Up All Night

by Peter Abrahams

  “I’m not alone, remember? And Elsie’s coming in the morning.”

  Elsie is Joe’s babysitter. She was supposed to come and spend the night with us while my mother was at her conference, but at the last minute her own kid got sick and Elsie couldn’t come. So my mother said she’d give me a hundred bucks to stay with Joe. Included in that price was a promise not to tell my father that she’d left us alone without an adult in the house.

  “I’d never hear the end of it,” she said.

  My parents are divorced—the kind of divorced where they can’t stand to be in the same room together or talk on the phone without having a huge fight. I can remember when they used to like each other. That was before Joe was born, and before my father met Brenda. She’s my stepmother now, and Mom and I both hate her guts.

  “You going to read it to me or what?” asks Nick. I read.

  A little girl stood at the window looking down into the backyard.

  “Mommy?” she called.

  No answer. The sound of running water came from the kitchen. The girl called again, louder this time.

  “Mommy?”

  The water went off.

  “Brittany-Michelle, how many times I gotta tell you? Don’t yell if you want Mommy. Come to where I’m at.”

  “Mommy?”

  An audible exhalation.

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  “Wait a second, back up,” Nick interrupts. “An audible huh?”

  “Audible exhalation,” I tell him.

  “What the heck is that?”

  “Like a sigh.”

  “Where’d you get that from, thesaurus?”

  “No. I made it up.”

  “No wonder Ms. Shaw loves you. Audible exhalation. Jeez.”

  “Do you want to hear this thing or not?” I say.

  “Read,” says Nick.

  The girl and her mother had moved into the apartment the day before. Two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Three rooms over the garage. Wall-to-wall shag carpet, faded plaid curtains, fake walnut paneling. You could tell from the smell that a cat had lived there at some point. A double mattress lay on the floor, a tangle of sheets and blankets mounded up in the middle. The only other furniture in the room was a big TV, which sat on a cardboard box in the corner. There was a cartoon show on—a cat and a mouse chasing each other around with huge mallets. The little girl had her back to the TV. She was looking out the window into the yard where the new landlady, Mrs. Androtti, lay half naked in a lawnchair. There was a man sitting beside her. A minute ago his hands had been wrapped around the landlady’s neck. Now he’d taken off his dark suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, and he was calmly smoking a cigarette.

  “Brian, something’s wrong with Superman.”

  My brother is standing in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest, his big blue eyes round with worry.

  “I’m busy, Joe,” I tell him.

  He closes his eyes and squeezes out two fat tears, which catch in his lashes for a second, then drag race down his pale cheeks.

  “What are you talking about, half naked?” asks Nick.

  “Briii-annn,” Joe whines.

  “Call you back, Nick,” I say, and snap my cell shut. “What is it?”

  “Something’s wrong with Superman,” Joe says again. “He’s acting funny.”

  “Funny how?”

  Joe takes my hand and pulls. “Come look,” he says.

  I heave myself off the couch with a groan, brushing the Hostess cupcake crumbs off my jeans as I get up. I’ve eaten six of them. The pile of empty cellophane wrappers is a testament to my dedication to perfecting my method—biting around the edges of the chocolate cake part without exposing any of the cream filling until the very end. It’s harder than it sounds.

  Joe leads me into our room. He lets go of my hand and squats down beside the small metal cage in the corner. He is wearing a pair of holey red sweatpants and his Pee Wee League baseball jersey from the previous season. He’s already a pretty good hitter, better than I was at his age.

  “See?” says Joe.

  “Move,” I tell him, pushing him out of the way with my foot. He scoots over, and I sit down on the floor beside him and we both peer into the cage.

  Superman is pressed into the corner, trembling. He’s a fancy. White mice are called feeders. Those are for snakes. Fancies are colored mice, brown or tan or black, like Superman. Joe wanted to name him Blackie, but I talked him out of it.

  “Why’s he shaking like that?” asks Joe.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  It was my mother’s idea to buy a pet mouse for Joe. She thought if she did, maybe he’d stop bugging her about getting a dog. Not only did it not work, but now in addition to having to share a room with my little brother, I have to share a room with a stinking mouse. Literally stinking.

  “What’s that reek?” Nick asked the first time he came over after we got the mouse.

  “I don’t know, but it’s foul, isn’t it? We clean the cage, and two seconds later it stinks again.”

  “Google it,” Nick told me.

  We typed in “Why does my pet mouse reek?” and found a site called “Know Your Mouse.” That’s where we learned that the problem was Superman’s feet. Apparently male mice have scent glands in the pads of their feet so that they can leave love trails for interested females to follow if they’re feeling in the mood. Instinct was prevailing over common sense, and Superman was laying down his trail in the exercise wheel in his cage, each rotation sending horny mouse musk wafting up into the atmosphere. And here I thought he ran because he was bored.

  My cell phone rings. It’s Nick.

  “Is she dead?” he says.

  “Who?”

  “The landlady.”

  “I can’t talk now. I’m dealing with a sick mouse here. Call you later.”

  Normally Superman would run away if you put your hand in the cage, but when I open the little door and reach in, he doesn’t move. I scoop him up and gently place him in his wheel, but he just sits there trembling. Joe whimpers.

  “I want Mommy.”

  This is not good. I’ve already got plans for that hundred bucks, and I know if my mom hears Joe crying, she’ll get in the car and drive home. She’s a total sucker for his tears, especially since Dad left. Joe cries a lot, and he wets the bed sometimes too. Leaky kid.

  “Let’s let Superman rest for a while,” I tell Joe. “Maybe he’s just tired. I’ll read you a book or something, okay?”

  Joe brightens.

  “The book?” he says.

  I know which book he means.

  “How about Curious George instead?” I suggest.

  Joe shakes his head. He wants me to read his baby book, the one my mother made for him when he was born.

  “Aren’t you tired of hearing that stuff yet?” I say. “It’s so boring.”

  Joe’s eyes start to fill.

  “Fine. Go get it,” I tell him.

  We sit on the couch, and I read Joe’s baby book to him even though it’s so corny it hurts.

  “‘The moment we laid eyes on you, it was love at first sight. Our little Joe. Sweet baby Joe. Daddy held you all night so Mommy could sleep. In the morning Grandma brought your big brother, Brian, to see you. At first he was scared to hold you, but pretty soon he was a pro. He even changed your poopy diaper.’”

  Joe giggles. This is one of his favorite parts.

  We wade through pages of Joe’s milestones, each one punctuated with an exclamation point, sometimes two. “Today you turned over!” “Today you said your first word, duck!” “You know where your tongue and hair are now!” “You can wink!!”

  Joe’s heard it all a million times before, but he can’t get enough.

  “Read the part about my favorite foods,” he demands.

  I turn to the section called “Baby’s Likes and Dislikes.”

  “‘You like peaches and bananas and raisins, which you call ree-rees. You do NOT
like olives. We let you taste one, and you made the cutest little face and then you spit it out right in Brian’s lap.’”

  Joe laughs his belly laugh, which is funny because he’s so skinny he hasn’t got a belly.

  He makes me read “Baby’s Games,” “First Birthday,” “Sweetest Moments.” Between this junk and all those cupcakes, I’m starting to feel queasy.

  “More,” says Joe. “More, more, more.”

  “Here’s a good one,” I tell him. “‘While you were sleeping tonight, Daddy told me he’s in love with some bimbo named Brenda and doesn’t want to be married to me anymore. I cried and threw a frying pan at his head.’”

  Joe grabs the book away from me.

  “It does not say that,” he yells. “You made that up.”

  He’s mad now and full-out crying. I can feel that hundred-dollar bill slipping through my fingers.

  “Calm down, Jo-Jo,” I tell him. “I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

  Joe gets up and puts the book back on the shelf. “I want juice,” he says. “And Honey.”

  Honey is Joe’s blanket. Or what’s left of it. He’s five, but he still sleeps with it every night. He sucks his thumb too, which is why his teeth are messed up.

  “Every time you stick that thumb in your mouth, you’re putting another buck in some orthodontist’s pocket,” my mother says.

  I pour apple juice into Joe’s favorite cup, the pink plastic one that got accidentally melted in the dishwasher. He calls it the weirdo cup. Joe goes and gets his blanket out from under his pillow and curls up with it on the couch.

  “Did Mommy really throw a frying pan at Daddy?” he asks me later, when he’s done with his juice. I take the empty cup from him.

  “No. But they did fight a lot.”

  “I know,” Joe says.

  “No you don’t. You were too little to remember.”

  “I feel like I remember,” he says.

  Joe lies down next to me, nestling into the couch cushions and pressing his bare feet up against my leg. I get a sudden flash of my father lying on his back on the living-room floor with his feet pressed against my chest. He takes hold of my hands and straightens his legs, lifting me up into the air like an airplane. “Flyin’ Brian!” he laughs as I let go of his hands and balance on his feet with my arms outstretched like Superman.

  “Careful!” calls my mother from the kitchen. “Precious cargo.” And even though I can’t see her face, I can tell from her voice that she’s smiling.

  Nick calls again.

  “Can you talk yet?”

  Joe’s thumb is in his mouth and his eyes are closed. It’s way past his bedtime.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Okay, we’ve all got the same picture, right? So where’s the naked landlady from? She’s totally dressed.”

  “She’s lying on her side, with her back to the camera,” I say.

  “So? You can’t see anything.”

  “Maybe not from the camera’s point of view. But how do you know her shirt’s not unbuttoned in the front?”

  “Is it?” says Nick.

  “It is in my story.”

  “Wow,” says Nick. “That’s bold. What’s the guy with the cigarette doing there?”

  “We haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

  “So get,” says Nick.

  In the house next door to where the little girl and her mother were living, a teenage boy opened his bedroom window and leaned out. He had a book of matches in his hand, planning to sneak a quick smoke. Looking down into the neighboring yard, he saw Mrs. Androtti stretched out in the lawn chair. His eyes widened as he dropped the matches and ran to find his phone.

  “Come on, man, be there.” He listened as the phone rang, once, twice, three times—

  “City Morgue,” Mike said when he finally picked up.

  “It’s Jack,” said the boy breathlessly. “Ask me what I’m doing.”

  “Why should I?” Mike said.

  “Just ask me. Don’t be a jerk.”

  “Okay, fine. What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking at Mrs. Androtti’s boobs.”

  “In your dreams,” Mike laughed.

  “No, man. I swear, I’m looking at ’em right now.”

  “Where are you?” Mike asked, and Jack could tell he had his full attention.

  “Up in my room.”

  “With Mrs. Androtti?”

  “No, fool. She’s out in her backyard.”

  “Naked?”

  “Practically. Her shirt’s unbuttoned all the way.”

  “She got big ones?” asked Mike.

  “Big enough.”

  “Sweet, man. Does she know you’re looking?”

  “Yeah, right. Like she’d show me on purpose.”

  “Well, who’s she showing them to, then?” Mike asked.

  “Mr. Androtti.”

  “That guy’s a douche. He used to stiff me at Christmas when I had my paper route.”

  “Brett’s a douche too,” Jack said.

  Mike laughed. “Oh man, can you imagine the look on Brett Androtti’s face if he knew we were discussing his mom’s casabas?”

  “Who’s discussing? I’m staring right at ’em in the flesh.”

  “What’s she doing now?” Mike asked.

  “Nothing. She’s lying there, and Mr. Androtti’s sitting beside her smoking a cigarette.”

  “If I was married to Mrs. Androtti, I wouldn’t be wasting time sitting around smoking cigarettes. I’d be nailing her every chance I got,” Mike said. “She’s a total MILF.”

  “A what?”

  “MILF—Mother I’d Like to, you know, nail.”

  “Oh,” said Jack. “Right.”

  “What are you going to do if they start boinking?” Mike asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean are you going to watch?”

  “I don’t know. That might be kind of weird,” said Jack.

  Mike laughed. “Or kind of great. Hey, maybe I should come over. You’re not making this up, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Wait a second,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Come on, Jackie. Don’t leave me hanging. What’s happening? Are they doing it?” “Oh, God, Mike,” said Jack, and he sounded scared.

  “What?”

  “He’s burning her.”

  “What do you mean, burning?”

  “With his cigarette. He’s putting it right on her skin and holding it there.”

  “Is she screaming?”

  “No man,” Jack whispered. “She’s not even moving.”

  My little brother stirs next to me on the couch and opens his eyes.

  “Why did you stop?” says Nick.

  “I gotta put Joe to bed,” I tell him. “I’ll call you later and read you the rest.”

  “It’s really good,” says Nick.

  “You think?”

  I make Joe brush his teeth and pee, and then I stand behind him while he climbs up the ladder and crawls under his covers. We share a bunk bed because our room’s too small for two real beds. My dad and Brenda have a much bigger place. Joe stays there sometimes on weekends, but not me. I don’t want to be anywhere near them. Especially now that Brenda’s pregnant. Mom cried so hard when she found out, I thought she was going to break in half. I haven’t told anybody about it. Not even Nick.

  “Check on me in a minute,” Joe mumbles. Then he rolls over and passes out.

  I turn off the overhead and switch on the little lamp on the dresser, but as I’m leaving I hear this weird sound. Shht-shht-shht. Like a broom sweeping, or a dead leaf blowing along the sidewalk. I stand still and wait for it to happen again. Shht-shht—it’s coming from the corner.

  The little lamp doesn’t give off much light, but when I lean over and look in, I can see Superman dragging himself slowly along the edge of the cage. Shht-shht-shht.

  Something�
��s not right. I don’t want to wake Joe, so instead of turning on the light again, I pick up the cage and carry it out into the living room.

  I speed-dial Nick.

  “It’s the weirdest thing I ever saw,” I say. “Like somebody blew him up.”

  “Blew up as in exploded?” says Nick.

  “No, blew up like a balloon.”

  Superman’s body is about three times its normal size. If it wasn’t so freaky, it might be comical. His pointy face looks like a tiny mask stuck on the front of a black fur ball, like a puffer fish with whiskers and a long tail. The reason he’s dragging himself is because his stomach is so distended, his feet no longer touch the ground. He has to roll over onto one side, like a listing ship, and push himself along the bottom of the cage—shht-shht-shht.

  “Maybe it’s gas,” says Nick.

  “Do mice get gas?”

  “Hell if I know,” says Nick. “Squeeze him and see if he toots.”

  He barely fits through the small wire door in the cage when I take him out. I hold him, tail end pointing away, close my eyes, and gently squeeze. Nothing happens.

  “Now what?” I say.

  “Got any Tums?” Nick asks.

  I get the bottle out of the medicine cabinet.

  “What flavor do you think?” I ask as I unscrew the cap and pull out the cotton stopper.

  “Cheese,” says Nick.

  “Ha ha, very funny.”

  I take a green Tums and hold it under Superman’s nose. To my surprise he starts to nibble on it.

  “Is it working?” asks Nick.

  “Not yet.” I look at the bottle. “It says ‘fast-acting relief,’ but it doesn’t say how fast.”

  We’re both quiet for a minute, and then Nick asks, “Why does Mr. Androtti burn his wife with the cigarette? Is he making sure she’s dead or something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why doesn’t he check for her pulse instead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You wrote it, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s made up. It’s not like it really happened.”

  “Read me the rest,” says Nick.

  In the apartment over the garage a woman stood at the kitchen sink rinsing out a blue sponge. Her little girl was in the other room, standing at the window.

  “Mommy?” the girl called.