by Joshua Mohr
“Believe me,” Willie says, “he does not want to fight.”
Noah911 hears another phrase from the anchor: “. . . it’s not known if a reason has been explicitly stated . . .”
“What do you think, News Watcher?” says one of them. “Will there be anything left of you by the time the cops get here?”
Noah911 is off his stool. He backs up into the middle of the room. The news still tells people about the brass band, and Noah911 can’t think of a more appropriate soundtrack.
“Not here,” the bartender says.
“It has to be here,” Noah911 says to him.
Then he turns his attention to the guys: “Are you made of chicken shit or what?”
“You must be off your meds, man,” Willie says.
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
They saunter over and slowly circle him. The bartender has the phone in his hand, ready to dial 911, but no one will make it in time. Nobody can save him and they shouldn’t. A piss-poor protector like Noah911 shouldn’t get any shelter of his own.
Let his guilt have arms and fists.
Let him bleed.
The news still plays on the TV, not that Noah911 can hear much of what’s being said. The brass band’s enigma, their code, stupefies everyone, except Noah911 because he doesn’t care why they did it. That’s not a question that interests him. Futures contracts pay out or they bust. Those are the only two options, and Noah911 likes that simplicity. There’s no time for why. Tracey was alive; now she’s dead.
And that’s when Noah911 hits him in the face.
It’s a solid shot and drops Willie to the floor and Noah911 takes a deep breath, knowing what comes next. The first thing he feels comes from behind, a shot in the kidney, buckling him over, but he’s not going to fall, no way is he going down yet, and now another fist finds his temple and he sees a bright light, loses any sense of where he is, might very well be zipped up in that suitcase, and here comes somebody grabbing him in a bear hug, tucking his arms so he can’t defend himself, and Willie is up off the floor, saying, “Hold him still. Hold him still,” and Noah911 feels two punches straight in the face, another in the stomach, and the hyena who’s been holding his arms is now the only thing keeping him on his feet, a few more swings, a hook to the liver, an uppercut to the chin and he bites his tongue, tasting blood and freedom, and a wide hook lands on his eye socket and they let him fall to the bar’s floor.
The bartender screams into the phone, “Send the cops, send the cops, send the cops!”
The other men who had been drinking at the bar all scurry from the premises.
Noah911 looks up, lying under the bar’s starry sky.
He can’t hear the news but knows they’re still talking about the brass band, maybe a close-up of Tracey’s face and the newscaster asking earnestly, “Who was looking out for this young lady?”
He sees the four hyenas huddled around him. They’re looking down at him, inspecting their kill.
It doesn’t make any sense to Noah911 why they’ve stopped. No need for mercy on somebody so useless, so unconscionable, so undeserving of sympathy.
He says, “You guys punch like pussies.”
Which brings the boots, a couple of them kicking him while the others stomp on his chest and midsection, and he turns on his side so he can get enough air to take a breath, bringing his arms over his solar plexus to maybe defend his stomach but also maybe to leave his face free, exposed, open. Leave his face available for any gracious violence.
12.
Sara sees the river and knows she has to swim. It was one thing pretending with Hank in the empty pool, but here, in the late afternoon sun, she can’t wait to be in the water.
She’s without a bathing suit and that means stripping down to her bra and panties. The way she figures it, however, what’s the big deal, with the sex tape broadcasting her bits all over the world? Hank says the sex tape will die down, and she’s trying to believe that, trying to hurdle the initial shock and hoping the whole thing fades to a tolerable decibel. That it will become another clip in a wide sea of them online.
Sara kicks off her shorts, pulls her shirt over her head, and throws them on the shore. She walks into the water, up to her waist. The cool temperature feels amazing, as the day’s still over 90˚.
She floats on her back in about three feet of water, looking up at the white sky; without sunglasses it’s almost impossible to stare straight up, but she tries, sees some rainbows around the edge of her eyes. She wonders if corneas smell like burning hair as they char. She decides to shut them, to enjoy the cool water and quiet. To enjoy his company, assuming Rodney ever gets the nerve to exit the car. Maybe he’s never seen a woman in a bra and panties before. It’s a possibility that Sara hadn’t thought about until right now. She’s not trying to make him uncomfortable, not at all. She has no inhibitions around him, given their history. This isn’t going to lead to a hookup or anything. Sara knows this isn’t a big thing, but does he? Is he wigging out in the car, wondering if it’s okay to approach the river since she’s more than half naked? He’s that kind of gentleman. Maybe the only one of those Sara has ever met. Rodney respects her, Sara knows that, and he’s the last person in the galaxy that holds her in esteem.
It’s also conceivable that Rodney watches a lot of porn, if he’s not getting the real deal, and Sara doesn’t think he is. Everyone needs to get off. She can’t hold it against him. Not really. But it would bother her if she knew Rodney has seen her video, because taking it in would denigrate what he thinks of her. It would have to. In his eyes, Sara would be marred, spoiled, and she can’t imagine losing his regard.
This is their first day together after so long and Sara enjoys his company, his honesty. Yes, it had freaked her out a bit in the car, him holding that busted side mirror up so she could see her reflection and talking his sweet words. He’s so sincere that it takes her aback. It even did when they were inseparable, the way he could say something so real, so direct. One time during a backyard campout, they’d been kissing for over an hour, Sara letting him paw at her tits, and the tent was getting dimmer and dimmer. The battery in their flashlight dwindled, and they both knew the tent would be pitch-black in a matter of seconds, the light fading and flickering, Sara shaking it back and forth for extra juice, but there were no stashes left. “It’s almost dark and I don’t want it to be,” she said, and Rodney said, “It’s never dark with you.”
Sure, it was schmaltzy, Sara recognized that back then, but what was wrong with schmaltz? Why not indulge in some when your life was surrounded by cinderblocks?
She actually says it aloud now, floating in the river, eyes still closed, feeling the sun warm her torso and feet and face: “It’s never dark with you.”
Sara has to help him get out of the car. She has to tell him directly that it’s cool for him to come swimming. That’s what she wants. That’s why they’re here.
“Hey,” she calls, not opening her eyes or turning her head toward the car, voice stretching to a scream, “are you getting in here or what?”
“In,” he says, speaking at a normal volume.
Sara’s legs flail, eyes open, and she lets them find the bottom, standing up. “Jesus, what are you—a spy or something?” she asks. “I didn’t hear you make a single sound slipping in the water.”
“Nin. Ja,” says Rodney.
There he is in his boxers, floating on his back only a few feet away from her. Sara relaxes and starts floating again, too.
“There’s barely any water left,” she says, “because of the drought, but I wanted to show you this place. My dad used to take me rafting here. Can you believe it? There used to be enough water for rapids, and we’d leave from this spot. Fight down the river through all the currents and twists. Now it’s a puddle.”
She pauses, seeing if he wants to say something, but Sara knows there’s not much to add. She’s bobbing in self-sympathy. Sara’s not really talking to him anyway. Not talking to her parents. No
t talking to anyone. Except herself. The river used to be something and now it’s nothing and so is Sara and that’s the truth.
“It. Will. Rain,” Rodney says.
“What?”
“It. Will. Rain.”
“It might.”
“It. Will.”
He’s right, she guesses. That is a possibility. The puddle floods and swells and soon it’s a river again. Soon daughters and dads will grab paddles and life jackets and fly down the rapids.
“You’re right,” she says.
“You. O. Kay?”
“No,” says Sara, “but I like being here with you. I like thinking that it might rain again.”
“What do you think our families are doing to each other?” Sara says. “Do you think Larry and Felix really attacked my brother?”
Rodney shrugs his shoulders.
They’re both floating on their backs, slowly moving with the languid current. Sara wiggles her toes. Rodney does it, too.
This is what it would have felt like if she’d gotten on the balloon with him. Before he fell. When it was just a boy hovering. Sara stood on the ground, astonished, in awe. She stood there jealous, thinking that if he was going away she wanted to be with him. She was scared but not for his safety; she was scared she’d never see him again, watch him vanish on the horizon to a crumb in the sky.
“What if there’s nothing left for us?” she asks. “What if they’ve torn it all down, burned everything up? What would we do?”
“Leave,” he says.
“To where?”
“Cal. I. For. Ni. A.”
“California?”
Rodney nods.
“Why?” she says.
“Mom.”
“How do you know she’s there?”
“Dad. Told. Me.”
“I’d go to California with you,” she says.
Rodney grabs her hand.
Well, grab isn’t the right word. He slips his palm on top of Sara’s and they slither their fingers together. He instigates it; she helps their hands find the right grip. They’ll never be in the backyard tent again, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a moment in this river.
Rodney is holding her hand, and she’s holding his, and they’re in underwear, and she looks over at him, though his eyes are closed. She sees his smile and Sara notices a couple dragonflies popping on top of the water and everything is silent so she closes her eyes too, straightens her neck to the center and the sun perfectly roasts her face.
Sara has found the only person besides her brother that will give her the benefit of the doubt. They’ll float here, wet palm in wet palm, weightless and warmed, without any connection to the world.
SARA TURNS HER car onto their block, and everything appears normal. There are no police cars, fire trucks. The SWAT team isn’t perched on rooftops with rifles. Animal control isn’t wrestling with Bernard, fresh from chewing out Felix’s and Larry’s jugular. Sara can’t see any amputated limbs littering the field of battle.
The block is quiet, and she slows the car in front of Rodney’s house, but doesn’t stop. The light is on in the front room, and they can see someone’s silhouette through the window, either jogging around or dancing.
“That Felix or your dad?”
“Un. Cle.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Sing. Ing.”
“He sings?”
“Dan. Ces. Too.”
“Oh, shit, that’s terrible,” she says.
Rodney nods.
“Do you want to come over?” Sara says. “I don’t really want this day to end.”
She says it and means it, but it makes her pause. She should absolutely want this day to end. It’s been the shittiest one since losing her parents. Finding out about the sex tape, getting suspended from work, but the last few hours have been great. She got a double dose of support: First, Hank handled all this so much better than she ever imagined he would, and then she got to reconnect with Rodney, holding hands in the river.
She checked her phone right before they drove home, and she still hasn’t heard back from Nat. Sara’s coming to grips with the fact she might never know why he did it. That piece of information might evade her, but what she did learn today is equally important. She knows Rodney is still in there.
“You. Sure?” he asks.
“Yeah, come over,” she says.
He nods again.
Sara keeps rolling up the block.
Her house looks undisturbed from the outside. Either they had a quick dust-up and hillbilly order has been restored, or they decided to hold a finicky truce.
Sara parks in front of the house and says, “Don’t forget your underwear.”
His boxers, her bra and panties, are laid out on the back seat.
Rodney blushes and Sara wants to say something like Getting shy now? but it’s so endearing she giggles at his red cheeks.
They park and walk up to the house, waving their still-wet undies around, being silly. They lope up the front steps and the door is wide open and she can hear Hank yelling into his phone.
That’s when her hands go off, vibrating cell phones.
She can hear Hank stomping about, threatening whoever’s on the other end of the call, saying, “So you’re saying this is everywhere, and I can’t do nothing to stop it?”
“Hank?” says Sara from the front doorway, still holding her bra and panties, Rodney a step behind her with balled-up boxers in one hand.
“Gotta go, Colby,” Hank says into the phone. “She’s here. I gotta deal with this shit.”
Hank stomps into the front room with Bernard trotting behind him. “Why’s he with you?” Hank asks, pointing at Rodney.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Why you carrying your panties, Sara?”
Sara. He calls her Sara. Not Baby Sis. Not anything with affection. Agitation. Letters, two consonants, two vowels. Sara doesn’t understand what could’ve changed. He was so supportive earlier, drinking beers in the kitchen and swimming in the empty pool and now he has hate in his eyes. He doesn’t look drunk, though, only ornery.
“What’s wrong, Hank?” she says.
“That was Colby.”
“I heard.”
“I guess congratulations are in order,” Hank says.
Poor Rodney is glued in the doorway with his dripping boxers. Sara peeks at him for a second and wishes to flee this house, this block and town, but it’s too late. They’re here. She’s here, and she doesn’t know what’s coming next, but she knows it’s not good.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sara says.
“Skank of the week!”
“What does that mean, Hank?”
“You are skank of the week on some porno site. Colby says it’s already had over 100,000 hits. It’s viral, Sara. And from the looks of it,” Hank says, coming over and grabbing her panties out of her hands, “you were out making another dirty movie. Did you fuck the town retard, Sara?”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she says.
“No!” Rodney says, stepping into the room.
Hank takes the panties and throws them right in Rodney’s face, tries to step up to him, but before her brother can get to him, before Hank can hurt him again, Sara stands between them, saying to Rodney, “I need you to leave.”
“No,” he says.
“Leave,” she says. “Please.”
“Ten seconds till I make you leave,” Hank says.
“I’ll be fine,” Sara says and ushers him out, shutting and locking the door, feeling fear—actual fear—she’s scared of her brother. He’s never raised a hand to her, but it doesn’t seem impossible tonight.
She turns to him.
“What’s it feel like to be skank of the week?” he asks.
“Why are you talking to me like this? You knew about the video. Who cares what Colby thinks?”
“It ain’t Colby. It’s everyone, Sara. 100,000 hits in a day. A million in a week. Ev
eryone will see it!”
“Why is this making you so mad?”
“And I no longer care what you think about Nat,” Hank says. “I’m going to destroy him.”
“Please stop, Hank,” Sara says.
It’s almost a whisper, which he can’t hear. His eyes are far away, clomping around the room. His eyes are submerged in violence. They’ve tasted the chum and now need real meat.
Sara doesn’t require his help, anybody’s help hating herself right now. Some website can’t brand her the skank of the week because she’s been tagging that on her skull’s walls all day, with almost every breath.
“What do you want me to do about it?” she asks. “How can I make this better?”
“And then you flit in here holding your panties?” he says. “Rubbing my face in all this? Making me have to see you slut around?”
“You’re breaking my heart,” she says and starts crying and runs to her room, throws the closet open, gets a ratty suitcase and unzips it and stuffs whatever clothes she can fit. Snatches her emergency money. Her hands aren’t only vibrating cell phones on the inside anymore. They’re flat-out shaking. She’s shaking. And crying so hard that saliva runs from the corners of her mouth. To walk in the house and be shamed by her brother is the day’s final disgrace.
Next she takes the suitcase into the bathroom and flings her toothbrush and hairbrush and there are probably ten other things she should grab, but she can’t think of what they might be, zipping it up and turning to the door. She can’t concentrate on any particulars because there are amplifiers blaring in her head, heaving Hank’s shames over and over, playing them like power chords.
All that matters is fleeing this house.
All that matters is speeding outside the city limits.
All that matters is not being here.
“Where are you going?” Hank says in the doorway.
“What do you care if a skank of the week leaves?”
“You’re not going anywhere, Sara.”
“Stop calling me that!” she says, wishing she were strong enough to slam him in the temple and topple him to the ground, telling him, My name is Baby Sis.
“Calling you what?”
“I’m taking a trip,” she says.
