SOME HELL
Copyright © 2018 by Patrick Nathan
The author and Graywolf Press have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify Graywolf Press at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation. Significant support has also been provided by Target, the McKnight Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks.
Published by Graywolf Press
250 Third Avenue North, Suite 600
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401
All rights reserved.
www.graywolfpress.org
Published in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-55597-798-6
Ebook ISBN 978-1-55597-988-1
2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1
First Graywolf Printing, 2017
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017938025
Cover design: Kyle G. Hunter
Cover images: iStock.com
Thanks, Mom
I’ve thought about death a great deal. One day in the snow I felt so tired. I thought, “Damn it, I’ll sit down. I can’t go on. I’m tired of living here in the snow and ice.” So I sat down on the ground. But it was so cold I got up.
—JEAN RHYS
But is that because I do think it possible that someday someone I love who loves me will read my journals—and feel even closer to me?
—SUSAN SONTAG
SOME HELL
Two days before their father shot himself, Heather foretold her brother’s death. By then, Colin was old enough to not believe her, to not fall for every lie or story. He could have rolled his eyes and left the room. He could have called her full of shit. Instead, he chose to hear it like the truth.
“It won’t be long after your sixteenth birthday,” she said. “At the end of fall, when it’s cold. It’ll start to snow when it happens. That’s how we’ll know, Paul and Mom and me.” She leaned toward the window above her bed and let the breeze charm the smoke from her throat, past her lips and out the window and into the neighbor’s yard. “I can’t tell you the exact day. It doesn’t work like that. But I can see the snow, and that’s the end.”
The leaves outside—something in the wind had excited them and they chittered among themselves, as if they’d been listening. Heather eyed Colin as though he were a thing, a piece left over from a puzzle. She brought the pipe to her lips and spun the wheel on her lighter. Their brother, Paul, sat between them, quiet as the furniture until the buds began to burn. He reached for the flame but Heather was prepared. As she took Paul’s hand in hers and traced a circle on his palm she gave Colin that smile—Just watch, it said—and she winked when his shoulders sagged, when his eyelids fluttered. Paul had grown stronger in the last year but he was still easy to control. “There,” she said, and he sat slumped and still as though she’d switched him off.
Colin loved it when his sister smoked. He loved that every day after school he could listen for that same music, muffled and muted by the Sheetrock. Heather kept her weed in an old jewelry box—a gift left over from her ninth birthday—and when its song began to play Colin knew it was safe to let himself into her room. Instead of threatening him or throwing a pillow she’d pat the bed next to her. He loved that she would talk to him. He loved that he was there to share a piece of some curious wisdom. He loved the smell. Paul must have loved it, too. Whenever Heather put the lighter to the leaves he brought his pimpling face close to hers and groaned in the way they all knew meant he was happy. It was the only time all three of them were together anymore.
“Three years,” Colin said. He turned to the window to watch the leaves but they’d fallen into their piles and places like they too couldn’t believe it. “That’s all I have.”
“You’re already thirteen?”
He brushed his hair behind his ear. There was so much he could tell her—every last thing about his life she’d never before wanted to know. “I’ll be thirteen in nine days.”
She leaned back to the window. The lighter and the pipe each gave a sharp thump when she placed them on the nightstand. Paul reached out and again fell short, her hand on the back of his neck. “Yes. Three years is all you have.”
Colin hadn’t told anyone about this other Heather. According to the rest of the world, she never stopped being a bitch. He’d forgotten when he discovered it, when he first followed the smell and found the Heather who didn’t hate him. Things weren’t always this way. When they were young, their mother warned them not to exclude Paul just because he was autistic. But Colin knew he and his sister had been a team. Paul was just the kid who tagged along. Even when Paul grew taller and his language of groans dropped two octaves he was still that kid, that baby. Somehow, Colin too had become someone Heather tried to hide from her friends.
It must have been exhausting to look into the future. Every afternoon, after she told him what she knew, Heather would lean against the half dozen pillows on her bed and fall asleep, her hand twitching as it guarded her heart. For Colin, it was no longer enough to talk to her, and he searched the room for clues as to how she achieved her power. One day, he’d trap the new Heather in this world for good, and she would thank him for setting her free.
Lately, Colin found most of his clues in the magazines scattered across the carpet. Heather was obsessed with bodies that to Colin looked like they belonged to men, even though she used the word boy. Heather’s magazines were supposed to be about girl fashion and girl relationships and girl interests, but there were more of these grown boys than anything. She folded the corners on certain pages, and these Colin studied more closely.
That Friday afternoon, after she told him about his death, he knew not to press her for more. As he eased off the bed he was already thinking of the next afternoon, maybe Monday, when she could tell him exactly how it would happen. You need to stay away from planes, he imagined her saying. Never fly at night. But he wouldn’t find out today. As her breathing took on its rhythm he placed the pipe back in the jewelry box. Beneath the ballerina’s feet, the cylinder lined with bumps like braille set the little metal reeds rattling. The battery hadn’t been changed in eight years and every time he opened it he was terrified it would stop. He snapped it shut and went over to the magazines. Paul groaned when he heard the rustling pages but didn’t turn away from the window, waiting for their mother’s car so he could run outside and bang on the windshield.
Heather had dog-eared another perfume ad. The male models standing in their underwear looked like a royal court from some fantasy island, surrounding a young woman who touched her collarbone and looked to her left. Colin thought of what he looked like without his shirt, how his chest and stomach looked nothing like hard wet clay. His eyes traced those muscles to the light strip of hair slipping into each waistband. He touched his stomach and let his hand drift lower, into his briefs, down over the smooth drum of skin where he’d told his friend Andy his hair was already turning black, just to make him jealous. He looked at Heather’s boys. He imagined them without their underwear. He’d caught glimpses of his father and he knew what it meant to grow up, but maybe there was something about one of these grown boys he’d failed to understand. His hand drifted still lower and he felt unbearably lonely.
No matter how much he learned about Hea
ther, every one of these afternoons seemed a little lonelier than the last. When she rolled onto her side in her sleep he dropped the magazine and wrenched his hand out of his underwear. If she knew he was going through her things—if she knew what a little pervert he was—she’d never tell him anything. He grabbed Paul by the wrist and dragged him out of the room, even though he couldn’t stand the way his brother moaned when you took him away from whatever it was he loved, the smell of weed or the sound of Heather’s breath.
Life was full of things that weren’t real. He was almost a teenager and he knew monsters were for little kids, made up to fill their nightmares. He knew, sitting in the car next to his mother, that scrunching up your face at a stoplight wouldn’t make it turn green. Yet how many times did he try it? How many times, even in the last month, had he run up the basement steps as though something was breathing on his bare calves?
It wasn’t like he was stupid. Colin knew about puberty, but when he looked at someone like Paul, who had warped and bent into a bad drawing of the Paul he’d known for years, he couldn’t help but think it was impossible for a boy to just grow into a new face, a new body and skin, and for months he thought of reptiles. In the world he imagined, boys stepped out of their old skin and that was the end. Never for a second did he believe it was real, but that didn’t stop him from looking under Paul’s bed for moltings, for an empty shell of his brother as he’d known him. It didn’t stop him from worrying about the day he’d unzip his own skin, like they did in cartoons, and ever after be an oily, angular creature no one could love.
In the bathroom, he looked down at himself. He’d never thought of it as small but now it felt that way, like a pink snail he’d pulled from its shell. In stories he read online, men referred to their dicks as six-inchers, eight-inchers, nine-inchers. Once, he’d snuck a ruler into the bathroom and frowned in disappointment. It was absurd to imagine something resting at the ninth notch. He ran his finger along its side, and when it responded he stuffed it back in his underwear as if he were afraid of it.
As he washed his hands he thought of the models in the ad, the briefs they were wearing, how the front looked like a heavy, stuffed bag of laundry. When he stood in his underwear there was nothing to see, just a wrinkled petal of cotton. He looked at his face in the mirror. You look like a girl with that haircut, Heather always said. He stretched his jaw to create an angle, to see if he could harden the softness in his face. The idea of being mistaken for a girl suddenly disturbed him, and he made sure the door was locked. He watched his reflection as he took off his shirt and looked closer at all the discrepancies. The muscles weren’t there. Heather’s boys looked worn and weathered; Colin saw only his pallor and its road map of veins underneath.
A pounding on the door made him flinch. “Hey, dickwad,” Heather said. “Phone.”
Colin swore as he tried to put his head through the sleeve of his shirt. “Okay. Hang on.” He smoothed his hair in the mirror before he opened the door.
“Sorry to interrupt the bishop flogging.” She handed him the phone. “It’s your stupid friend.”
Colin slipped by and held the phone to his chest until he reached the living room. “Hello?”
“Did you see the fight today?” Andy asked.
“No.”
“It was wicked. Tyler stopped Jeff in the hall before third hour and called him a faggot, so Jeff spit in his face and Tyler punched him real fast, like bam bam bam three times in the face. Then Jeff kicked him in the shin, and when Tyler bent over Jeff kneed him in the face.”
“You saw it?”
“Pretty much. I got there right when they were taking Jeff to the nurse.”
“Cool.” Colin passed from the living room into the foyer. Sometimes you had to agree with whatever Andy said. He was always excited about something, and if you didn’t act impressed he’d use it against you. As he passed by the mirror near the front door he looked at his face again, as though it might have changed. “Do you know what bishop flogging is?”
Andy grunted no. “Sounds like a dumb game.”
“Maybe I’ll ask my dad later.” Colin locked and unlocked the front door, flicking the deadbolt back and forth.
“I thought I’d spend the night at your house tomorrow,” Andy said. “Will your mom care?”
“No. I’ll tell her.” A laugh track played through the phone. “What are you watching?”
“That stupid show about the stupid kids who live in the hotel.”
Colin walked back into the living room and switched on the same channel. It was like sitting together on the couch, only you didn’t have to worry about anyone looking at you. He listened through the phone, and when Andy laughed at some predictable mishap he laughed along with him, even though it wasn’t that funny—not something you’d laugh at, all by yourself. The treetops in the backyard were burning as the sun sank across the street on the other side of the house. Colin watched a crow disappear into the flames.
At the commercial break he asked, “What do you think we’ll look like when we’re older?”
“Dunno. I’ll probably grow a beard or something. My cousin has a beard. Why do you care?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re being weird.”
Instead of saying something even more incriminating, Colin sank back into the couch. When the commercials were over he turned up the volume. They weren’t laughing anymore, and Colin at first tried to figure out why, as if he’d done something wrong. But then Andy laughed again, and the skin on Colin’s neck went all pin-prickly as he laughed with him.
Later that night, he stopped himself in the hallway. The door to Heather’s bedroom looked stolen from a horror movie, a solid black rectangle rimmed in light. It was too soon to ask, but he knocked anyway. “It’s me,” he said, rapping with his knuckles so their parents wouldn’t hear. “I have a question.”
He heard the turning of a page. “Get lost.”
“Please?”
“Not a chance in hell,” she said. “Now go away before I make you go away.”
Colin looked at the light under the door. Another page rustled from inside. The little hairs on his arms stood on end as he tried to imagine the page in front of her, if it was one he’d seen, its corner long creased, or if it was something new—something so startling, so revealing, he’d know her even better than those boys who looked like men.
She’d tell him eventually. He only wished it would be before he boarded that plane or got in that car or swam in that river, and even though each of those things seemed strange, like things he’d never do, he could picture without even trying the plane shredding itself as it plummeted, the car smashing through the guardrail like a BB through its paper target, and the black river water.
On Saturday night, after dinner, three movies, and a game of Monopoly, Colin and Andy lay in the dark on the living room floor. Colin pulled his sleeping bag up to his neck and sank into it, listening to the clock above the fireplace and the humming furnace somewhere below. A half hour before, Colin’s father, Alan, had walked down the hallway in his boxers and a T-shirt that wasn’t white anymore and warned them to go to bed. What Colin couldn’t help but notice, after he switched off the lamp, was the creak on the door’s hinges. Living in the same house all his life, he knew the basement door’s creak over the bedroom’s. His father hadn’t gone to bed.
The boys could hear each other not sleeping. Colin’s foot was twitching, and he could just make out the bat of Andy’s eyelashes against his pillow. He wet his lips and pulled them into his mouth, between his teeth. He couldn’t take it anymore. “You want to know something?”
“What?” The word came instantly. Andy had been waiting.
“It’s kind of a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”
“Just tell me already.”
He took a breath. “I have three years left to live.”
There, he thought.
He stared at the ceiling fan, or the ceiling fan’s shadow—he wasn’t sure which
was which in what little light was left. His heart sped up as he imagined his friend’s response, his pity and concern and maybe even his grief. He wanted his grief.
“Wow,” he said instead.
“I know.”
“How do you know? Are you sick? Did you go to a psychic or something?”
“I didn’t have to go anywhere. Heather told me.”
Andy lowered his voice. “Your bitchy sister?”
“She’s different when she tells me this stuff. She really knows what she’s talking about.”
“When does she tell you?”
“When she smokes weed.”
Andy laughed, his hand over his mouth. “Dude, you’re a retard. She’s just high. Hallucinating or something.”
“But she knows for real. A lot of what she says is true.”
“What’s one thing that’s true?”
“She told me Dozer would run away about a week before he did. That came true.”
“So? She could’ve let him go.”
“Dude, she didn’t let him go. He ran away. We were at school.”
The trembling in the air stopped when the furnace went quiet. Colin could hear his blood knocking against something in his ears, or maybe his brain. It unnerved him, the thought of his blood moving around in his brain.
“So three years, huh? How’re you gonna bite it?”
“She didn’t say.”
“So you have no idea how it’s gonna happen?”
Colin shook his head.
“That blows.” Andy propped his head up with his hand, his eyes now lit by whatever light was outside. “I wonder what dying is like.”
Colin thought about all those images of heaven, its golden gates and its angels. Was it really like that? Was hell a burning cave deep under the earth?
Andy grinned, his teeth almost blue in the dark. “Do you think there’s sex in heaven?”
“Shut up.” Colin swung his pillow.
“I’ll bet there is. Lots of sex all the time. Maybe you should ask Chelsea. She’s the authority on all the God stuff.” Andy’s hair rustled against his pillow as he rolled onto his back. “I bet we go to heaven and bang girls nonstop. They could line up and beg for our dicks, one by one.”
Some Hell Page 1
