A Love Like Blood

by Victor Yates

  “Give me your cash, bitch,” the leader shouts.

  “I’m not giving you a damn thing,” Brett yells.

  The leader pokes out something from the inside of his pocket, like a gun, and says, “You wanna die tonight, bitch.”

  Knowing the object is his hand, I hurl the mango at his head and his back slams on the sidewalk. I rush toward him, stabbing the air with the knife. The kids scurry in every direction like rats on train tracks.

  “No. Stop it, man. Damn. We were just playing,” the leader shouts. He crawls from under the metal holding him down.

  From behind us, one of the boys throws the glass bottle, and it crashes beside my foot. Alcohol splashes on my legs. I turn and the leader runs off. As he runs and the other boys too, I see the children that they used to be running along beside them. The leader swings his head around. His eyes, almond-shaped, large, and expressive, flood with fear.

  “Little boys shouldn’t be out at night, bitch,” Brett yells after him.

  “No, they should not,” I yell.

  Brett crosses his arms, bends over, and laughs so loud a flock of pigeons fly out of the tree nearby. While staring at the shards, everything pressing against my head feels as if it is a matter of life or death. Underneath the glass, ants rush away from me. I pick up a large piece and see myself through its lens with the knife.

  As I shove his knife into my pocket, Brett says, “if you can save my life, you can save yourself.”

  I hold onto the words and press them down into memory like baby’s breath in a Bible. Even when its pages yellow and crumble, I will remember the quote. Dried flower flakes, pressing against the letters, might create brand new words. The meaning will still be the same, however. All around us, the street lights lose their allure. I need to rub something with my hands, but my camera is in father’s trunk. A camera would highlight Brett’s lower body and the lines behind him, the way his body is darkly lit.

  “Brett, let’s head back.”

  “We should. This city is too dangerous for us.”

  “I hope he comes back for his bicycle.”

  “We should wait on the other side of that car and jump out at him.”

  “He might pee in his pants.”

  “I want to do this again. Next time we should drive my truck.”

  “No, I want to take my father’s car again.”

  “I won’t get in next time.”

  “Yes, you will. I’ll make you.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Sitting down in the driver’s seat is like lighting a firecracker. A flame explodes the mangoes and instead of smoke, my lungs fill with sugar alcohol. The scent changed as if someone burnt matches to disguise the smell. I lower my window; Brett taps on his. On the utility pole beside the car, someone stapled a flyer that says, “Are you looking for a Photographer?” with pictures crowding the top and tear strips at the bottom. Only two tear strips are left. Photographers are not as visible in Detroit as they are in Chicago. Chicago grows photographers from the icy ground like they are a national product. Walking downtown, I had to be careful, or I would trip over camera bags or tripods or squatting photographers every few feet. Junk food wrappers rustle under Brett’s feet. I reach for the radio knob, but stop, hearing a soft snapping sound.

  “Damn. We are almost out of gas. Is there a gas station close by, Brett?”

  “There has to be one on this street. How long do we have?”

  “Three miles. Maybe four.”

  “That’s enough.”

  The snap sounds again, and the car spits and sputters and slows to a stop in the street while my foot is on the gas pedal.

  “No, no, no, no,” I say and punch my leg.

  “Does your dad have a gas can in the car?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s push the car into that spot and walk to a station.”

  Hearing the word push, heaviness tightens my chest. A shirtless man, who looks out of place, speed walks past my window wearing short running shorts. The three neon stripes flash. From the side slit in his shorts, I see the curving line of his white briefs. His underwear is as pale as his skin.

  Hopping out of my seat, I yell, “Excuse me. Do you know where the closest gas station is?”

  He turns around, jogging in place, and adjusts himself between his legs. “Yes. Further up. By Clay Street.”

  “How far is that?”

  “About a ten-minute ride.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thanks,” Brett says, leaning on my shoulder.

  The runner slaps his thighs in a wave motion as he jogs off down the empty street.

  Brett strokes my chest in a circular motion, and I hope the stroking does not end.

  “Let’s start walking now. We can buy a gas can, fill it up, and hurry back. Your dad won’t even know it happened.”

  “This was a stupid idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “So! We ran out of gas. It doesn’t make this stupid.”

  “No, I only have four dollars in my pocket. Do you have cash?”

  “I forgot my wallet at home.”

  “I can’t believe this. My father is going to kill me.”

  “Kidding. I have enough.”

  I pinch Brett’s nipple through his shirt, and he slaps my chest and pulls on my nipple.

  “Let’s grab some mangoes too. If someone else tries to rob us, we can beat them with fruit.”

  I laugh, and cannot stop, and have to sit down in the car from how much my back hurts from laughing.

  “Let me get my camera out. You have to pose with a mango.”

  “Why?”

  “Fruit with a fruit.”

  Chapter 19

  The lights flicker providing a slow reveal. Camel brown becomes cream and cream becomes milk. As I stare at Brett, stare around in wonder, time slips out of my hands and away from me into the whiteness. Its pull transforms us into moths, and we dance around the room in an endless spiral. Without the equipment cage, I might believe we entered through the door and slipped inside of a light bulb. The walls look so luminous that they seem made with slabs of artificial light. The walls, cove, and ceiling are Wedding Dress White, the name on the paint can. A white whiter than the other swatches at the hardware store: Bright White, Green Glaze, Twinkling Crystal, White Yarn, Apple Blossoms. I picked the color, not because of the name, because of its promise. Courage does not come to a man overnight, and neither does a woman in a wedding dress. It promised development. It promised newness. The choice made me feel ripe and clear. Brett’s voice squeals with excitement like someone much younger, more observant, and untouched by the hurt of the adult world. I hear his voice, but not the words, too soft to detect. Then, I see five number fives in a list I taped on the wall. Five, I press it into my palm like a rosary. Four thirty-one, the wall clock shows, and now we have four minutes before it is time to leave. As I arrange our shoes in a neat row, his pink socks bounce into the darkroom. In the darkroom, chemicals muddle the scent of frankincense, but the scent pokes its head through the vinegary veil. I am made of everything that is in this room: air, water, wood, and metal.

  “What’s the first thing you do when you walk in here?”

  “Put on my goggles, apron, and gloves.”

  “Where are they? I want to feel like you.”

  The goggle strap licks his curls and shocks his hair, then the gloves snap. I unhook the apron from the coat rack, step behind him, and drape it over his warmth. While tying the strings in back, I catch my Father’s eyes. My hand brushes Brett’s backside. The act, accidental and small, feels deliberate and vulgar. I fill the space between our bodies with distance and vinegar but lean my nose closer. Must and frankincense blend in the air around Brett’s neck. The urge in between my legs pulses and is sticky, but I force myself into stillness. The stillne
ss is a precaution. Father’s eyes watch us from the wall as if he is the patron saint of dead insects. Under his holiness, we are lowered into ants under his bronzed feet. Under the lights, his face shines like the sun in full power at midday. Those eyes are like heavy hands squeezing air from my lungs until his hands replace them. I cut my eyes at the redness, at the root, at the reach, and my hips jerk. Brett’s face, a mirror of my body, reddens and rises.

  “Put on your dad’s apron. What do you do next?”

  “Prep everything.”

  “So this is what being in a darkroom feels like for you. It’s not what I imagined.

  “You get use to the closeted feeling.”

  “No, this weighs a lot,” he says, shaking the apron. “And it’s not dark.”

  “We turn off the lights when we develop film.”

  “How do you do it? Being in here with him for hours.”

  “When we’re in here. There’s a love between us that goes beyond being a father and son. We are equals. It’s only when we leave the darkroom that I worry.”

  “Imagine what you could do if you told your dad you’re in love with me.”

  “I would have more time to beat up kids and steal their lunch money. Because I would be homeless.”

  A squeaking sound, at first faint, then louder, multiples into desperation. The sound is as infrequent as the sound of my older brother’s voice in the studio, but I could recognize both blindfolded and in the dark.

  “You hear that,” Brett says, staring at the ceiling, in a way that suggests whatever it is might fall.

  “There are rat traps in the storage room upstairs. It’s a rat trying to escape. These buildings downtown are old; they remind me of home.”

  Above our heads, Father crept and set the cheese trap for the rats, a Polaroid trap for Junior, and a female trap for me. Junior’s trap and my trap switched around years ago in Chicago.

  “Were there any more good mangoes?”

  “There was only one.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “That’ll make me feel better. I keep thinking your dad’s going to wake up and go ballistic.”

  “It wouldn’t be new.”

  With the keys clattering at the door, our downtown seems smudged by practicalness. Even the glow from the lampposts looks sterile, far from the dreaminess of Detroit’s golden lights. Brett’s shoulder bone looks as pointed as the blade of a pocket knife through the glass. As the fourth lock clicks, something smacks the side of my face. Brett grins over my shoulder and in the glass, Father’s goggles and apron float in front of my body like cutout clothing over a paper doll.

  “Don’t become him, please,” Brett says.

  “I am him.”

  “Are you going to wear it home?”

  “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  One, two, three beeps, and the security alarm activates inside the studio. In one movement, I wipe my finger across his nipples, force my finger inside a mesh opening, hook him, and force him off of the sidewalk, into the street.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The convenience store. I’ll buy you anything under three dollars.”

  After walking from the gas station and then turning onto the expressway without speaking, I drove here to untie our tongues. The convenience store is another set of cones in the road.

  “Wait, I have to pee. Do you have a bathroom at the studio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn, those locks. Come with me first.”

  Running past smoke and a conversation in Arabic, into the alley, he drops my hand and runs ahead of me to the dumpster. I step over the puddle, beside him, and pee too on beetles, cigarette butts, pizza crusts, and chicken bones.

  “Remember when you said I should tell my father that I love you. I do love you. I love you this much,” I say and aim for Brett’s bare leg.

  His leg jerks from the splash of urine.

  “You fucker,” he screams, trying to grab me, missing the apron and my arm.

  But I’m already finished, gliding like a moth to the street light above the car. While laughing so hard, that Father’s goggles pinch the side of my face. The feeling is a snap, tiny, yet painful. The pinching proves that courage is uncertainty.

  Chapter 20

  Giddy from getting away with it, I run into the street roaring. Hands behind me. Lips over teeth. I eat the night, gulping it down, and taste salt. Eagerly, without caring who sees, I choke on the bones. The wind cools my face, but I’m faster than the wind. I eat more, wiping sweat and spit from around my bottom lip. And I eat until my jaw hurts, and I laugh at how my jaw hurts. Father’s darkened bedroom pronounces he is dreaming. Shhh, Brett whispers, running behind me. Whispering turns to pleading then chasing. I chase him to his house next door. His garage, an open sore, hides nothing but secrets and signals. Colors change. Objects silver under the moonlight. A pile of silver clangs as my leg hits it. I feel the sharpness before I know what is causing it. When I see it sticking out, I squeeze my fists, arms, and chest until my entire body becomes a cowry shell. Hopping on my other leg, Brett helps me to the wall onto the floor. If pain exposes the amount of danger someone is in, the blood trickling down my leg indicates I should run home. However, across the garage, Brett’s face in a mirror promises me that the pain isn’t a sign. No matter how much of my blood that I wipe away, I tell myself, stay. Then, a chill in the air opens my eyes, and I catch the back of Brett running into his house. Without his face to calm me, I tighten every part of my body to feel the contraction of muscles and not the burning. A tap on the top of my foot relaxes my calves.

  Unrolling my sock, he presses a dressing to the wound. The sting of alcohol lessens as I hear his breath in my ear. The flatness of the ceiling is off. Even the gasoline smell is wrong, but the heat on my neck corrects their failure. The pipe, the cause of my pain, points toward the street with a triangular tip. The tip is busted, ridged, and resembles a Christmas tree. It stabbed me halfway between my ankle and knee.

  “I stole my Father’s car, was attacked by kids with firecrackers, ran out of gas, and ran into a pipe.”

  “And don’t forget, peed on my leg.”

  “And peed on your leg. I have a question to ask you. Is this still the best night ever?”

  “Tonight still is the best night ever. Your dad doesn’t know we stole his car. Let me walk you upstairs to your room.”

  “To the front door.”

  “To the stairs.”

  “To the stairs. Not up the stairs. Some of the steps creek.”

  Bending my leg to stand shoots sharp shards throughout my body. I tighten up, saying, “motherfu.” The ending is torn off with teeth. I bite down on my lip, pounding the floor. “I can’t stand up. It hurts.”

  “I have blankets in my room. We can lay down out here for a while.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  I blink, and he is shirtless. Brett balls up his shirt and places it into my palm.

  “Squeeze it until I get back.” From a box beside us, he finds a hooded sweatshirt. “Put this on. It’s cold out here. Can I ask you a question? Why don’t you ever talk about your mother?”

  “It reminds me how far away she is.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Cuba.”

  “Why does she live there?”

  “She was deported,” I say and drop the shirt, drawing a line between us on the floor.

  “Do you have anything of hers?”

  I nod.

  “What?”

  After minutes of silence, I say, “Her wedding ring.”

  “Let her be the source of your strength. I’ll get the blankets.”

  Like his shirt, I crumple on the floor. Without something in my hand to crush, I feel around and touch something cold, circ
ular, and lightweight. A paint can, I see when I raise my head. The front door opens then I smell cigarette smoke. Smoke and whistling float into the garage. The whistling stops, then I hear footsteps on the pathway. Fighting the pain, I force myself up to my feet.

  “Who’s that?” someone asks as I’m hopping toward the door into the house. The male voice is unfamiliar. I hear a thud, something like a glass bottle placed on the floor. “Who’s that?” the man asks again.

  From his build, I know he isn’t Brett’s father; however, I cannot make out the details of his face because of his camouflage cap. A blond beard and the cigarette hide the shape of his lips. The moon lights his chest and the hairs on his stomach as well as the bush sprouting up from under his sweatpants. The man spits out the cigarette and rushes me, tackling me to the ground. His knee bumps the bandage. I moan from the feeling, a spreading unbearableness. His hands clamp down around my wrists, stretching my arms out to the side.

  “Call the police. He was trying to break in,” the man says.

  “Stop! It’s Carsten,” Brett yells.

  “Your friend,” the man says, snapping back. Both their hands help me to stand. “I’m sorry. I saw the hoodie and knew you weren’t Brett. Sorry. And you’re bleeding. Did I cut you?”

  “He ran into a pipe over there. The bandage came off when you were trying to grope him. Carsten, this is my uncle.”

  “I don’t usually body slam friends of the family like that. That hurts, doesn’t it?”

  I nod and blink, and when I open my eyes he shakes a flask out in front of me.

  “Drink all of this. It will make you forget about your leg. Why are you out here in the dark?”