by T. Greenwood
“Daddy’s home!” Gracy squealed, climbing out of the car. She had marshmallow stuck in her hair.
Trevor followed behind Gracy and his mother, the denim of his pants frozen now, making the cloth stiff. He could still smell that awful smell, that pungent funk. It was a part of him. It had come out of him.
His father was inside sitting at the kitchen table, studying a bill. He looked up when they came into the kitchen, and Trevor winced. Waited.
“Hey, baby,” his mother said, hanging her purse on the back of the kitchen chair.
She looked at Trevor, shaking her head a little, but her face was soft. Sorry even. She knew. She had to know what he’d done.
“What’s the matter?” his father asked. “Something happen?”
“How about I make us all a nice dinner,” she said. “I’ve got some steaks in the freezer.”
Before Trevor changed into his pajamas that night, he took off his clothes in the bathroom, the crotch of his jeans stiff. He knelt on the floor next to the bathtub and ran the water so hot that it burned his hands. He held the jeans under the stream until the fabric softened, hoping that any evidence of what had happened was getting sucked down the drain. He studied his body in the mirror, a body he didn’t recognize anymore. It was a man’s body. His father’s body. It made him ashamed. He pulled the jeans out of the tub, wrung them out the best he could, and laid them across the radiator that was sputtering and hissing, hot to the touch. He got into the shower, scrubbed his skin, trying not to think about what Ethan had done to him and how his own body had betrayed him. He closed his eyes and pretended he was in the forest, in the caboose. Safe and warm. Protected. The water burned his skin, but he pretended it was only the sun. That it was only the heat of summer.
Gracy was already sleeping when he got into his bed. His skin was tender, rubbed raw. And his jeans had not dried but just started to stink like burnt denim when he took them off the radiator. He folded them, stuffed them into a plastic bag, and shoved them into the bottom of his wastebasket.
His whole body felt bruised. Even the sheets hurt. He thrashed around in his bed, the sheets getting tangled around his legs, making him feel like screaming. He kicked the blankets onto the floor and lay flat on his back.
“What’s the matter, Trevor?” Gracy asked sleepily, squinting her eyes against the light.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
He felt tears spilling from his eyes.
“You can sleep in my bed,” she said.
And then he remembered one time when he was about Gracy’s age that he had a nightmare. He couldn’t remember what it was about anymore; he just remembered waking up feeling terrified. Somehow he’d found his way through the labyrinth of the dark house to his parents’ room. He’d opened the door and made his way through the darkness to their bed. He’d climbed in cautiously, wanting nothing more than for someone to hold him, for his mother to hold him. But Elsbeth had startled awake as he curled his body against hers. “Jesus Christ!” she’d said, sitting up. “You scared me to death!” Then she scooped him up and set him on the floor again. “It was just a dream. Now, go back to bed,” she said. “I’ve got to work early.”
His father hadn’t woken up at all.
His knees quaking, he’d walked back to his room, waiting until he was in his own bed again to cry. He had stayed awake the entire rest of that night. And he’d never tried to get into their bed again.
“You sure?” he said to Gracy now.
“Come in,” she said, patting the mattress. “I have plenty of room.”
Trevor crawled into bed with Gracy, and she hugged him. “I never have bad dreams in my bed,” she said. Her sheets were softer than his. She handed him Hugo, her stuffed hippo, and he held Hugo close up under his chin. Then he waited for sleep to come over him.
Outside it snowed, and inside the radiators clanged a metallic banging like someone was trapped inside trying to get out. When he closed his eyes he imagined the sounds were gunshots, that he was in Iraq or the jungles of Vietnam. Pop had told him about the war, about watching men getting shot around him, going down like marionettes whose strings have been cut. And so, half-asleep, he imagined Vietnam. He dream-trudged through a rice paddy, his feet so heavy he could barely lift them. The stink of murky water, the smell of corpses. Of death. But then he wasn’t in the jungle anymore; the trees had disappeared, leaving him in the dark, cold alley behind the Walgreens. And still, his feet wouldn’t move. He started to cry. He felt cold hands on him. On his shoulders, on his stomach, on his face. He could feel hands around his penis, the reluctant stiffening, the pain that was also good. His stomach turned with the smell of everything rotten and spoiled. Loud cracks, explosions, gunshots? sounded all around him. And his feet, stuck in cold asphalt, like quicksand. Like being trapped under ice. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t move.
He startled awake. He felt his erection go soft, the sheets become wet, and tears fill his eyes. His heart was pounding like a hammer in his chest, so loud he could almost hear it. Disoriented, he thought he was still in the alley, sitting in a puddle of icy water after they left him there and before his mother found him. But then as his eyes began to focus, he realized he was in bed with Gracy, who was curled like a roly-poly bug, her body pressed against him. Her sweet-smelling body, touching his.
He scrambled out of the bed, his entire body rocking with guilt, shame like a migraine. He wanted to tear the soiled sheet off her, but he knew it would wake her. His whole body was shaking now, he couldn’t stop it. What had he done? What had he done to his own sister? What kind of monster was he?
Kurt invited Jude to Thanksgiving dinner, and at first he’d stubbornly refused. He’d holed up himself up in that damn house again, and as far as Elsbeth was concerned, he could just rot there. Ever since Pop had moved back to his own house, Kurt had been trying to come up with a plan, but unless he somehow got conservatorship, there wasn’t much he could do. She knew he was worried about Jude living by himself in the house, but the way Elsbeth figured it, if, no, when the house went to shit again, then it really would only strengthen Kurt’s case (though there wouldn’t be much of a case without a lawyer, and they certainly weren’t in any position to hire anybody). She’d pleaded with him to try to just let Pop be. “It’s not your problem. It’s not our problem. You’ve done everything you can do. No one can say you didn’t try.” Kurt had done everything he could for him. Now Jude was just being an ass. She wished Kurt could just let it go. Let him go. But then the night before Thanksgiving, Jude changed his mind about dinner, and she watched Kurt on the phone nodding and pacing. “Okay, Pop. I’ll pick you up.”
In the kitchen, she ran cold water over the turkey. When she pulled out the plastic bag with the gizzards and liver and heart, she realized the insides were still a little frozen, little bloody crystals inside that cage of bone. She patted the turkey with paper towels and sprinkled salt and pepper inside. She prepared the box of Stove Top, and the smell, of sage and butter, reminded her of other Thanksgivings.
Kurt’s mother, Larissa, was the one who had taught her how to roast a turkey. back when she and Kurt were first married and Elsbeth didn’t know the difference between a ladle and a spatula. Elsbeth’s own mother hadn’t been much of a cook when she was growing up. As a single mother, she hadn’t had anyone, besides Elsbeth, to cook for. Most nights they just had sandwiches or frozen pizza; on special nights they ordered Chinese. When Elsbeth was pregnant with Trevor, Larissa took her under her wing like a protective mother hen and taught her all sorts of things. She showed her how to stud a ham with cloves, how to make a roast in a Crock Pot. Larissa had been like the mother Elsbeth always wished she’d had. Larissa was round and soft and warm. She was patient and gentle, the exact opposite of Elsbeth’s mom.
When Elsbeth found out she was pregnant, she waited a whole month to tell her mother. She already knew what she’d say, knew exactly how she’d react.
“W
ell, there goes your life,” she’d said, as expected.
Elsbeth knew this was what she’d say because that’s exactly what had happened to her when she got pregnant at seventeen. There went her life. Or what she thought her life might be anyway. And the next seventeen years, the years she had spent with her mother in the two-bedroom apartment by the railroad depot, had been like watching somebody begrudgingly do what they’ve been told to do, despite every inch of their body resisting. “I’m not cut out for this motherhood business,” was her favorite tagline. When Elsbeth found out she was pregnant, she also knew that a part of her mother would be relieved. Especially because, unlike her own father, Kurt loved her and wanted to marry her. Now Elsbeth was somebody else’s problem, and her mother could get on with her own life. As if everything had simply been put on hold for all these years. And, true to prophecy, she met Nate, a pharmaceutical sales rep who came into the doctor’s office where she worked as a receptionist, and they fell in love. Two years later he got a new job and they moved to California, where her mother went back to college and got an associate degree. Now she and Nate ran their own event planning business and lived in a big house with a pool and a two-car garage. Elsbeth had only seen her a few times since then.
Thankfully, after Elsbeth’s mother was gone, Larissa had really stepped in, treating her like she was her very own. When Larissa died when Trevor was still just a baby, Elsbeth felt like her own mother had passed away. She felt robbed. Like she’d finally gotten what she needed her whole life and then had it yanked away from her.
She’d always been mystified as to how Larissa wound up with Jude. She didn’t know how she could listen to the garbage that came out of Jude’s mouth sometimes. Larissa was eternally shaking her head, never speaking up, just rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders. Defeated. Or resigned maybe. Kurt was like that with Jude too, never speaking. Never calling him on his racist, sexist, prejudiced bullshit. Kurt had told her only a little bit about why his brother took off when he was still a kid. But knowing Jude, she wasn’t at all surprised. He was such a goddamned bigot, hated nearly everybody.
She didn’t want her family to turn into this. To become a whole bunch of people who couldn’t stand each other stuck under one roof. She didn’t want Trevor to run away from home at seventeen and never come back. She didn’t want Gracy to hate her. For Kurt and her to merely tolerate each other.
She stuffed the dressing into the turkey carcass and tethered the legs together with a piece of twine. She soaked some cheesecloth in melted butter and draped it over the bird like a blanket, her hands remembering all those other Thanksgivings.
Kurt came into the kitchen and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She could feel his breath on her neck. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate only on the smell of him, that familiar scent of her husband.
“I love you, El,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Elsbeth nodded. She nodded and nodded.
The week before at work, Carly had handed her a postcard addressed to her.
“What’s this?” Elsbeth asked, taking it from her.
Carly had shrugged.
On the front was the word Florida spelled out in big letters, each letter with a picture inside: beaches, oranges, palm trees. On the back, in smudgy letters, it said, Thanks again. It was terrific getting to hear your stories. Someday, hopefully, you’ll read mine. And if you’re ever in Florida, I’d be happy to show you the sights.
She’d laughed out loud then. First because she knew she’d never be in Florida. That had been a silly dream, a silly girl’s fantasy. And secondly, because anything she’d thought about Wilder being interested in her, flirting with her, was just as inane. He was simply a man writing a book. He’d asked her some research questions. She’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t. What an idiot she had been. She was so embarrassed.
She almost tossed the postcard in the trash, but instead she carried it home, put it in the box with all the other stolen things, and tears had come to her eyes. She was making the right decision in staying with Kurt. Her family was the only thing in the world that really belonged to her; how could she have even considered throwing it away?
“I love you too, baby,” she said to Kurt, who was still holding her tight. “Now let me go. I’ve got to peel some potatoes. You’ll be home by five thirty for dinner, right?”
At dinner, Pop pushed his turkey around his plate, picked at the burnt marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and drank. Trevor watched his mother’s jaw clench, watched with each of Pop’s sips the way her lungs filled with air.
“Larissa used to make those green beans I like, with the crunchy onions,” Pop said, the effort of speaking laborious, his words like rocks in his mouth. The entire left side of his face drooped now, his left arm hanging like dead weight at his side. “You ever make those?” he asked Trevor’s mom.
“Not this year, Jude,” she said.
“That woman was a fine cook. Didn’t even have to use a recipe for anything.”
Trevor’s dad looked at his mom as if to say sorry with his eyes.
Pop lifted a forkful of sweet potatoes to his mouth, struggling to get it in. It was like watching a baby try to feed himself. His dad grimaced.
“Listen, Pop. I checked in with Plum’s, and the room is actually still open for December first,” he said. “That’s just next week. Maybe we could at least go check it out this weekend? You don’t have to commit to anything, but it might be nice to at least go see.”
Pop set his fork down, defeated but defiant. “Don’t you get started with that bullshit again.”
Gracy’s eyes widened.
“Jude,” his mom reprimanded.
“Well, if you stay at the house, maybe we should hire someone to help out,” his dad said. “You know, just with the yard. Someone to help keep the place up.”
His mother stiffened, scowling. “And how exactly do we plan to pay for that?”
Kurt set his fork down and shook his head. “It wouldn’t have to cost a fortune.”
“I don’t ... need help.”
Trevor ate until he felt like his stomach might burst, until he felt sick. But as long as his mouth was full, he wouldn’t have to speak.
“Got trouble at school again, huh?” Pop asked.
Trevor felt a jolt rush through him. He nodded, tasting the bitter combination of green beans and squash on his tongue.
“Your dad says some boys givin’ you a hard time,” he said.
His father must have told Pop about the fight.
“They’re meanies, super meanies,” Gracy said, pouring gravy over a small mountain of mashed potatoes.
“Careful, baby,” his mother said, helping her with the heavy boat.
Trevor wanted them to talk about something else, anything else. Even if it meant going back to their stupid argument about money.
“Your dad says you got ’em, though. Got ’em real good.”
“I didn’t say that, Pop,” Trevor’s dad said, his chapped face reddening even more. “We’re not encouraging the fighting. There are other ways to handle this. The school’s stepping in.”
“You startin’ to sound like your brother,” Pop said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” his dad asked.
“I raise a couple of pansies? Couple of goddamned pussies?” He held up one hand, limp at the wrist, and Trevor felt his entire body flood with heat, and the edges of his vision went black, his ears filling. He couldn’t hear anything but Pop’s laughter. He watched as half of Pop’s mouth opened, the spray of orange sweet potatoes that splattered on the clean white tablecloth. Trevor tried to make this picture flat, just a snapshot. Just a frozen image, something he could tear up and toss away.
“Jude,” his mom said, standing, slamming her hands on the table. “I’m done. Get out of my fucking house.”
Pop stopped laughing and closed his mouth, wiping at the wet dribble of potato with his shirt sleeve. “You,” he said, slur
ring and pointing at her, “you don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’ll talk to you any damn way I please. You’re an ignorant asshole, and I want you out of my house. Kurt, I need you to take Jude home.”
His dad nodded, standing. “I’m sorry,” he said to his mom. “Come on, Pop.”
“You’ve always been an ungrateful bitch,” he said. “Getting knocked up and ruinin’ any chances Kurt had to make something of himself. Working two jobs while you sit on your boney ass all day.”
“Jude, we have children at this table. I need you to go now.”
“Pop, let’s go,” his dad said, gripping the table angrily.
Gracy was starting to cry. Normally, Trevor would have reached for her hand and said, “Come on, Gracy. Let’s go play Chutes and Ladders.” But he was afraid to touch her now, and so instead he stood up and went to his bedroom alone. Inside, with the door shut, he tried not to let Pop’s words splinter and sting him. He tried to ignore the sounds of the chairs scraping, the muffled argument still raging in the kitchen. He pretended that the sound of the door slamming and the truck’s engine roaring to life and his mother’s crying were just TV sounds, special effects. That they weren’t real, that they didn’t belong to anyone he knew.
Not much later, he heard his dad’s truck pull in and the sound of the door opening, his boots banging against the jamb, the hushed whispers between him and his mother. Just insects in the grass. Just wind whistling through the tops of trees.
That night Trevor watched his body moving through the world without feeling anything but a dull ache. He watched his own hands as they pulled on his socks, as they tied the belt around his robe, as they ran across the cowlick on the top of his head. He studied his fingers as they held the toothbrush and made it move up and down and in circles, remembering the motions, the bristles not registering against the numbness of his gums and tongue. He looked at himself in the mirror, and while he recognized his own face, he felt as though he were looking at a stranger.
