Crush

by Laura Susan Johnson

  "Come on," Puffy Jacket says, reaching out to Hoodie. "Let's go. Let's just go."

  "I'm not finished," Hoodie breathes.

  "You've done enough. Let's leave him here. I think we've made our point. We don't have to..."

  Hoodie swings the length of metal and it smashes against my left flank, forcing the air from my lungs in a whoosh. I can't even gasp.

  "Dammit, Ray!" Puffy Jacket says.

  "Stupid fuck, I told you not to use our names!" Hoodie says and takes a hostile step towards Puffy, brandishing his weapon.

  Something is popping, bubbling inside of me when I'm finally able to re-inflate my chest. I roll my body up again, gasping with each stabbing inhalation, trying to stop the warm, strange pain spreading up into my back. My forehead touches my knees.

  "Now he can ID us, asshole!"

  "This has gone too damn far," Puffy mumbles.

  Ray... Ray... it's Ray. I don't believe it. I don't understand it. Please, wake up, I tell myself. This is a dream. A nightmare. Wake up. Wake up.

  "Tell me. Is it true?" Ray asks me, advancing on me again. "Do you like to suck cock?"

  I struggle to sit up, folding my knees beneath me.

  "Are you a porn star?"

  How am I going to survive this? I look up into Ray's eyes. They glint with sick thrill. I'm garbage to him. Lloyd, what happened to me? I ask the sliver of moon above. You saved my life. I love you so much I couldn't even be mad at you for getting to me before God did. You saved my life, and I wanted to kill myself tonight. What happened to me, Lloyd?

  "Yeah, he's a star," floats the sinister, feminine voice of Light Coloured Sweater. "He's famous." Now I know who she is. "He loves cock. He loves taking Daddy up his ass."

  "My dad is dead," I gasp through my swollen, tacky lips. "He's dead. He raped me for years. Then he killed my mother and then blew his fucking head off."

  "Should have shot you too, faggot," Ray scowls. "No matter. You'll finally get what's been coming to you."

  "You're just like them." I spit blood at him. "No, you're worse!" I'm going into shock, imbued with a paradoxical audacity as I whisper, "I punished myself for everything they did to me. I even pretended I liked it. I punished myself, because if I was the bad guy, they could make sense to me. But they never made sense. They were evil and you can't make sense of evil. I can't make sense of what you're doing now, Ray," I stress his name, so he'll know I know it's him. "Evil makes no sense."

  "Ray, for God's sake, let's get the fuck out of here and go home! Leave him!"

  My need to survive is as strong as it was the day I watched Lloyd grieving over what my monsters did to me. I'm kneeling in the mud, so weak I can scarcely hold my head up. "I didn't deserve what they did to me, and I don't deserve this."

  "We're not leaving until we exterminate this little piece of vermin! Besides, he'll only tell the cops. He knows me, thanks to you! I'm not letting him live now. As for you," Ray leans over me and grabs me by the hair, shakes me back and forth, upsetting my re-broken right arm and making me screech silently, "You deserve worse than I could ever do to you! You've turned Tam into a flamer. You're both goanna get it from God!"

  "You don't have to kill him," Puffy groans.

  "I do now, dumbass! Blame yourself for this, not me!" The metal rod lands against the left side of my body again. I try to deflect the next strike with my left arm, but I'm too slow, too weak. I feel ribs cracking, splintering, under its force.

  "You're the one who's goanna get it," I whisper when I'm able to draw in a few gasps of iced oxygen after a very long moment. I'm nauseous, dizzy. My blood pressure is falling...

  I'm wandering off. I can feel myself floating. I'm weightless, as I was in my deathbed before Lloyd came to save me. Tammy, Tammy, where are you? Tammy? Where are you? When are you coming? Tammy?

  "Tammy's not here!" shouts the female. "Nobody's coming to help you!"

  I fight to keep a hold of solidity. With my good hand, I reach into my scrub top to clutch my little pewter angel on the silver chain Tammy got me the other day. "Please call 9-1-1," I slur. "I think I'm dying."

  "Yeah, I hope so!" Ray raises the metallic rod above his head.

  "Please... call 9-1-1," I beg again. "I won't tell. I won't tell who did this."

  "I know you won't," he nods ominously at me. "What are you holding in your hand so reverently?" he snarls. "Oh, how cute! An angel!" His hand twists into the chain cruelly, like he wants to strangle me with it. The metal pinches me as he rips it from around my neck and drops it, scowling at me evilly, raising the towel bar again.

  "Please, Ray... I won't tell," I bargain in a hoarse, bubbly whisper. I see micro-drops of red spraying from me as I talk.

  "Ray, just hurry this along," the female I know complains nonchalantly. "It's cold!"

  "Please don't leave me here." My hopeless sobs infuriate me. That they've reduced me to a bloodied pulp, begging for their compassion! "Please don't leave me here."

  With every ounce of muscle he has, Ray brings the rack down on to my head.

  I watch as I slump over, the right side of my head split open, a slow, black stream of blood beginning to ooze. My hair begins to harden into dark spikes.

  Everything gets black and quiet.

  "I was born this way! God does not make mistakes!" I say with a booming authority that should be impossible given my physical condition.

  Now I know what to say? Now?! When I'm exhausted and on death's porch? Now my voice returns?!

  It's silent. My tormenters say nothing.

  I come to for a moment. My ears are ringing. They shove me up against the thin, gnarled trunk of one of the orange trees. "Gimme that garbage bag," Ray orders Puffy Jacket, pointing to a large square of black plastic laying next to another tree.

  I still can't see any of their faces. Is it the Ray I've known for years?

  "It's torn!" he grumbles as Puffy hands the bag to him. He throws it at me and it floats, making its crackling plastic sound, down over my face and chest.

  "Think he's dead?" the woman asks.

  "My head hurts," I murmur, but my lips aren't moving. They're glued together with blood.

  Ray picks up my left wrist, palpates with his thick fingers, unable to detect the threading pulse that yet sustains me. He then prods at my neck and shrugs, "I don't know. No, I hear him breathing. But it won't be long. It's cold. If the freeze doesn't finish him, I'm sure I've ruptured him somewhere. Little piece of shit's as good as dead sooner or later."

  I slip away again. "And do you really believe your God is pleased with you kidnapping me, dragging me out here, beating me, spitting on me, leaving me to die alone... in an orchard?!"

  They ignore me. They simply turn and walk away.

  I reach for them. I want to call them back.

  My lips are numb. I watch blood seep from under the nails of my broken right hand.

  It's dark and silent in the forest.

  I'm alone again.

  My ire soars to life as they stand before me, more rotten and vile and grotesquely disfigured than I imagined they could be. They're not glorified or pretty, they're ugly, presented to me as they truly are. Mom's eyes are swollen closed, her long black hair twisted and tangled, her skull exposed, stained with blood and decay. Daddy stands beside her, his head mangled on one side from the bullet he gave himself.

  "What you did to me makes you evil first and mentally ill second," I sternly assert. "You made me do horrible things. You made me feel worthless! You slowly killed my spirit, or you tried to. Lloyd saved me! I beat you!"

  Like Ray and his companions, my parents say not a word. Why aren't they speaking? Why aren't they upholding themselves against my judgments? Why aren't they laughing and hooting at my predicament?

  What gives me so much power now?

  I rally just enough strength to open my eyes, open my one functional hand, close it around the pewter pendant laying beside me. I'm shocked they didn't take it from me. I bring it up to my chest.


  The cold penetrates every layer of me.

  My hand tightens around my angel.

  God, how I love you, he'd said that day.

  I love you, Tammy, I said tonight. I'll love you always. All my life.

  thirty-five:

  tammy

  (december 30)

  Jamie's car is found abandoned, just outside Somerville's town limits, at approximately 8.20am. The police search the area around Solano Street, which isn't far from the high school, on the other side of town from where Jamie lives. My ears can only snatch small doses of information as people pass by the open door. No body has been found, no clothing, no spoor they can follow. Nothing.

  In the interrogation room, I'm asked about my association with Jamie, but I'm too freaked to do anything except ask over and over, "Have you found him?! Have you found him?!

  "No. Where is he?" Officer Howard asks tolerantly.

  "I don't know! Why are you treating me like I'm a suspect?!"

  "Let's start with your relationship with Jamie Pearce," Officer Cantrell says.

  How do I begin to talk about the complexities that have made up our relationship in these past days? I tell them I met him in high school, that I moved to L.A. for a long time, and when Mom fell and got hurt, I came home and became re-acquainted with Jamie, who is a nurse at the hospital Mom stayed in.

  I tell them that we recently began a sexual relationship, and I hope to leave it right there. How can I talk to these strangers about Jamie's sexual hang-ups? About how the trauma he suffered with his parents has affected both of us? About how he spoke of suicide last night?! Threatened suicide?! How can I broach this stuff with them?! Do I mention the video?

  My disinclination to describe the awe and woe of our affiliation predictably fuels the suspicion I'm now under. I ask for a phone call and Cantrell smirks, "Sure you can make a call. You're not under arrest, we're only questioning you. Didn't you know that?"

  I call Stacy. "Jamie's missing. He never made it to work last night. They found his car. He's missing..."

  When she arrives, Officer Howard leaves the questioning room to meet with her. I can't hear them. Cantrell stares at me until I'm ready to jump from my skin.

  Howard comes back in without Stacy. "Miss Pendleton says you dragged Jamie out of The End last night. Is that right?"

  "I didn't drag him. We left together. I was upset and I... told him I wanted to leave. He went with me. I didn't drag him." My eyes narrow in defiance of their allusions.

  "Why were you upset?"

  "It's... private." A still, small voice tells me I should tell them everything. Tell all. I try to speak. the words are clear: Yvette Feldman—you probably know her from town—sent me a pornographic video of Jamie being raped and tortured as a child by his own parents. Yvette told me about it at the bar. I don't know where she obtained that video. Her sending it to me was a gesture of hostility. In high school she spread rumours that Jamie was gay. She hates him. I pulled Jamie out of the bar because I wanted to get him the hell away from her.

  The words are there. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  Howard sighs, "Sir, you reported your friend missing. You came to us. Now, the best thing you can do to help yourself is to talk to us."

  "Unburden your soul, so to speak," adds Cantrell, his eyes twinkling

  His merry little quip unhinges my tongue. "I have not done anything to harm my boyfriend!" I shout at him.

  "I warned you before. Settle down! Keep your temper in check. Now, Miss Pendleton tells me that Jamie was upset at you last night," Howard says. "She says he was very distraught, that there was something wrong between you. She believes you two had an altercation, a fight..."

  "It's hard to explain," I pant. "It's..."

  "It's private?" asks Howard.

  "It's difficult... private... so hard to explain."

  "Well, I suggest you explain anyway, because you're fast moving from a person of interest to the chief suspect!" Cantrell snaps.

  "We didn't have a fight, we had a... discussion."

  A loud pounding snaps my head toward the tinted window of the interrogation room. I hear Stacy screaming faintly on the other side, "Where is he, you son of a bitch?! What did you do to him?!"

  Cantrell saunters out into the hallway. I can't hear what he's saying to Stacy. I can't even see them.

  I turn back to Howard and appeal to him. "I swear... I didn't do anything to him! I love him! He's out there somewhere! Why aren't you looking for him?!"

  Cantrell returns, closing the door softly behind him.

  "We are looking for him," Howard says almost kindly. "But we need your help. Talk to us. Tell us what happened. You'll feel so much better."

  "I didn't hurt him," I cry. "I didn't!"

  "When they found the car, they found blood in the backseat, Mr. Mattheis."

  The nausea is potent and instantaneous. I lean over and puke splashes on the floor beside my chair. "No, no. God, please, no..."

  "Where is he, Mr. Mattheis?" Howard asks softly. "Help us out."

  "Please, please, please, God. Please..."

  Howard leans over to Cantrell, whispers, "We need a warrant."

  At the spot where Jamie's car's been discovered, they search for the car keys and can't find them. They find several strands of long, dark hair clinging to the headrest of the passenger front seat. They dust Jamie's steering wheel with black powder and find a lot of fingerprints, none of them matching mine (I volunteered mine immediately). That doesn't convince them. "You could have wiped them off," says Cantrell. "CSI has made our lives a lot harder, lemma tell you!"

  They search my car for traces of blood, clothing threads, bits of hair, anything that would be hard evidence—and find only a couple of longish blonde strands of hair. "Jamie's been in my car, many times," I tell them, "Including when we went home from The End last night."

  Now they're flummoxed. Surely I couldn't have vacuumed that well, or found someone to detail it in the middle of the night.

  Still, they believe that if they keep at me, I'll eventually break, or they'll catch me in a lie.

  At about nine-thirty, they bring Mom in and chat with her in another room. She can't give them an airtight alibi, but she tells them that although she was in bed when I came home from Jamie's house, she knows, "My son didn't hurt Jamie. They're like best friends. Tammy wouldn't hurt him."

  "How long have they known each other?" asks Officer Cantrell.

  "Since high school, I think," Mom replies. "Jamie's a nurse. He took care of me when I broke my pelvis. Tammy's his friend. My son wouldn't hurt a fly. He's a good boy. He used to be angry, but, he's a good boy."

  "What do you mean, angry?"

  She tells them about my boyhood, how I never knew my father, how I resented her for the mistakes she made that resulted in me not having a father. She tells them I was angry and rebellious and wayward during my early teen years, but that after high school, I seemed to "mellow out and calm down".

  "Describe his childhood. What kinds of activities was he involved in that you didn't approve of?"

  "He hung around a few boys that were troubled. They drank, smoked dope... played with guns, acted up at school—that sort of thing. I was pretty worried about him, so I had his father talk to him," Mom says.

  "His father? I thought you said he didn't have a father," Cantrell says, eyeing her suspiciously.

  "Well, of course he has a father. We're not together..." Mom looks away, embarrassed as always when this chapter of her biography comes up.

  "But he spoke to your son... to straighten him out?"

  "Yes, and I think it worked. After they talked, Tammy mellowed out quite a bit!"

  "Who's his father?" asks Howard.

  Mom bristles. "Do I have to answer that? That's really none of your concern, and what's it got to do with anything?"

  "Well, perhaps we'd like to speak with him, get his take on Mr. Mattheis."

  "I'd rather not discuss Tam's father," Mom says flatly. "He d
oesn't have a relationship with him anyway."

  "I thought you just said his father straightened him up," puzzles Cantrell.

  "Well..." she hesitates.

  Cantrell snorts, "Perhaps we should charge you with obstruction!"

  Mom tells them who my dad is. "It was a mistake," she sighs irritably. "He was just as at fault as I was."

  "Alright, Ma'am," Howard says. "We're not concerned with that. We just need to speak to him." But their looks don't miss her.

  At a little after 10.30, Pastor Asshole waltzes in and tells them all about what I did to Cotton. He doesn't stay long, just long enough to rub my nose yet again into the most humiliating, stupid thing I've ever done. Just long enough to fan the fire under the ignorant, widely held estimation that gay men, all gay men, are perverts in one form or another. Having a gay son, an illegitimate gay son to boot, can be quite embarrassing to any man whose life endeavour is to be holier than anyone else.

  It's almost noon by the time I'm released to go home, with a cordial, "Don't go anywhere, Mr. Mattheis." Both Mom and I are wrecked by the resurfacing of the travesty of her association with the Asshole and my implied proclivities toward bestiality.

  "I'm going to look for Jamie," I voice my plans. Mistake. Officer Howard adamantly says, "No, you're not."

  I want to say, "The fuck I'm not! He's out there, hurt, maybe dying! I'm not sitting on my ass while you waste time investigating me!"

  But something tells me to keep still. I watch a black and white slowly roll by our house. I'm under surveillance. I'm too exhausted to scream at Mom for blabber-mouthing to the Asshole years prior about the Cotton matter. Instead, we sit together on our couch and cry.