwood, and crane my neck at the crown moulding. “This place has a lot of character. I'll take it.”
“Ma?”
The realtor’s smile beams genuine. Money in the bank, I guess, and she's rid of Arlene. Lucky bitch that she is. “I'm glad you're happy for me, Arlene, and you helped me make the decision.”
That puts a stopper in her gob. Her lips make some approximation of words, but her expression flops to the floor.
***
My boys do me proud. They turn my new house upside down and inside out and make it the home I envisaged. They tip-toe around Arlene, who would like to say she supervised it all, but those broad shoulders didn’t need any help from that gym-slip. I only wished they'd grab her by the shoulders and plant her outside with the plants. Maybe beneath them.
I shake that thought away. I mean, she's my flesh and blood. I couldn't …
My eldest smacks his affection on my right cheek and the youngest on my left, and they go home to their merry wives whom I so adore. Lovely creatures, both women, with fine children who will grow to much the same stature. I watch them leave and tingle with pride. When I turn I wish they had remained. Arlene sits on my new leather sofa, a brown autumn leaf who refuses to leave the branch. She ruins my loins and refuses to risk her own with a man. That's what she needs. Something hard up her might just loosen that tight little bitch.
A horrific image rushes up my spine and clamps the base of my skull. My old flat – a tiny little place. Just one bedroom. No room for another. My new house has a second and third bedroom … She couldn't think she had a place to stay?
“Sweetheart?”
“Yes, ma?”
That little unguarded look … ah, a reflection of that little girl who blossomed oh so briefly when she was, what?, ten. That little moment stood as her glory. She flicks through her magazine, as if she wants to ask me a question I might not like.
I fold my arms. “I have some cans in the basement. Kidney beans. Could you be a darling and get me a couple?”
Her shoulders slump, but her willow-branch arms hold firm as she pushes off the sofa. I follow her to the top of the stairs. She was right – they are steep. I mean, she could certainly snap her neck if she fell down them at a funny angle. I plant a hand on the small of her back.
Not just yet.
I'd decide after she asks the question she mulls over.
Dressed to Live
1.
Dean flinched at the wind as it reached round the bend to slap his fringe across his face. He leaned into the blast, jumped over muddy puddles down side streets, and kicked the odd Coke can. Practiced a scissor-move followed by a Cruyff. Almost fell over at the v-move when the can lodged in a rut.
He could smell the chipp
y from here, a tang of vinegar rose above the damp smell which infected the back gennels between houses. He followed his nose.
Dean handled the change in his pocket. Hoped he had enough for chips, or scraps at least – some chippies gave those out for free. You usually had people yank unruly dogs round here, and older teenagers advertise their musical taste from the open windows of their Nissan Micras, but silence settled on the street today. He pulled the straps of his rucksack tighter, as if fast fingers might steal the special suit he'd developed with Sultana and Mr Breckin.
The chippy’s neon green sign shone bright even in the sunshine. Dean patted his pocket again, shook the coins in his hand as if unsure. The last time he'd ordered chips here they'd lacked any firmness. Soggy at the bite. A bit pale, too. The vinegar drew him under the sign like it hooked two fingers up his nostrils and led the way. The owner, Mr Craig, had given him his first bag of chips and mum’s pudding face had risen like a Yorkshire pudding in pride.
Dean couldn't see through the chip shop’s window. He couldn't tell if grease or condensation obscured his view, but a squint and cupped hands didn’t help. He liked to check the menu board from outside so he didn't feel pressure to order, even if he always ordered just chips and drowned them in vinegar or curry sauce. He dragged coins from his pocket and bit his lip in hope that tens and twenties added up to dinner. He couldn't see a thing so he made his way to the door. The pull on the handle almost jolted his shoulder from its socket. He tried again, but the door didn't budge.
He would have given up, but he could hear the fans, some urgent voices and a scream which might have cut through the grease on the windows. Dean dropped to his haunches and scrubbed at the door’s window pane. Nothing cleared. All the muck came from the inside. The skin beneath his eyebrows fluttered as the scream rose up and down until it turned into a miserable moan. The men’s voices barked and hissed – demanded something.
Dean checked over his shoulder. Surely somebody else heard all this. It felt dangerous that he stood as the only witness. Wind whipped the back of his t-shirt and froze the sweat which tidal-waved down his skin.
He rolled and tumbled as he backpedaled from the step. Someone’s feet slapped the old tiles towards the door until the forms of two men stood fogged and ghostly. Dean scrabbled backwards on the palms of his hands, like a crab chased by a seagull, until the wall behind barred his route. The bolts slid and the bell jangled as one of the men opened the door. They stepped out and stood shoulder to shoulder. They stared at Dean’s bag on the ground for a moment. Dean patted his shoulders. How had his bag had fallen off his back? He worried they might take the suit and he'd have to face Mr Breckin to explain himself, but the men turned their attention to him. Dean withered, certain their necks creaked. Dean’s chest inflated and held, as if he would never get another breath if he let this one go.
The tall man took him in for a second. Scratched the point of his dagger-like hairline – shaved almost to his scalp – as he lost interest. The shorter one made a step towards him – his biceps stretched thicker than Dean’s waist.
2.
The tall man halted the short bulk with a hand on his shoulder. He gestured to the road’s end and they left Dean alone with the wails which exited the chippy.
Dean’s sixteen years had not prepared him for a noise like that – even his uncle’s death metal collection didn't compare. His feet shuffled, his legs stretched, as if they reached to get away, but the moans pulled him towards the doorway and into the chippy, until he set eyes on Mr Craig. The man lied on his back beside the fryer. The man’s eyes had rolled inside his head so Dean could only see the whites. Mr Craig’s right arm jumped and quivered, all fried and stinking. His lower jaw worked at something, whether for words or on his tongue Dean couldn't figure. He stepped across broken glass, which made Mr Craig kick out and groan.
“It's okay, Mr Craig. I'm not one of them.”
The man became still, as if movement motivated pain. Dean scanned the counters and wall hooks. He padded into the back room. Peeled potatoes and bowls of batter lied on the counter. Dean grabbed a hand towel and drenched it beneath the tap. He stepped all careful on the fat which greased the floor around Mr Craig, and bent to wrap the towel around his raw arm. His head jerked up and he glared at Dean without seeing him, his eyes cockles marinaded in tears. Dean backed into the fryer’s metal side. His hands searched for a grip on a handle – anything he could latch to – to steady himself. Dean shifted once Mr Craig gurgled some phlegm and let his head crack on the tiled floor. Mr Craig’s right leg began to shake. Dean forced himself calm and compressed the man’s arm with the towel and placed a hand on his hot head.
“It's alright, Mr Craig, I'll get the ambulance. You'll be alright, I promise. I promise you'll be alright.”
Dean couldn't handle the kneeling anymore, so he parked his arse on the floor and let the fat seep into his jeans. His mum wouldn't like it, but what could he do? This man had given him his first bag of chips. She’d be in the kitchen, all mad at the lukewarm Turkey Twizzlers. Ah, she’d forgive him. She always did.
He fished out the ancient mobile his mum allowed him and flipped it open. Called 999. The copper, or whoever answered, had a nice voice. Calmed the burn in his chest. She asked if the call constituted an emergency.
“I reckon, yeah. Two men have just fried a man’s arm in a deep fat fryer.”
She asked about his safety. If anybody accompanied him. If the men had gone.
“Yeah,” he said each time.
He confirmed his name and the woman kept her comforting tone on level ten.“Now don't you worry. We’ll have people there in no time. Is there anyone we can contact?”
“Errr … yeah. Me mum. If you can tell her I don't fancy those Turkey Twizzlers, I'd really like it.”
***
The policeman caused Dean to tap his toes, dance his heels up and down, and chew on his fingernails. The officer stood almost as tall as the chippy’s doorway – too clean-shaven and well-dressed for his image of a copper. The detective had pressed his suit crisp – a well-aimed wrist-flick could cut off a man’s head. He had plastic skin, and Dean worried he might turn out a robot from the future, sent to kill him. Maybe the robot copper wanted to destroy the suit. It had potential to change the world.
PC Roberts calmed Dean, the type the police sent out to mother victims, or maybe even criminals. Turn them to putty to entice a confession without the defendant’s realisation. She had an arm round him as they sat in the shop’s front-end. He enjoyed her soft fleshy boob against him each time she moved. He didn't know whether to enjoy it or shuffle sideways. He shot out the chair when his mum got there.
“Dean.” She waved from the other side of the police tape. “Are you alright, love?”
The window, still blurred from condensation, muffled her voice, but her tone broke through.
“Is that your mum?” PC Roberts gave his arm a squeeze. Sent a buzz up his neck.
He nodded. His eyes opened wide to show her all his worry. Authority made him nervous. Except for Mr Breckin. He didn't come off like authority. His words had nothing but power, but you had to be one of the few who listened before he would invite you into his inner world – full of magic alchemy.
Another copper outside prevented his mum’s entry, so PC Roberts cradled his shoulder and her right boob ushered him to the door. He couldn't see anything but business in her set lips. Maybe her blonde hair, tight in a bun, had pulled any expression from her face.
The detective called out from the other side of the fryer, distracted from his conversation with the paramedics. “Is that his mum?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell her to come in and park herself in the front.”
“Will do.”
***
“Look at you, you daft sod. My daft, superhero sod.”
Dean liked the hug from mum, but he wished she’d not done it in front of PC Roberts. The copper’s smile exercised every muscle in her face and … s
he just made Dean want to go home with her.
“What were you doing here? I had tea ready. Your favourite – Turkey Twizzlers.”
She held his shoulders at arms-length to throw interrogation eyes at him. “That Sultana girl had nothing to do with this, right?”
“She's sixteen, mum, how's she going to force a grown man’s arm in a fryer?”
“She did what?”
Dean shook off her tight grip and appealed to the coppers with his wide eyes. Robot detective invited her to take a seat with a sweep of his hand and a lips-only smile.
“The boy probably saved the man’s life.”
“I just put a towel on his arm, that’s all.”
“He’d have lost it without that simple action.” The wink he offered the boy blinked like a software glitch. “So the paramedics tell me, anyway. You're a hero, son. A great big hero. At least you will be if you can just tell me what the two men look like.”
A frown clouded his mum’s initial smile, and he couldn't see much of a silver lining around its edges. “The men saw you?” Her voice shot up. Her frown forged a new line.
“I … I don't … I think so. Why?”
“There could be danger, son. If they saw you –”
“They did, and they didn't do anything. They just walked on. Wouldn't they have done me in?”
“Heat of the moment, lad, heat of the moment, they might be rethinking their mercy right now.”
“Sir …” PC Roberts’eyebrows shot about like a warning flare.
Dean’s mum pulled him in tight. He wished she’d leave him alone with PC Roberts.
The detective nodded and knelt in front of him. “Let's find the buggers, eh? Get them locked up.”
