The War for Gloria

by Atticus Lish

  But Joan said not to worry, she would kick him where the sun didn’t shine.

  When Joan was alone with Corey, she put tapes in the VCR and they watched movies. She went into his fantasy life, steering him towards Indian maidens in the movies with black hair, tan legs, buckskins, beads and leather fringe—women who looked like her—and he dreamed about them when she put him to bed.

  Together, he and Joan saw Billy Jack, a movie starring Tom Laughlin as a denim-clad 1970s-era Shane figure who defends the multiethnic runaways at the Freedom School from small-town bigots, using the Korean martial art hapkido. Billy Jack goes through a Native American rite of passage, sitting with a rattlesnake inside a ritual ring of stones, allowing the snake to bite him. Corey admired the ascetic Laughlin.

  There was a scene in Billy Jack that disturbed Corey. The leader of the Freedom School, the heroine, a blonde pacifist who looked like Gloria with longer hair, lay in a desert canyon to sunbathe. There she was discovered by Billy Jack’s nemesis and raped.

  But in a later scene, Billy Jack kills the rapist, getting revenge with his bare hands.

  * * *

  —

  On a Friday night in mid-December, Corey got home from hanging out with Adrian and encountered Leonard in their house. It had been months since Leonard’s visit in the summer, and Corey was mildly astonished to see him. Gloria was sitting at the end of the futon next to the scavenged end table, a space between her and Leonard, with her body turned so she could listen to him talk. She had hidden herself in a long, thrift-store dress, fisherman’s hat and woolly sweater, and retracted both her atrophied hands up inside her sweater sleeves. There was a wineglass on the end table.

  When Corey entered, they were having a discussion. Gloria had stated that the aim of sculpture was to overcome the inherent rigidity of the material and make it appear flowing, dynamic, alive, changing, like a child becoming an adult, or any of life’s evolutions. Leonard was replying to her view. He said, “I don’t know anything about art—and I think most of it serves an economic agenda by elites, where you have people spending millions of dollars for something a five-year-old could draw—but when I look at sculpture, like so-called Mother Mary in a church, I think the sculptor is freezing reality so we can see it and hold it. Sculptures don’t grow into adults. They don’t evolve. They get bought and sold.”

  When she saw her son, Gloria’s face lit up and she raised her half-hidden hands in her lap. “Yay! It’s Corey, the man of the hour!”

  “Me?”

  “We were just talking about you. About what a super kid you are. Man—young man—you are.”

  Corey went over and hugged her. He greeted Leonard. Leonard was dressed in so much black, from the fedora on his head all the way down to the black soles of his shoes, that it made Corey appreciate as never before this color’s ability to separate a figure from the world around it.

  Leonard nodded at him. “You’ve grown since I saw you last.”

  “I’ve been working out.”

  “Have you?”

  Leonard produced a joint and lit it for Corey’s mother. “I’m afraid I’ll drop it,” she said. Leonard put it to her mouth. She leaned over and dragged from it, making the pot crackle and the resin bubble, her eyes squinted under the wool brim of her too-big hat. A knot of smoke hung in her oral cavity giving her a thick white tongue. She inhaled and the smoke was whisked away into her breathing passages and vanished.

  High, she talked with him on subjects ranging from sculpture to impressionism, to Darwin, to eugenics. Leonard argued that Hitler was a rational agent in a world of limited resources, but that communism is both rational and moral. Corey lay on the floor and took a book at random from the milk crate—Democracy and the Market: Political and Economic Reforms in Eastern Europe. He let his eyes take up the words while he listened to their talk, experimenting with letting his brain work on two tracks at once.

  “We’re bad parents,” Gloria said, waving at her pot smoke.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’ll have myself to blame if you turn into a stoner on me.”

  Corey said he was armored against bad influences because he was only motivated by ways to become “more overcoming.”

  “Overcoming isn’t an adjective,” Leonard said.

  Corey said that he was drawing his ideas, and his vocabulary, from a new friend, a highly original young man who was teaching Corey to dedicate himself to amassing physical and intellectual power.

  “I think I detect a little recycled Nietzsche.”

  “You’re starting a new chapter in your life. There’s such excitement ahead for you!” Gloria said, her eyes shining.

  Later, when the adults decided it was time to wrap the night up, Gloria asked Corey to open the futon so Leonard could recline.

  * * *

  —

  For some time now, since meeting Adrian, Corey had been expressing a sudden ambition to work hard in school, to study subjects he had previously ignored, like math and science, and apply to MIT—just like Adrian—or, failing that, UMass—just like Molly. But at any rate to actually try to go to college and study hard wherever he went—and build, within the neurons of his own brain, an enormous structure of knowledge and deductive ability—whole libraries in his head, a hierarchical structure—stacks to shelves to books to the parts and chapters in the books themselves. He envisioned an intellectual spectrum with math at the foundation: calculus, the language of the physical world; physics to chemistry to biology to psychology; from force and magnetism to molecules to neurotransmitters to language and love and anger to all the literature of the world; the history of all civilizations—all the farming, rebellions, wars and paintings.

  * * *

  —

  Leonard visited them again a few nights later to consult with Gloria about her disease. His late-night visits created a mood of holiday, coinciding, as they did, with Corey’s winter break. Generally, Leonard’s tour was midnight to eight, but his schedule seemed to migrate through the hours. Sometimes he stayed past midnight and left at two or three in the morning. He’d knock on their door in the dead of night and Gloria would tell Corey to let him in. They’d stay up watching videos and eating macaroni and cheese.

  “What are you watching?”

  “Horseshit,” they told Corey in unison. They were watching Robocop.

  They were living in a bubble—in one of the bubbles in Leonard’s universe, Corey thought. He joined in the togetherness.

  Leonard urged him to try pot. “Just one puff.” Corey took a hit off Leonard’s joint.

  The camping-out feeling lasted several weeks. Sometimes they didn’t sleep at all and Gloria called out sick. Before the break had even begun, Corey had missed some days of school and one important test, Biology.

  * * *

  —

  During the Christmas holiday, Leonard didn’t have money. Gloria would say, “Don’t worry. You can eat on my dime.” And they’d put a meal on the credit card because she didn’t want to face cooking. Corey would take her card and drive to Acapulcos and get two or three entrées—burritos, enchiladas with sour cream, guacamole—the corn chips stale. “I don’t care what it costs,” Gloria said. “Let’s enjoy it.”

  They’d position themselves on the futon, Leonard on one end, Gloria on the other, Corey on the floor between. His mother—in a rare moment of playfulness—kicked him lightly in the back of the head. “You don’t have to sit down there.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m a floor person more than a couch person.” Sitting on the floor, he was close to the laptop so he could control the mouse.

  “He’s the remote,” Leonard said. “Down in front, remote.”

  “He’s low enough. How low do you want him to get, for heaven’s sakes?”

  “It’s fine,” said Corey, scooting lower. He touched the mouse. The movie star
ted playing, then actors, sound effects, and drama broke out on the screen, and they were diverted for a while. This was how they got through Christmas.

  But after several nights of this, there began to be a hangover effect: the waking up late in a messy apartment, the day half over, no chores done, crumbs on the floor. The daylight was unforgiving. Corey prayed for another night and another movie. He worried his mother might be regretting how she spent her time. It was a relief when she asked, “What’ll we do to have fun today?” because the answer was another movie and something fun to eat.

  Then there were the long silences while Gloria, wearing bifocals, hunted for a video they could stream for free. She was interested in a story about a woman who, after a romantic misadventure, returned home to live with her parents, bringing to light unresolved family tensions. Leonard said Road Warrior had a political substructure that made it more worthwhile. Corey wanted to see it too. They watched it and Gloria said, “I don’t understand why men revel in cruelty so.”

  “Women are by far the crueler species,” Leonard said.

  “That’s topsy-turvy. Look at history. Who’s always declaring wars? Your species, Leonard.”

  “Hey, it’s Christmas,” Corey put in. The movie played out.

  “Well, we got through that one,” they laughed. But it was late and now they needed another movie more than ever. Gloria said she didn’t care what they watched; the men could decide. “Come on, Mom, don’t say that!” He found her female drama and put it on. Leonard turned on a light and read his math book. They couldn’t see the screen. Corey pushed Pause and took the laptop to his mother’s bedroom for her to watch alone. And it took a long time for her to emerge the morning after Christmas. She’d been up late. He’d heard her through the wall.

  7

  Trees Don’t Hit Back

  Except for his parents’ movie marathons, Corey’s break from school was completely lacking in structure except for that provided by the weather: All the days but one were very cold, and it was very warm, to the point of being an anomaly. He didn’t have homework and he wasn’t working. The moratorium on calling Tom was still in effect. He was at loose ends. As much as possible, he went to see Adrian, who was on his break as well, though as always, Adrian was frequently occupied with his studies and couldn’t be disturbed, so Corey only saw him twice.

  The first night he went to Cambridge, he found Adrian alone. Mrs. Reinhardt, who had an active schedule despite her cancer, had gone to visit friends. Both boys were happy to be unsupervised. Corey experienced a giddy sense of freedom as he stood in the big dark cold house with his friend looming above him on the stairs and the entire nighttime city awaiting them outside.

  He said they ought to go to Harvard Square to look for girls.

  Adrian said that, for once, he didn’t feel oppressed by the need for a woman because the first thing he’d done when his mother left the house that night was masturbate.

  “Thanks for sharing.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t like to talk about that.” Unlike a lot of guys, Adrian admitted that he masturbated. He talked about it openly—incessantly—until it became an uncomfortable form of comedy. “I don’t see how anyone can resist it. Don’t you jack off?”

  “I can’t deny it. But I want a real woman. Don’t you?”

  “Well, if you could meet those needs another way, wouldn’t it be more efficient?”

  “I’m not thinking about efficiency, I’m thinking about a girlfriend.”

  “But how can you guarantee you’ll get one?”

  “Of course I’ll get one.”

  “How? You can’t just snap your fingers and make one appear.”

  “I don’t know how. I’m just gonna try. I’m gonna get lucky.”

  “I wish that would work for me.”

  Corey was reminded that a few weeks ago, Adrian had told him that he knew a girl at Rindge, a big girl with a big rear end. She was five-foot-nine, she had full lips and long hair. In Adrian’s words, she had a “big beefcake” and he wanted to “pop it.” Adrian had heard through the grapevine that she was into him. People were saying she thought he had a hot body and was waiting for him to ask her out. What should he do? Corey had told him to go for it. Adrian had agreed (reluctantly, it had seemed to Corey) that maybe he should. But he didn’t want to mess this up. He knew what he was going to do: He was going to write down everything he was going to say to her beforehand.

  “I’ll get three-by-five note cards and plan everything out.”

  Corey had said he didn’t think that was a great idea.

  Adrian had turned on him and glared. “Why not?”

  It was the first time his friend had ever been angry at him and he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say that scripting your date with a woman sounded like a surefire way to turn something alive and unpredictable into something dead, and above all, why would you even think of doing such a thing? But he held his tongue.

  “No,” Adrian repeated firmly, as if Corey wasn’t even there, “that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll plan everything out beforehand.”

  Shortly thereafter, Adrian had informed Corey that he had asked the girl out and she had accepted. But since then, Adrian hadn’t said a word about their date. Remembering it now, Corey asked him how his date had gone.

  “Oh, that. Not well.”

  Adrian had picked her up after class and they’d taken a walk to Inman Square. On the way, he worked through his preplanned conversation points. It was going well, he thought, but then she changed things; she wanted to get pizza, so of course he had to say okay. They went into a pizza place. She ordered a slice and they sat down. She crossed her big legs and ate her pizza. He tried to adapt to the situation by talking about the pizza place, but there wasn’t much to say. “I could tell she was losing interest. It got really awkward.” She wiped her fingers and her big mouth with her napkin and said she was ready to go back to school; her friends were waiting. He had to walk her the four long hedgerow-lined blocks back to their high school campus. When they got there, she was just like “Thanks, bye.” Adrian had waved at her as she walked away from him, saying, “Happy trails”—speaking to her thick rear end.

  “How do you know that’s bad?” Corey asked. “She might be waiting for you to ask her out again.”

  “No, she isn’t. I got shot down.”

  “Don’t let it get you down.”

  “I don’t. I don’t set high expectations so I don’t get disappointed.”

  However, Adrian was not a virgin.

  “I am. I’m counting the hours till I do it. It’s gotta be incredible. What’s it like?”

  “It’s better than jacking off because you’re kind of like—unh!—on top of her. But it doesn’t feel as good as your hand. There are all these grooves in your hand.”

  “Shit, it’s gotta be way better than your hand.”

  “No, take my word for it. It’s not.”

  * * *

  —

  Instead of going to Harvard Square, Adrian suggested, Corey could watch him hit the bag. He took his G-Shock watch and led the way downstairs, unlocked the garage, turned on the light. A sledgehammer stood on its solid metal head among shovels and rakes. On the concrete floor rested an Everlast punching bag. It was very hard to move, as if it had absorbed weight from the earth. Corey bear-hugged it and walked it out and dropped it in the driveway.

  They hung the bag on a tree growing out of a grass-covered patch on a traffic island between Mount Auburn and an intersecting road. Adrian began preparing, wrapping his hands with long bloodstained strips of elastic cloth that resembled Ace bandages. They reeked with the urine-stink of dried sweat. His knuckles were perpetually scabbed and bleeding. Because he never gave them time to heal, they had developed fleshy wartlike growths.

  Corey wandered around on the black grass in the freezing N
ew England night, trying to stay warm.

  His eye fell on Adrian’s big red boxing gloves. He tried them on. They were damp and cold inside and full of fungus. He stood sideways and raised the gloves. They felt huge on either side of his head. He closed in on the hanging bag and started hitting. The bag gradually tilted away from the pressure of his punches. When he relented, it swung the other way.

  He tired himself out after a minute.

  “How’d I do?” he asked.

  He took off the gloves and held them for Adrian. Adrian shoved his fists inside. Corey clipped the iPod that played death metal to the headband of Adrian’s black ball cap, took his G-Shock watch, hit the timer, yelled, “Go,” and Adrian exploded.

  The eighty-pound bag folded when he hit it where your face would be. The bag jumped as if someone had thrown it and came down on its chains. The report of leather hitting leather cracked across the street and flew above the trees. Adrian’s other fist hit the bag, folding it the other way.

  He did three rounds, separated by a minute’s rest, during which he stared at the pitch-black treetops, the music chugging in his ears. Cars went by, no few of them driven by people associated with Harvard University—often lone women with Quaker haircuts. But towards the end of Adrian’s workout, a construction worker’s truck stopped at the light, and the man at the wheel called out to the boys, “Trees don’t hit back!”

  The light changed and he drove away.

  “Let me see how hard you hit,” Corey shouted.

  Adrian took off his iPod. “Did you say something to that guy?”

  “He was saying ‘Trees don’t hit back.’ ”

  The boys guffawed together.

  “Have you been in a lot of street fights down in Quincy?” Adrian asked.