Black Rabbit and Other Stories

by Salvatore Difalco

  Jesse neared Bradley. Blackheads peppered her nose. Her mouth fell open. She had eaten onions for breakfast. She said she’d cut off his lips if he didn’t speak to her, but he didn’t believe she would do that. He tried to imagine what no lips would be like. One time she offered him a tuna sandwich. He had no lunch that day but he liked being hungry. It made him strong. He liked eating, too. After he ate the sandwich she told him she had put a booger in it.

  The teacher never talked to him; so they never talked. Bradley never complained. Mr. Chiasson gave him math quizzes and geometry exercises and books to read. Bradley enjoyed the math, it was easy, and he liked to spin out circles with the compass. But he never read the books. They were words. Pure words. He had to see the story. He couldn’t read.

  “Bradley,” Jesse said. “Show us your weenie. Do you have one? He has no weenie, fellas. He’s neutered. Bradley the kitty cat. Let’s call him Bradley the kitty cat.” She threw up her arms. “No! Nobody call him that! Ryan, are you eyeing me? If you’re eyeing me I’ll kill you and your mother.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother. What did she do to you? You’re a pig, Jesse.”

  Bradley stayed in his tent until lunchtime. Today he had a lunch. His mother had made him two salami sandwiches. His father ate one in the truck. Bradley ate his slowly in the cafeteria. The teacher made him eat in there with the others. He just made him. Whenever he refused, Mr. Chiasson called in this heavy guy Sam who would corner him and put him in a basket. That’s what they called what he did. Putting someone in a basket. It hurt. But it felt okay, too. Bradley cried after the basket but only to get Mr. Chiasson going. Crying made him hop around like a kangaroo.

  “Hey, Bradley,” Jesse poked. She wore a creamy brown sweater and pants low on her hips, her puckered navel exposed. “When you went to bed last night did you say your prayers?”

  He never prayed. He knew no church. The only one he’d ever visited made people kneel down. His father asked what good this was. Jesse reached over and slapped Daniel in the face. Daniel screeched like the parakeets at Pet Village, where they bought Rafael. Bradley glanced at the cage, wondering what the hamster thought of all this. Daniel continued screeching. Ryan covered his ears, shut his eyes and shouted obscenities. Jesse picked up a basketball on the floor and started bouncing. She bounced like she could do something. When she crossed the ball over from her right hand to her left, it struck the chess table and scattered the men. Everyone fell silent.

  Mr. Chiasson returned. First he scolded Jesse, made her pick up the chessmen. Then he talked about the news. He said people were dying everywhere, there was war and famine, and other bad things, but that they should be happy, they were children. His teeth hurt you when he smiled. He always wore a dark green corduroy jacket with chalk on the back. It smelled like a house. He changed slacks and shoes but always wore the jacket. Jesse raised her ugly hand.

  “What is it now?”

  “I have to poop.”

  The boys howled.

  “That’s inappropriate, Jesse.”

  “Actually, it’s a female problem.”

  Mr. Chiasson rolled his eyes and waved her out. Jesse exited holding herself. Daniel brayed and rocked back and forth in his seat. Mr. Chiasson yelled at him to stop. When he wouldn’t, Mr. Chiasson seized his shoulder and shook it. Then he moved over to Ryan. Ryan’s snoring head lay on his desk. Mr. Chiasson never tried to wake him when he fell asleep. One day a supply teacher covering for Mr. Chiasson woke Ryan up and he bashed a bowling trophy over her head. They had to get a new trophy, and a new supply teacher. The trophy went to the best bowler at the end of the year. Bradley bowled five-pin. Ten-pin balls weighed a ton. But he could handle the five-pin balls. Ryan busted his arm bowling ten-pin one time. He threw the ball funny and everyone heard a snapping sound. Ryan went green and passed out. They removed his bowling shoes and called an ambulance. Jesse bowled like a killer. Daniel like a chimpanzee. This was every Wednesday afternoon. Today was Wednesday. Bradley came out of the tent for bowling.

  So that guy Sam drove them in a minivan to a place called Welland Lanes. Old people came on Wednesdays too, and they were mean bowlers. They didn’t like too much noise, though, and stared at the class. Mr. Chiasson tried to quiet the youth, but he had to make noise to do it. People at the grill stopped eating their French fries and watched Ryan when his turn came up. He swung the ball to his chest and lurched forward. His way hurt everyone. Jesse mocked him until he was twitching. Mr. Chiasson pulled her arm and said something in her ear that made her stop. Bradley wondered what that could have been. Daniel bowled nice in his little black cap and orange jacket. He squealed when he knocked down pins. Fat people bowled too, balloon men and women with small sweet feet. They tiptoed up with the ball and let it flow. Bradley learned from them.

  “Watch my form now, boys. Observe the follow-through.” When Mr. Chiasson hit a strike, he punched the air and sucked in his lips. Bradley tiptoed up and let the ball flow. His strike was silent. Bowling was good. He hit another strike, then another one. Mr. Chiasson had to walk Jesse out when she started swearing at a senior in a red pullover. Then Bradley got cold. His shots shook the lane. What happened? He lost his eye. When you lose your eye, the ball goes off, runs away from the point. You had to see the point. Ryan slammed a ball down the lane and it guttered. His face turned red. He swung his long arms around and caught a short woman’s shoulder. She spun like a bulldog chasing its tail. The old woman beside her resembled a sphinx. She blew dust at Ryan. Mr. Chiasson hurried in from the cold, steaming and pale. Bradley felt like cement. He sat down. Wearing a weasel face, Daniel walked up to a girl beside a broken man in a wheelchair. The girl jumped. Her screams pierced every eardrum in the place. Then she caught a fistful of Daniel’s pretty blonde hair and wrenched.

  Mr. Chiasson rapped Ryan in the skull with his knuckles but this went wrong. Ryan kicked him in the groin and he dropped to all fours. All the problems then. People running, left, right. The porky owner in a black cowboy hat swung out from behind the cash register and legged his way to the action, pulling up his silver-buckled belt. He demanded to know what was going on. By now Mr. Chiasson had recovered his colour but pain still creased his face. Ryan stood staring at the teacher’s feet.

  “What the heck is wrong with you, Ryan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does that mean, Ryan? Tell me what I don’t know means.”

  Ryan’s head twitched. “I don’t know, Mr. C.”

  “Well,” said the owner, a Mr. Stram, “I can call the po-lice, if you need ’em.”

  Mr. Chiasson’s mouth opened, but by now Bradley had gone to the tent again. He left the window alone. He wanted to see nothing. Sounds still came, but the tent muffled them, and Bradley could hear his own heart beating. Life is nice, someone told him once, in a dark room. He wanted it to stop, back then. He said so. But he frightened himself and let it go on until he liked it. In the tent, blue light showed through the fabric; he liked it blue.

  Coming back, Sam stopped the minivan on one of the icy canal bridges. Jesse had opened the door and said she wanted to jump into the frigid water. She said she wanted to die. Sam wouldn’t tolerate her foolishness. He told her to die some other time. Daniel burst out laughing. Jesse walloped him in the crown. He whimpered but didn’t start screeching. Sam said if she hit Daniel again he’d drive her straight to the cops and have her charged with assault. Sam spoke low and calm. Jesse listened.

  The trip back to school continued. The landscape was snow. Honking Canada geese flew overhead in a giant V. They were early, or late. It made Bradley sad to think of them up there in the cold air. Did they know what they were doing? Jesse and Ryan had words. Jesse promised to burn down his house. Ryan swore his cousins would revenge it. Daniel tried to remove his thing from his pants before he got out of the van. His cheeks burned and drool dripped down his chin. He had seen Tammy the receptionist from afar. She looked like a blonde horse. She trotted up to her white car and w
aited for the boys to enter the building before she lit her cigarette. Mr. Chiasson dragged Daniel into the school by the arm. Jesse followed them, clapping. Ryan stumbled and fell over. Bradley tried not to laugh. Sam helped Ryan to his feet and said some words to him about being more mature, but judging from Ryan’s expression he understood nothing.

  Back in the classroom Bradley went tent again, but Mr. Chiasson came to the window and peered in. “Time, young man. Time.” His face melted away. It was quiet for a moment. Then he could hear Ryan sobbing. Mr. Chiasson softly spoke to him. Jesse was quiet. Where was she? He peeked out the window and saw her standing a few feet away, expressionless. She stroked her finger across her throat and nodded. Bradley ducked down and curled up.

  Jesse left before too long, with the others. Bradley came out of the tent. He approached the cage. The skeleton watched. The globe was quiet. Rafael’s cheek pouches trembled. He was wise, Rafael. He understood. Bradley opened the cage. The rodent froze. Bradley had stroked the fur once before but not since then. He stroked now. Rafael tried so hard not to move. Bradley lifted him out of the cage. He held him to his chest and rocked from side to side. A loud clang behind him caused him to drop the hamster.

  Bradley’s father stood there in greasy blue jeans and a dark green jacket short on the sleeves. He didn’t look too pleased.

  Bradley was afraid to look down to see what had happened to Rafael. Was he hurt? Did he escape? His father glared at him with his hateful black eyes. Bradley wanted to say something, anything, but his mouth wouldn’t open.

  “What the fuck was that?” the father asked.

  Bradley took a deep breath. “Rafael.”

  “Don’t sass me, boy.”

  “He’s a hamster.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me? Is that what I pay my taxes for?” He spat on the floor and pushed Bradley’s shoulder. “Go on, get your ass moving.”

  “But I should . . .”

  “You should what? Move it, you little prick.”

  The father said things all the way to the house. He said he was sick and tired of this nonsense, that Bradley had to come to a reckoning. That’s right. A reckoning. He kept saying that word. It hit you. They drove past the house. They continued down to the park and climbed out of the truck. They walked to the monkey bars. He made Bradley get up there and hang. He told him if he let go he’d get no supper. Bradley lasted ten seconds. The father kicked the snow.

  Love in Time

  Give me a screech in the morning. Give me a bloody good screech in the morning, in my ear. Another mouse smeared on the Victory. The pockmarked walls receiving blunt yellow light. I’m on the floor. I fear the day ahead. My dreams did nothing special. Chased by grunting hogs again over their rutting grounds, slippery going. Yet I take no stock in dreams. Nothing more than little movies to help pass the long night, reminding one of nothing more than life itself, garbled, chaotic. What is this life inside my head? I shower and dress. Isn’t life this? This getting dressed for it? My sandals stink. Adrienne came back from the coast but didn’t call me last night. I told her never to call me again, and she didn’t. I expected her to call one more time. I have to wash my sandals.

  Cold coffee in the café next door and the morning paper and nothing better to do, though I’d swear that wasn’t the case to a stranger. Tragedy, and politics left and right. And too much baseball coverage, too much golf, for the swingers of the world. I have no beef. I am not bitter. I only ask for a place to rest my elbow when I’m flagging. Adrienne didn’t call and today I cannot think of her. Head out in the sour morning rush and the violent universal mind of the world. I feel hopped up. I’m bouncing on my toes. I used to box a little. I can still go if I have to, but my hands hurt, my hands hurt like hell.

  “Watch where you’re going.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me, punk?”

  The old guy refuses to relent, like some small rabid red-mouthed species of terrier. His cruel cane, too, I note. A right to the jaw would square him. But I’m not that way. I make progress. I know why the mail is slow: three posties at the corner talk about the soccer game. What soccer game? Meanwhile the people wait. I buy nuts from Bulk Foods. Munch them as I head down to the drugstore to fill a prescript for antidepressants. What month is it? It doesn’t matter. Maybe June. June is good. The good light, the ease.

  Crossing Montrose Avenue changes things. Grey sedan runs red, takes down man on bicycle. A spinning wheel annoys everyone watching. The driver jumps out, enraged. He shouts at the fallen cyclist. The wheel continues spinning. The cyclist springs to his feet, starts kicking the unscrupulous driver. We could all applaud him. But he doesn’t stop for a while. Then the driver drops. The cyclist berates him, and what is this?

  “Buddy,” I say. “You made your point.”

  “Hey, you fucking squarehead,” cries the cyclist, “you want some of this too?” He jabs his foot into the driver’s spine.

  The revolution begins. Flags flow over the landscape, horses. A trumpet blares. I bounce on my toes. He misses my knee on the first swipe and I catch him in the shoulder with a right hook. Hits my thigh with a second hoof, but his hands drop to his hips and my left followed by a right ends the story. Now another man takes offence.

  In shorts with hairy legs and leather sandals, he charges from behind a parked car. Downs me with a shoulder blow. My pills dance across the asphalt. Now I’m the victim. Yet this isn’t true, apparently. The sun in the sky, the falcon flying close to me, and the emptiness of everything surrounding these events: the universe feels hollow. A siren interjects. Two men in black leather clutch me. Something wrong down there, my hip numb. They rough me. They throw me into a black van. Then black inside. Then black inside my head.

  Come winter they’ll bring me back my shoes. They’ll give me back my crucifix. Come winter I’ll know where I stand in the system. I won’t fool myself into thinking there’s an easy way out. Cramps grip me now when the weather chills, when rain threatens. When the rain arrives at last, the cramps let up, but a constant pain persists. Hot baths help. Massages. My masseuse, Kaelin, lost her license last month for failing to pay registration dues. Came over to my place with her massage board and worked me over.

  I’m too young to be so fucked up. Kaelin told me I was too young to be so fucked up. Hurt my feelings. I could think of more fucked up people. The guy next door with Tourette’s, blathering all day and night. What about him? But Kaelin had a point. I’d let everything go to shit. What was wrong with me? I’m more sober today. I realize there’s nothing I can do about the mayhem of the world. I’m better off keeping a distance. My last woman fled when I grew too engrossed with her. She told me she was afraid. I asked her what she was afraid of. She said she was afraid of making a terrible mistake.

  I’m crippled then. Hobbling around like an old man. Kaelin suggested a cane. But I’ll have none of that. A cane.

  I met Adrienne at a poetry launch. She had no face at first. She talked. I watched her mouth. Another time she wore black-rimmed glasses and a red lycra top. I told her my story. Then we began a story.

  The present holds more attraction. I want to wash my hands of everything preceding this moment. Not possible of course. But pleasant to think about. We’d been seeing each other for six months. Summer dragged on, then autumn. Life was killing me, but love lightened the load.

  Then she was in Chicago. I waited for her return. And yet not happily. I visited George. George was a priest, but he gave up the cloth to write a play. On his eighth draft, something wasn’t working. He hadn’t bathed for days.

  “Structurally,” he said, “I find no fault. But perhaps I’m fooling myself.”

  “What do the boys say?”

  “They say they like it. But can I trust them?”

  “They mean well.”

  “Exactly.”

  George hooked up with a local amateur theatre troupe, amateur being the operative word. He wanted his play staged. We all make compromises. Some
times there’s no choice. He bared his nicotine-stained teeth. Lit another cigarette, rubbed his sparse beard. Foot smell, forgotten vegetable matter, baby-powder, and the smoke behind everything, the smoke in the atoms of that interior. He wore no socks.

  “And you’re in love,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s nice. Ditty and I were in love once. I swear. After being a priest for so long I didn’t think love was possible. She was a beautiful girl. When we got married I felt free.”

  “Where is Ditty these days?”

  “Out west with a one hundred pound ass-less goof.”

  “You’re still bitter.”

  “Sour’s more like it. Sour.”

  George liked feeling that way. Fuel for the drama. Without malaise, without sourness, nothing clicked for him. I wanted to tell him more about Adrienne. I wanted to tell him everything but knew he might not want to hear my testimony, so I buttoned my lip. He had his own gorillas choking him out. I’d always admired George, though I never wanted to emulate him.

  “So tell me about this girl,” he said.

  “I thought she understood me.”

  George smiled. “Let me tell you something, pally. Understanding brings responsibility.”

  “How do you mean?”

  George lost interest in the conversation. He waved me off. I left in a tilted position. What was he getting at? When Adrienne returned from Chicago, I had no words for her. She kissed me but smelled different.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t love me anymore?”

  “It’s not that. I still love you.”

  Adrienne’s bloated face angled toward me. Her dark red lipstick daunting.

  “I still love you, Adrienne. I’ve just had time to think.”

  “Thinking’s dangerous.”

  “I know.”