by Marc Aronson
“Where are we going?”
“Up here.” Almost immediately, they broke out of the trees. Before them was a huge expanse of fading grass studded with headstones. He glanced at his watch: nine fifty-five. “Do you have anyone buried here?”
“You mean, like someone I know?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh-uh. My parents are from Massachusetts. All our relatives are buried there. At least, I think so.”
Mick started across the graves. “Kevin says these people must have been losers. They didn’t have any loved ones who wanted to be buried next to them, so they got planted out here all alone.”
“That’s sad.” She stopped to study one gravestone. Hesitated before cutting between it and the adjoining slab. “But how would Kevin know?”
Mick kept moving forward, across a dirt tract and onto a large section of graves, very close together. “He’s been here a lot, I guess. His dad is right over there.”
“Oh, wow.” Engaged, she trailed him to another periphery, shaded by stubborn oaks.
“There.” Mick pointed to a low marble mound. The simple engraving read:
LAWRENCE NICHOLAS
1968–2004
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
A thin thread of music drifted up from the church, through the woods and across the cemetery. The ten o’clock Mass had begun. How long would it take Kevin to sneak into Father Holbrook’s office, take the keys from his desk, open the sacristy, and find the store of altar wine?
Other than little sips at Communion and a couple of stolen tastes from Mama’s glasses, Mick had never imbibed. How much would it take to get drunk? And could they talk Candy into getting drunk, too? Suddenly, he was aware of her asking him something. “Sorry. What?”
“I said, how did Kevin’s father die? He wasn’t even forty.”
Mick shrugged. “You can ask Kevin about it. He’ll be here in a minute.”
The bridge of Candy’s nose disappeared into a pair of deep frown lines. If she kept that up, she was going to get early wrinkles. “Why is Kevin coming?”
Mick grinned. “It’s a surprise.” He sat on a patch of grass between two graves, patted the ground beside him.
Candy sat very close beside him. So close that he could smell her hair, which wore some tropical perfume. Nice. Really nice. “What about your dad? Do you miss him?”
Mick shrugged, and the smile fell away from his face. “At least he isn’t dead. I don’t think so, anyway. We haven’t heard a word from him since he left.”
Suddenly, Kevin burst through the brush and came sprinting across the lawn. He was laughing, and his abdomen bulged suspiciously. When he reached them, he plopped straight down on his father’s grave. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “Great to see you!” Then he reached up under his shirt and whipped out a full bottle of sherry. “Let’s drink to the son of a bitch!”
Candy gasped. “Where did you get that?”
God, Mick thought, she isn’t going to get pissy, is she?
But then Kevin said, “Father H donated it. He thought it was getting a little old.”
Candy laughed and reached for the bottle. “Let me taste it. I wouldn’t want you to get sick or something.” Mick and Kevin exchanged a long look as Candy unscrewed the bottle and tipped it into her mouth. Then she handed it back to Kevin. “Think it’s okay.”
And off they went, passing that syrupy wine among them like three old winos in a backstreet alley. Mick noticed a weird little buzz in his ears before the bottle was half-gone. “What’s that noise? Cicadas?”
Kevin snorted. “The cicadas died weeks ago. Jeez. Are you getting fuzzy already?”
“I am,” said Candy before taking another long pull. “Feels great.”
“Wow,” said Kevin. “I had no idea you were that kind of a girl. Have you done this before?”
She drew those startling blue eyes level with his. “Last summer. At camp. A couple of the counselors swiped some and shared it with a few of us girls.”
“Why would they do that?” asked Mick. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer. But somehow he just couldn’t find it.
“Well, why do you think?” Her hand settled on his thigh. It was warm. And it moved.
Holy moly! No. Holy crap! Would he actually get to see her tits? Something just south of his belly button, and very near her fingers, writhed.
But then she withdrew her hand. Took another sip before offering the bottle to Kevin. “How did your dad die?” Her honey voice had grown noticeably thicker.
“Bastard blew his brains out.” He let that sink in before adding, “Guess who found him?”
Candy gulped. “You? That’s awful!” She reached out to touch his cheek.
Kevin threw his arm up, blocking the gesture. It was the first glimpse Mick ever got of the serpent living inside his friend. But as quickly as it surfaced, it vanished again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that. Not your fault. Sometimes . . . when I think about it . . . I get pissed.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” Candy’s voice echoed into the bottle, which kept getting emptier.
The buzz in Mick’s ears had moved inside his head. Swallowed his brain. Did the others feel that way, too? They must. So this was what it meant to get drunk. He liked it. Sort of. All manner of bad stuff faded away. The dizzy part, he didn’t care for so much.
And then it happened. “Do you believe in ghosts?” asked Kevin.
Mick shook his head as Candy said, “No. Why?”
“I think I’ve been possessed.” The snake surfaced again. “You have to be my exorcist,” he said to Candy. “And there’s only one way to do it.”
“How?” she asked, but her seductive smile said she knew exactly what he was after.
Kevin reached over and started working her buttons. When he fumbled, she actually helped him! It couldn’t be that easy. But inch by inch, more skin was exposed until the blouse peeled totally away. Mick couldn’t help but stare. He’d never seen anything so . . . real. Now his head was really spinning.
That altar girl may have been only thirteen, but she had the tits of a woman. And she knew things that women did, too, like how to use her hands to make a boy feel really good. Two boys, in fact. It was the first, and so maybe the best, sex he’d ever had. And he’d fifty-fiftied it with Kevin. Later, his stomach churned sticky, sweet bile and his head felt like someone had hammered a chisel through it. Kev didn’t fare much better. But the boys agreed on four things.
One: An altar girl did not a saint make.
Two: Alcohol plus a good sob story equaled sex.
Three: Some things were worth a hangover.
Four: They were not cut out to be priests.
That wasn’t the only illicit thing they shared over the next few years. But then Mick went crazy over Lydia. Some things a brother can’t offer a friend, not even a best friend.
Suddenly, Mick realized he could call her now. She would need consoling.
“When is the funeral?” he asked Mama. “We should offer our condolences.”
Maybe he should even stand up and speak. Mick smiled at a sudden slice of inspiration.
Perhaps the graveyard story would make a good eulogy.
CANDY LOMACK GROANED and rolled over. It was too early. For anything. Especially for what Tyler was suggesting.
“Come on. Just once?”
She groaned again and moved farther away from him, indicating a no. So he did it himself and she pretended she was asleep.
Hadn’t her life been a series of Just Onces?
Starting with summer camp when she was twelve . . . and what those counselors did with her. Come on, Candy, just drink it once? Just kiss me once? Just touch it once? Just try it once?
Tyler rolled out of bed and into his clothes and left through the window, the way he’d come in the night before. She didn’t even like him. She was executing some kind of self-dare. He was the guy everyone was afraid of. Out of control. Too much. Too dangerous. This was her habit—self-dares and dat
ing boys who would scare most practical girls into a coma. Most of them really weren’t that scary and just acted it. Damaged goods. Inside they were just people like everyone else. Candy knew plenty about damaged goods.
She rolled back over and faced the empty half of the bed where Tyler had just been. She took the top sheet and rolled it into a ball with her feet and pushed it to the floor. She grabbed a nearby black T-shirt and slipped it over her head and reached for her laptop. As it powered up, she propped herself on pillows and stretched and looked at the clock. It was 11:07. Entirely too early to be up on a hot July morning after a long night of serving drinks . . . and drinking drinks.
First stop: e-mail. Spam and more spam. Want to go all night long? Best diet weight-loss pill! NOTICE OF YOUR FUNDS £100 MILLION! Satisfactory sexual intercourse!
“Satisfactory sexual intercourse.” Candy laughed. Sounds like something a second grade teacher would say.
An e-mail from her mother. Mrs. Regina Lomack. The woman who lived beyond Candy’s bedroom door and communicated with Candy mostly through e-mails now. The woman who named her Candy—a tag that would follow her through life and make her as attractive to men as candy on the grass is attractive to ants. The woman who wouldn’t let her move out but wouldn’t let her live there, either.
At eighteen years old, Candy Lomack was in limbo. Not here, but here. Not working but working. Not earning but earning just enough to get by. Not living but living enough to have a guy like Tyler mess up her sheets in the morning.
At eighteen years old, Candy Lomack was still using her window as a door and parking on the side road next to the park to avoid seeing her parents.
She deleted her mother’s e-mail without reading it.
Next stop: Facebook.
First, a barrage of requests from her high-school friend Jane to play some stupid games. Hidden Gems and Farmerville and Pirate’s Booty. Who has time for these games? Candy thought. Jane was more than three years older than her, but completely immature. Never partied or got with boys. Never even came home late once. Jane was boring.
But she had a perfect life now, fresh out of college with two degrees—a BA in teaching and an MRS. Candy had gone to the wedding. It was boring. Jane had a house up in Connecticut and would start her first teaching job in the fall. Second grade. Satisfactory sexual intercourse, Candy thought. That’s what Jane probably had. And Candy had Tyler.
As she scrolled through posts on Facebook, she found two old boyfriends from middle school who posted completely opposite political status updates and then simultaneously argued on each other’s posts. Candy remembered when those boys had lives beyond the pointless world of politics. Really. Who gives a shit? Nothing ever changes.
Then she saw the post from Lydia. She was never sure why she had accepted Lydia’s friend request, but she had. Lydia hadn’t ever done anything bad to her. She was a good kid. Younger than Candy.
The post said: R.I.P. to my brother Kevin. We’ll miss you.
Candy scanned the comment trail. We’re thinking of you. We’re praying for you and your family. So sorry to hear of Kevin’s passing. Let us know if there’s anything we can do. This wasn’t a joke.
She reread it. R.I.P. to my brother Kevin. We’ll miss you.
And it sank in.
Kevin Nicholas was dead.
Candy stared at the words on the screen. And then she laughed. Not loudly. But it rose from her like vomit—unintended and foul smelling. Her stomach heaved with how funny it was. She had to sit up and catch her breath. Then it started again, and she laughed until she cried, and as she wiped the tears away, she was sure they were happy tears.
How many times had she said, “Just go to hell, Kevin!”
R.I.P. Kevin Nicholas, my ass. Rest in hell. Rest in all the shit you gave me. Rest never. Hope you die soon. Again. Selfish bastard.
She retrieved the e-mail from her mother from the trash folder. Indeed, it was this news: I thought you should know Kevin Nicholas died. It was in the paper today. I’m going to send flowers from the family, so you don’t need to worry about that.
In the next paragraph, sitting on its own like a lonely girl at recess, was this line: If you want to talk, I’m here.
“Just what I need,” Candy said aloud. “You. Here.”
She flopped out of bed, placed the closed laptop on her bureau, and walked straight into the shower, where it really hit her.
Kevin Nicholas is dead.
Kevin fucking Nicholas.
The first boy I fell in love with.
The boy who showed me that maybe I was worth loving.
The boy I gave my whole self to.
The boy who never gave himself to me.
The boy who stopped talking. Stopped holding hands. Stopped smiling. Damaged goods.
Dead.
The shower water made it pointless to wipe the tears away. But even Candy knew that this time these weren’t happy tears. These were the saddest tears she’d cried since the day he’d broken up with her when she was fourteen over by the CVS on Springfield. She remembered that now, in the shower. How she’d watched all the people in the parking lot doing normal things while she’d sat holding her aching guts. How she’d walked the rest of the way home without him, claiming she’d rather be dead or kidnapped or whatever happened to girls walking alone on the roads than be without Kevin.
As it turned out, she got home.
And there stood Mrs. Regina Lomack, who was looking at her in that way she did, with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. When Candy saw the smile, she wanted to smack it right off. Instead she gave her mother a chance to talk. Maybe something good had happened to them. Maybe Dad had finally gotten another job and they could leave Queens and move somewhere interesting.
“It this yours?” Regina had asked, pulling a used pregnancy test from behind her back and holding it in front of her the way a crossing guard might use a sign to help little children walk to school.
“Yes,” Candy had answered. “But I’m not pregnant.” She wasn’t sure why she added it. It seemed to anger her mother more. But in the grand scheme of things, that was good news, right?
“I don’t know what to say anymore,” Mrs. Lomack said. “So I’ve made an appointment with Father Holbrook. Maybe he can talk sense into your head. Come on. We’re going now.” Mrs. Lomack put the used pregnancy test into her purse.
“You’re taking it with you?”
“What?”
“That!” Candy pointed to the test.
“Well, how else do I tell him?”
Candy got into her mother’s car for the drive to church, less than five minutes away. She sat in the backseat to make it seem like what it really was. And in the emptiness of that backseat, it hit her that Kevin had just broken up with her. She remembered every time she’d said “I love you” and every time he’d said it back. Every time he’d squeezed her hand like he really did love her. They were soul mates, she’d thought. Meant to be. Kevin, though often stuck inside himself, could talk to Candy. Except when he didn’t. Except when he talked to other girls instead. Remembering this, she started to cry the tears she hadn’t been able to cry outside the CVS on Springfield. The tears she couldn’t let Kevin see because he’d just yell at her, which is what he always did when she cried.
Stop trying to control me by crying. You piss me off so much when you do that!
Kevin’s father used to cry. At dinner. At baseball games. At church. At TV shows that weren’t even sad. Mr. Nicholas—dead at thirty-six—had what Regina Lomack called “issues,” which was all she ever said, even though she’d known him for years through church.
Mr. Nicholas’s issues had led him to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. Kevin talked about it sometimes. The first time was right after the day in the cemetery with that bottle of sherry, him, and Mick from New Jersey.
She’d said, “If you ever want to talk to me about that, you know you can, right?”
“I found him, you know? It
was the grossest thing I ever saw,” he’d said, and then he’d looked at her for a long time. The look in his eyes had nothing to do with talking anymore. So they started to date. Talking happened occasionally. Kissing happened more often. Other things happened in between. During cross-country races, she’d cheer him on and bring him water and a towel when he was done. By Christmas, he’d just-onced his way into touching her in places she’d never been touched before. Then, by Easter, when the vestments in the church were purple and the mood was joyous after a hard winter, he just-onced his way into it. Doing the real it. And afterward, as they lay in Candy’s double bed while her parents were at work, Kevin described what he’d seen.
“He didn’t have a head anymore, you know?” he said. “All that was left was a jaw and one of his ears. And it was all exploded and big even though there wasn’t much of anything there.” Anyone else saying this would have cried, but not Kevin. He looked straight at the ceiling and told it like he’d tell a dirty joke or give a guy with out-of-state plates directions to the nearest restaurant.
“What’d you do?” she’d asked.
“I called the cops. What the fuck else would I do?”
“Sorry,” she’d said.
“You’re such a dipshit sometimes, Candy.”
She hadn’t said it, but she’d thought it: So you just fucked a dipshit, then.
Every time they did it after that—up until the day outside the CVS—Kevin would turn on her like that. From lamb to lion. No warning, no trigger that she could see. Maybe something inside his head felt happy, so he had to go and ruin it. That’s what she concluded anyway, after nearly nine months of dating. If that’s what you’d call all those nights she sat waiting for him to talk to her or call her or touch her or say I love you after another just once. Dating, sure. More like blowing time.
The pregnancy test was five days old when her mother found it. Candy had hidden it in the garage trash can, so her mother had to have been on some sort of mission in order to find it. As they drove, Regina Lomack ignored her daughter’s crying in the backseat. Only when they stepped into Father Holbrook’s office did Regina eventually find out what she was upset about.
