by Kevin Wilson
“I’ll be back soon,” Father Naylon assured him. “I don’t have much left to say, honestly.”
As soon as the priest disappeared from sight, Edwin cracked open the door and vomited a steady, heavy surge of acid and foam onto the ground. He emptied his stomach, his jaw seeming to unlock to allow for all the poison to spill out of him. He spit and probed his teeth with his tongue when he was finally finished. He felt, almost immediately, as if he needed something to eat. He shut the door and fell asleep until the priest returned.
“Let’s go home,” Father Naylon said, and Edwin agreed, willing to go anywhere that Father Naylon would take him.
Edwin slept the entire ride back home, his feverish dreams indistinguishable from reality, the trip seemingly without end, his exhaustion without limit. Father Naylon drove in silence, no music, no talking, simply the sound of the tires running over the road. When they finally arrived at Edwin’s house, his mother was still at work and had left the key under the doormat. When he felt the car brake and come to a stop, Edwin awoke and then, quickly, pretended that he was still asleep. He was too embarrassed to face Father Naylon, wanted to extend the silence for as long as possible. He kept his eyes shut and did not resist when Father Naylon lifted him into his arms. It was a soothing experience, to be carried into his home by someone strong. He laid his head against the priest’s chest and listened for a heartbeat but couldn’t hear anything but the jostling of his own body.
Father Naylon stooped to retrieve the key and unlocked the door. He carried Edwin to his bedroom and placed him atop the bed. Edwin pretended to still be asleep, and the priest removed the boy’s shoes. Edwin opened his eyes and, when Father Naylon turned to leave, he made sounds of waking, stifling a yawn that turned real just as it began. Father Naylon smiled weakly at the boy and then produced a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. Edwin shook his head.
“I don’t deserve it.”
Father Naylon sighed, shook his head, and then placed the money on Edwin’s desk. “You deserve this and so much more, Edwin.”
“I don’t think I can serve Mass anymore,” Edwin continued.
“I think that’s probably a good idea, unfortunately for me,” Father Naylon responded. “Sometimes we’re not suited for the very thing that gives us happiness. So much of life is learning to live with what we’re capable of doing. Time and time again, you’ll have to accept what is available instead of what you actually deserve.”
The priest looked around Edwin’s room as if he had discovered an unknown land. “God has a plan for all of us, and I can’t pretend to know what that is or how it makes sense. So much of what God does, what he puts us through, is beyond me. I only know that there must be something on the other end of this life, something wonderful and true and eternal. If you ever get sad, Edwin, remember that. What comes next will almost always be better than what happened beforehand.”
Edwin pulled his knees up to his chest and rolled onto his side, no longer looking at Father Naylon. He could not pretend to understand the priest, other than to know that Father Naylon was an unhappy man who tried to make others happy. It seemed like an impossible task to Edwin, which made him care for the priest even more.
“I love you,” Edwin said, hoping the honesty of his words would override the awkwardness of saying them aloud.
The priest did not hesitate to respond. “I love you, Edwin,” he said, and then walked out of the room, out of the house, and into his car. Edwin listened for the sound of the motor, but it did not come. He imagined Father Naylon in the car, smoking a cigarette, unwilling to leave Edwin alone. He closed his eyes and felt the safety of having someone watching over him, all the pain of a lifetime kept at bay, and fell into a dream that would ready him for what came next.
Sanders for a Night
She was late. It was twenty minutes since Greg’s class had let out for the day and Marta was just now pulling up to the school’s entrance. She saw her son sitting on the steps with the principal, Mrs. Chambers, instead of the teacher who usually ran the pickup program. He was staring straight ahead, his wide, blue eyes unblinking, his dark brown hair a tangled mess, as if he was wearing a bird’s nest on his head. It was the fifth time she had been late this fall and she knew that Mrs. Chambers was going to be upset. The teacher in charge of pickups had mentioned the issue of her lateness to Marta the last time it happened, and not nicely, either. “We have an after-school program, Mrs. Timbs,” she said, “but it costs extra. Perhaps you’d be interested?” She felt so chastised that she didn’t even remind the woman that, since the divorce in September, her name was now Mrs. Poltz. Or Ms. Poltz. It was hard to remember even for her. “I’ll be on time,” Marta had said then, “I promise.” Well, she was late again, and now Mrs. Chambers was leaning through the open window of the car. “We need to talk,” she said. Mrs. Chambers’s face was pale white, grimacing. She did not address Marta by any name, maiden or otherwise. This was not a good sign.
Greg waited in the car while Marta stood in the hallway of the school building. Mrs. Chambers had gone to get Greg’s teacher. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry again,” but Mrs. Chambers was already too far down the hallway to hear. Marta was going to be late getting back to the office. She had only started this job in June and they had been nice enough to let her defer her lunch hour every day in order to pick up Greg and take him home. Now she was going to have to stay longer at work to make up for the time she had missed. It was busy at the university right now, all the researchers in her department needing their grants to be prepared, forms that she still wasn’t sure she completely understood. She had spent most of this month scrambling to meet deadlines, trying to get everything turned in by the end of October. She had three days left and this was not helping. Nothing seemed to be helping. She had hoped that maybe, finally, things could, if not return to normal, become just a little easier. But now here was Greg’s teacher with Mrs. Chambers behind her, both of them saying the same thing. “We need to talk.”
But it turned out this talk was not about the late pickups. It was about Halloween. Greg’s third-grade teacher, a nice, very young woman just out of college named Ashley, sat in a chair beside Marta in Mrs. Chambers’s office while the principal sat behind her own desk.
“Have you and Greg discussed Halloween costumes?” Ashley asked her. Costumes? She was going to have to stay late at work because of costumes?
“No,” Marta said, “to be honest, I completely forgot about it. I can grab something at the store, though, so thank you for reminding me.” Before she could stand up, Ashley handed her something that Greg had written that day in class.
“I asked them to write about what they were going to dress up as for Halloween,” Ashley told Marta with a frown. “I thought we should discuss this.” Marta started to read but had to stop at the very first sentence. I am going to be my brother Sanders for Halloween. She felt the urge to cry out, but she managed to stop herself just as her mouth opened.
I am going to be my brother Sanders for Halloween. Even though he died and he isn’t here anymore, I think that he would really like this idea.
“I think you can understand why we wanted to talk to you about this, Ms. Poltz,” the principal said. Marta found she couldn’t say anything in reply. She stood, still holding the paper, and thanked both of the women, assuring them that she would talk to Greg, that she would handle the situation.
“We have the name of a child psychiatrist,” Mrs. Chambers said. “Perhaps Greg might want to talk to him?” But Marta was already walking quickly out of the office, embarrassed that other people always had to be a part of this thing which to her felt so private. When she got to the door of the main office she stopped for a second, then popped her head back into the principal’s office. “I won’t be late anymore,” she said. “I will be on time from now on.”
In the car, going home, Marta tried to figure out what to do. She had no idea how to begin a conversation about the Halloween idea, much less prevent it
from happening. Greg wasn’t forthcoming, either. He rested his head on the window of the passenger side and watched things go by as they moved, quiet as usual. She kept watching him out of the corner of her eye and considered, not for the first time, that he was growing into the same features as Sanders. Big blue eyes, dark curly hair, and a tiny dimple in his chin. It was simply a fact of nature, and though it hurt to be reminded of her dead son, it was to be expected. There would always be reminders, so why not her remaining child? Once Greg grew older than the age Sanders had been when he died, Marta believed it would be easier, the reminders fewer. But that was not for two more years. Many things, Marta knew, could happen in two years.
There was silence until they pulled into the driveway of their duplex, a worn, faded-blue house they shared with a retired couple who no longer needed much space. The Granatos had rented the top half of the house to Marta and her son. It was old and sagging, but the rent was cheap. Also, it felt like a house, or at least a piece of a house, which Marta liked better than a cramped apartment. There was a backyard for Greg to play in, not that he played outside, but still. There was a semblance of normalcy to it. Though it was not like their life before, it hinted at it enough to get by. Greg still rested his head on the window, even after Marta had cut off the engine. She asked him if there was anything he wanted to tell her, about school.
“You were late,” he said, “again.”
“I talked to your teacher, Greg,” she told him. “She told me what you wrote about your Halloween costume.” He still would not look at her, but finally he spoke.
“I want to,” he whispered.
“But why?” Marta asked. “Do you want to tell me why? Maybe we can discuss it.”
“I just do. I want to be Sanders for Halloween.”
“Honey, I don’t know if the kids or the teachers will understand.”
Greg finally looked at her. His face already showed signs of disappointment, a feeling that he would not be allowed the things he wanted. “The kids at this school don’t know him. They never met him and they ask me sometimes about him. I just want to show them.”
Martha felt tears spring to her eyes but she willed herself to stop crying. There would be time to cry later, there was always time to cry later.
“I just don’t think this is a good idea, Greg. And Ms. Ashley doesn’t think it’s a good idea, either.”
“I still want to.”
She changed tactics. “What would you do for a costume? How would you do that?”
“I could wear some of his clothes, and get his paddleball game, some of his things. All those things in your closet.”
Marta froze, feeling the color drain from her face. “What?”
“You have some of his stuff in your closet. I’ve seen it.”
“Greg . . . well, you shouldn’t have gone in there. You have to respect my privacy when I’m not at the house. Anyway, I just can’t let you do it, so we need to deal with that.”
Greg nodded, as if he expected this response from her, and pushed open the door of the car, and walked to the house, leaving Marta behind feeling like she never had the time or the exact words to feel satisfied with anything she did. She followed him up the outside stairs to the second floor of the house and unlocked the door for him. She might have to stay even later at work than usual, and so she told him to talk to Mrs. Granato if he needed anything. “We’ll talk more about this tonight,” she said as she walked back down the stairs. He leaned over the railing of the stairs and, just as Marta was about to get back in the car, said to her, “All the kids get to be whatever they want for one day. I want to be Sanders.” Then he went back inside the house. Marta wanted to go after him, to hold her son and say something reassuring, but she was late. She was late and she needed to leave.
It was well past seven and Marta was just finishing up at the office. The work kept her from worrying about Greg; it forced her to stay busy. That was how it worked. You made something else more important than the problem, focused on it, and, before you knew it, time passed and the problem was easier to handle. Sometimes it was actually effective. She knew she would have to talk to Greg again tonight, make sure he understood. But as she sat there mentally rehearsing what she was going to say, she could not think of a single way to explain to him why it was impossible for him to dress as his dead brother for Halloween.
Marta decided to call her ex-husband, Naton. It seemed necessary. Greg was his son, too. He would want to hear this. Mostly, though, she just wanted someone else to know what she was going through. She didn’t know if he could help, but she didn’t want to be alone with this feeling any longer. She hadn’t spoken to Naton since the divorce was finalized, and barely at all in the months before that. He had moved back to Nashville and was living with his father. He wasn’t working and was drinking more often, all the things she foresaw when she decided to leave him. When she heard his voice on the other end of the line, it did not sound like the man who had been her husband; it was so quiet, tired. But it was Naton. This was Naton now.
“Yes?” Naton answered, groggy.
She could already tell he was drunk.
“Yes?” he said again.
“It’s me, Naton,” she said. “I need to talk to you about Greg.”
“I don’t have a job yet,” he told her. “I don’t have money right now.”
Marta sighed. Why had she thought this would help? “Naton, just listen for a second. I need to talk to you about something. Greg told his teacher at school that he wants to be Sanders for Halloween, that he wants to go dressed as Sanders.” There was no answer from Naton, just the sound of his breathing.
“Naton? Hello?”
There was silence.
“I mean, I can’t let him. I’m not going to let him, obviously, but he seems determined. I just thought you should know. And I thought, well, I thought you could help me, maybe say something to him.”
More silence.
“Naton, please?”
“Let him,” Naton said.
“What?”
“Just let him.”
“I’m not going to do that,” Marta told him firmly. “He absolutely can’t do that.”
“He just wants one night. I can understand that.”
“Obviously it was a mistake to call,” Marta said, trying to stay calm but feeling furious. How could he think it would be okay for Greg to go to a Halloween party dressed as his dead brother?
“You don’t think about him, do you, Marta?” Naton asked.
She took a deep breath. “I do,” she said, “and fuck you.”
“I do, too,” he said. “I think about him all the time. Just a while ago, I thought about him and it nearly killed me. How Sanders called because he didn’t want to stay at that sleepover, and I said he should try to stay. How I didn’t think that we should keep picking him up because he was relying on that and was never going to spend the night away from home. I said that. And you said, ‘Go get him.’ You said that. I was driving, okay, I won’t ever forget that, I was in the car with Sanders when it happened. But you told me to go get him. You made me get in that car and get our boy. And now he’s gone.”
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” she yelled into the phone. “Never again.” Marta immediately thought of those nights following the accident, when Naton would obsessively list all the different elements that had made the accident happen. The rain. The other car. No air bag on the passenger side. He told her all these things for months after it happened and she listened and listened and finally, somewhere along the way, she stopped listening. And she was not listening now. She was already hanging up the phone. She was already walking to her car. She was already on her way home, to her son, Greg, who was waiting for her.
Greg was in his room when Marta came home, all the lights off in the house except for the band of light coming from underneath his doorway. Marta pressed her hand against the door but did not open it. There was a yellow plastic sign stuck to the door that read PRIVACY in b
old, black letters. It had been her idea, the sign. Moving to this new house, in this new town, with this new form of the family, was hard enough, and she wanted Greg to have some things that were under his control. She would let him have this. Marta spoke to the closed door, and Greg behind it, telling him that she had bought fast food, his favorite kind of chicken pieces and milk shake. She went to the kitchen, sorted the mail, and waited for Greg to come out and join her.
Finally, the food cold and the shake reduced to only milk, Greg came to the table. Marta warmed the food in the microwave and they ate quietly. Marta wanted to wait until after dinner, a few minutes of peace, before she returned to the matter that, though she hoped otherwise, was not resolved. To her surprise, however, Greg spoke first.
“I still want to do it,” he said, not looking up from his food.
“I know, honey. I understand that. But I also need you to understand that it’s just not a good idea.”
“There won’t be any blood,” he said, almost whispering. “I don’t want to do anything gross. I just want to be him, like I remember him.”
The image of Sanders, bloody, though she had only seen him pale white and cold at the hospital, made her dizzy. She struggled to stay calm in front of Greg and wondered briefly what he pictured Sanders like that last night.
“No,” she said. “No and no and no again. I wish you could think about everyone else, Greg, and not just what you want.”
“But it would be just this once and then I wouldn’t ask again.”
“No.”
Greg pushed his food away and twisted his face around as if he was going to cry. Marta finally thought of another way to talk to him.
“Greg?”
The boy didn’t answer but she continued.
“Greg, I know you want to do this and I know you feel it would be a good thing, but I don’t think I could handle it. I think it would make me very sad. It still makes me very sad to think about Sanders. And if you did this, it would hurt me. And so I’m asking you not to do it, for me.”
