Arjun shifts onto his right side. If he waits a moment he will have sufficient energy to
rock himself sideways and out of bed. But the energy doesn’t come. He waits.
Once it was easy to rock up, but now he has to use his body’s weight to ease himself
off the mattress. And he must take his time. Any small slip and he will slither off
completely and Sunila will panic and scream. Why couldn’t you call me for help? Why are
you so stubborn? Why can’t you just do something simple like wait for help? Then
prediction. You’ll have broken your hip/back/head.

He thinks of Just Desserts. Just don’t think I’m going to visit you every day. In this stage,
the suffering is transferred to her and he can stay in the background as the source of her bad luck.

As he has learned, it is better to wait. Most of the body’s cravings can be subdued,
as he learned even before he became sick.

It is difficult to remember that time. He was Thirty. Forty? No the first attack was
before then. He was thirty-six. So he was healthy until he was thirty-six. He marvels at
this other self whose body performed daily miracles; standing, turning, lifting, running
up the stairs two at a time.

And even further back, in the time of legend, he played Squash for the All-India
team. Who was this person who wore white shorts and ran after small rubber balls
with such speed and accuracy? Surely he was a superman in those days. He wonders
if those other squash players are also lying in bed and wondering where their bodies
went, wondering at which date the synaptic rush and response slowed and failed.

And even further back, there was his boyhood in India. How easily, fluidly he ran up
and down mountains, as though up were almost the same as down. How he jumped
over rocks, between rocks, balancing with his arms flung out, his body leaning this way
and that as the impetus carried him forward, forward.

In some faint responsive memory of movement, he moves his legs and finds he can
ease himself off the mattress. He holds on to the bedrail with both hands and steadies
himself as his feet touch the ground. He is sitting upright.

He smiles at the triumph; he can still get out of bed by himself, which means he can
still go to the bathroom by himself. Small victories. He can’t even brag to Rob, his
grandson. Rob is not only well past the stage of getting out of bed by himself but he
doesn’t even need a safety rail at night anymore.

Arjun realizes with humility that he is far behind his grandson, who is bounding
ahead into his future. That future won’t contain Arjun or his stories about tigers and
elephants, his descriptions of the mountain ranges of the Himalayas, his peanut and
monkey jokes.

He has become accustomed to letting go. He is no longer anxious to keep up with
Rob. Occasional accounts about his progress in school or on the football team are
enough. These days, visitors, particularly children, are exhausting and he feels an
overwhelming lassitude from the moment they arrive to the moment they leave.

He steadies himself as he takes the weight on his legs, both hands firmly on the
walker. Now to walk. The coordination that goes into walking is astonishing.  He
pushes the right leg forward first and leans on the walker, then the left leg. It takes a
few steps to get into his shuffling rhythm and then he is on his way to the bathroom.

He takes his time, making sure the door is fully open, that he can sit with his walker
in front of him. How long has it been since he was so indignant about having to sit to
urinate? Now he is merely relieved to sit after the walk to the bathroom.

What importance he used to attribute to things that now seem so small: his perfectly
ironed shirts, the knife-like crease in his pants, the well-tailored jackets and suits, his
meticulously folded socks and underwear, his Kiwi-polished shoes, his leather billfold.
These details made him feel a little taller, a little better prepared to face the hostile
country he had moved to.

He remembers pushing Roxi aside so he could iron the shirts that Sunila wouldn’t.
Roxi had wanted him to read to her. Another time, Murad had nervously waited on the
stairs for something or another, but Arjun was polishing his shoes. Couldn’t the boy
see he was busy?

It was Roxi’s job to lay the table, but it was never done properly. He remembers how
he would have Roxi straighten knives, move glasses over an inch or two so they were
correctly aligned, re-fold the napkins.

Murad was responsible for washing the dishes while Roxi dried. Murad was
mournfully methodical. Roxi was careless, swiping at plates and rubbing handfuls of
silverware together in the towel and jumbling them into the drawer. How many times
did he have to order her back into the kitchen where she angrily re-dried plates and
pans, or sorted out the silverware drawer?

It all meant something but he can’t remember what that is. Some sense of decorum,
some sense of fitting in to the middle class neighborhood whose ideals he’s never
quite grasped.

But their neighbors are now used to them. They’ve been there for fifty years;
they’re the old-timers. He’s seen nearly all the houses on the street change owners at
one time or another.

Now they are the sweet old couple at number 4, Oriole Drive (Ah, bless). Sunila
greets everyone with a friendly smile and wave, invites them in, offers them tea, hands
out cookies to the children on their way home from school. She has achieved her
coveted position of being accepted. She is harmless and old.

Her high heels no longer strike static from the sidewalk as she busies to work and
back home again with carrier bags of groceries. The children are gone; there is no one
to scream at in the evenings. She can’t even scold him for long without becoming
breathless.

He used to laugh at her as she retreated to the kitchen coughing and angry. But
now he sees that this is how she stays alive; this is the vigor which allows her to
dress him, cook for him, wash him, help him to the bathroom in the day, turn the TV on
or off, fetch his photograph albums, take them away when they are too heavy to hold,
reach down books for him and re-shelve them when he can’t remember the page he
wants.

Now he becomes anxious if she coughs too much. He urges her to rest, to take more
time upstairs watching her soap operas on the bedroom TV.

Now that it is too late, he has come to love her. Even if he could find some adequate
language to tell her, she would dismiss him, would think he was trying to manipulate
her, would correct his syntax, would think he was becoming sentimental as the old
often do. She would never understand what it has taken for him to reach this point.

It doesn’t matter. He loves her ignorance, her wide-ranging prejudices, her quick
judgment of other people, her feelings of inadequacy, her suspicion of those who she
feels are somehow ‘better’; her inability to follow a simple argument, her inability to
follow simple directions her instinctive dislike of anything artistic, including art. He loves
her sad walls of exclusion, including those exclude her from anything that might
demand a little understanding outside of the terrible moral code by which she
attempts, and often fails, to live.

In the early mornings, while he is meant to be asleep, she sits in the least
comfortable armchair near the gas fire, bent over her Bible. He is still amazed at her
conversion to Christianity. She claims is it her refuge and her strength. But, perhaps it
was only that the Hindu gods were too many, too confusing to remember, somehow
not quite respectable.

Her lips move over the verses which spell out her failure in stark formulaic King James
prose with its incomprehensible italics and emphatic pronouncements. Thou shalt not.

But she shall, she does, she cannot help herself. And worse than her voice raised
against him, the words that ricochet out of her mouth, the fists clamped against her
sides, is that sudden recognition, I’ve done it again. I’ve done it again. And she abruptly
turns to the kitchen, to vent her despair on the clanging pans.

It is then he longs to tell her, “I know you’re angry. It’s all right to be angry.” She would
not believe him. It isn’t Christian to be angry. Even Christ, famously angry in the
temple, got over it.

Her anger has lasted all her life.

He doesn’t ask where it comes from. Does it matter? A spoiled child, she was given
everything her impoverished family could manage. He sometimes wonders about the
older sisters. Perhaps they resented her and that also fueled her anger. Perhaps she
just felt she didn’t get what she deserved.

So often, she has sighed after luxurious items, blaming him because she cannot hold
her head up since she doesn’t have a washer and dryer, convection oven, an Aga
stove, full central heating, silk velvet curtains, a nicer car.

No one else bought a Fiat, a Honda. She sneered at these bright, practical little cars.
When, by some strange combination of events he bought a BMW she was thrilled. He
was baffled to hear her refer to him to their church friends as her dear Arjun. How
quickly she adopted language and manners appropriate to one who owned a BMW.
She drove everywhere on errands, for visiting this poor old dear, that poor sick lady.
The elderly had never benefited so much from her Christian outreach.

He hated the car. It was too big, difficult to maneuver, costly to run and insure. She
backed it into a lamppost and then into another car, and their insurance soared. He
sold it as quickly as he could and immediately felt her deflate. He felt sorry for her,
quietly admitting to Mrs. Benson, “We’ve sold the car. Too many accidents, you know,”
as though the car led an independently willful life, rear-ending and colliding where it
would.

Mrs. Benson had nodded elegantly and immediately Arjun had seen how Sunila had
copied the gesture, the you know, the half-abstract air.

He felt badly for her, but couldn’t see why she tried so hard to be like them, the
British, with their coldness, their inability to speak their own language correctly, the
assumption of superiority where none existed.

As he shuffles his walker back into the living room where he can finally sit down on
his bed, he has the impression that someone else is in the room. Perhaps Sunila heard
the toilet flush and woke up.

He positions himself and sits and then says, “Did I wake you?”

“You might have done, you took that long, you stupid old git.” The voice is young,
male and cold. A flashlight is shone directly at his face. There is a crash and swearing
as the flashlight is dropped and a chair is overturned. He expects a blow to the head.
He expects that he must die now. He hopes he will have the chance to say that they
have very little money in the house, but to take whatever there is downstairs. There is
nothing upstairs. Perhaps he can save Sunila from this final shame of being humiliated
and hurt by a maniac child.

But the blow doesn’t arrive. There is heavy breathing and the voice says, “You’re
Indian, intcha?”

Arjun manages, “Yes, I am. Please take what we have down here. I can tell you
where it is.”

“I can’t take nothing from you, you old bhenchod.”

Arjun flinches at the language. Even now he cannot accustom himself to the casual
way that young people swear. And then he realizes the boy is Indian, hence the
swearing in Hindi. “Beta, don’t hurt us. Or, if you must, then hurt me. Leave her be.”

“Shut up. Don’t say anything.” A pause. “Maderchod.”

“Beta, please don’t swear.”

“Don’t call me son. I’m not your son.”

“I’m sorry.” Arjun tries to slow his breathing down before the panic attack starts.

“What the fuck am I meant to do now? I mean, I go to all the fucking trouble to
break into your bhenchod house and you’re fucking Indian.”

“Son, can we put the light on?”

“Oh, so you can see me and report me to the police, I suppose.”

“Who is going to believe a sick old man?”

“Oh yes. Rub it in. Not only can I not smash your maderchod head in and take your
money, I have to turn the light on so you can make a positive ID. Well, why not? Why
not just make the whole fucking evening complete?” There is patting and slapping as
the young boy feels his way around the room. More swearing as he contacts the sharp
edges of the credenza.

“The light is just here behind me on the wall.”

The boy comes closer. “Hold on.” There is a struggle with some kind of material and Arjun
hopes he isn’t about to be blindfolded. Then the light is turned on. Arjun doesn’t move.

The intruder comes around to him. He is dressed in black sweats, and wears a black
balaclava, obscuring his nose and mouth. He is a large boy with thick eyebrows.

As Arjun blinks against the light, the boy comes into focus. Arjun says,
“You are so young.”

Slightly muffled by the wool, the boy says, “You don’t know how old I am, do ya?”

Arjun considers the smooth skin. “Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“You’re wrong. I’m fifteen.”

“You are such a big boy.”

“My mum’s side. We’re all big. You should see my sister. She’s huge.”

Arjun has a vivid picture of a teenage girl crammed into sweats wearing a similar balaclava
and tries to dismiss it before he starts smiling. This is no smiling matter. Despite the fact the
child is so young he could easily do a lot of damage.

“You want the money? I can tell you where it is.”

“You got money here?” The brief note of hope is dismissed. “Nah. I can’t take your money,
uncle.”

“But, you went to all this trouble. Breaking in and what-all.”

“How come you’re Indian? Me mates told me no one’s Indian over on this side.”

Behind the balaclava, Arjun thinks there may be a ferocious sulk going on.

“We’ve been here for many years. No other Indian families moved in. What to do?”

“How long you been here, then?”

“Almost fifty years.”

“Fuck off. I mean, you’re joking, right?”

“It’s almost fifty years. So many people have come and gone.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t come here to listen to all that.”

“Son, go to that cupboard over there. There’s money. Take.”

The boy pulls the cupboard door open, squats down and pulls out a few envelopes. He
leaves them on the floor. “If only I’d hit you like I was planning. Then I could’ve taken the
money and run.” He pushes at the balaclava. “It’s like Ashok says. I’m rubbish at this.”

“But if you’d hit me first, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you where the money was.”

“Yeah, but I hit you until you tell me.”

Arjun imagines the boy sitting enthralled in front of a detective show. “Son, that kind of
hitting is for a much stronger fellow than me. One hit, pachaak, and I’m done for.”

“Yeah. You’re really old, innit. No offense, like.” The boy sighs. “I better go.”

Despite his difficulty with breathing, Arjun is curious. “How did you get in?”

“Your front door, mate. You want to change the locks. Get one of them deadbolts.”

“Aha. I see.” Alert to the noises of the house, he hears Sunila moving upstairs. “Son, you
should go quickly. My wife has a phone upstairs. And we have one of these emergency red
buttons.”

“Shit. I’m off. Listen, uncle, get a deadbolt.” He hesitates, snatches up one of the
envelopes, and exits through the front door.

Arjun listens for the running feet, but there is nothing. Despite his bulk, the boy is light on
his feet. He admires the boy’s ingenuity. He must be experienced at breaking in to deal with their lock so easily.

He imagines Sunila, terrified upstairs, wondering whether it’s safe to come down. “Sunila.
Come down. He has gone.”

His voice is so weak he is certain she can’t have heard.

“Arjun? Are you all right?” Her voice is shaking.

“I’m fine. You can come down.” His heart rate is returning to normal but he cannot project
enough force into his voice to send it up to her.

“Arjun? Is the robber gone?”

“He’s gone. Come down.” He is frustrated with this upstairs-downstairs business. Must the whole neighborhood listen in? Why can’t she come downstairs and talk to him?

“Arjun? Are you there?”

“I am here, you deaf old cow.” He is shocked at his bad language, but there is pleasure in
the fact that she can’t hear him.

“Arjun, I called the police. It will be all right.”

He doesn’t know why she won’t just come down. “Listen, the boy is gone.”

“I am waiting here to see if you are all right.”

The flashing blue lights reflect through the curtains and he knows he will not tell the police
that the thief was just a child.

He waits while the police enter, check the premises, ask him questions which is he now
almost too tired to answer. No, he didn’t hear the robber enter. No, he didn’t get a look at
the robber’s face. No, the robber didn’t talk much to him, other than make vague threats. No, the robber didn’t harm him.

The police are intrigued with this last point. Old age and infirmity are rarely deterrents for
thieves. Did Arjun know the robber? No, he had never seen him before. About how old was
he? It wasn’t possible to tell since the robber wore a mask. A young man, he thinks.

“You’re lucky, sir. You could have been killed. It’s mainly kids. They’re after drug money. You know how it is.” Arjun doesn’t know how it is, but he nods anyway.

Sunila is brought downstairs. She can barely walk and when she sees him, she clings to the police woman and weeps. “Arjun. Arjun.”

He suddenly realizes she thought he was dead and was terrified of having to see his body. She continued to talk to him because she would not believe he was dead until the police told her. He imagines her crouched against the window upstairs, believing she was finally alone.

Her eyes are puffy from crying. She is leaning against the police-woman. He has a moment of sympathy for the officer. Sunila is not a light-weight.

And then he is irritated. She has had her moment. Another police woman is patting her
shoulder. “Mrs. Dasgupta, everything is all right. Your husband is fine.”

But she can’t resist. “Oh god, oh god.” And she weeps noisily. The two women officers try to get Sunila to sit, but she stays standing.

He clears his throat. He wishes for the strength of his voice so he could ask them all to
leave, so he could tell her exactly what he thinks of her hysterics. How can she behave in
such a low-class manner?

“I thought he was dead! I thought he’d been killed!”

Really. There is something indelicate, this shouting about his death with such gusto.

“Mrs. Dasgupta, please sit down. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

Arjun fumes silently. He was the one who could have been killed and just look at her,
hedged about with uniformed sympathy. Someone is in the kitchen making a cup of tea.

One of the officers speaks to him. “Mr. Dasgupta, I’m sorry to take up so much of your time. You must be very tired. I wonder if we could send someone over to talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

The officer collects the others, but not before someone has brought Sunila a cup of tea and she finally sits down. The tea-bearing police woman remembers and looks over at Arjun.

“I’m so sorry. Did you―?”

“No, thank you.”

Sunila stands up, in charge again. “He must get his rest. He’s not well, you know.” Gracious and bearing up under tremendous stress. He hates her.

The officers smile and pat her as though she is a well-behaved dog. She smiles up at them.

She sees them to the door and he manages to get himself back into bed.

With any luck, she’ll leave him alone.

But she comes in. “Arjun, are you all right?”

“I’m tired, Sunila. I want to sleep.”

“How can you sleep? You must talk about it, isn’t it? Did you see the robber? What was he like? I heard voices and there was all the banging and thumping. Did he steal anything?”

“I don’t know. I can’t talk about it now.”

“But what was he like?”

“Sunila, please. I want to rest.”

“I didn’t see anything. I was listening, but I didn’t get a look. I waited by the window to see
if I could get a glimpse. It would have been so helpful for the police.”

“You could have come downstairs and had a look at him.”

She tightens her lips and her nose whistles as she breathes in and out. “Oh yes. It’s easy for you. You were down here with every chance to have a good look at him. How are the police going to catch him without a proper description? You didn’t even try to see what he was like.”

“I was trying to avoid being killed.”

“He wouldn’t have killed you. He just wanted the money.”

“I gave him the money.”

She sees the open cabinet door. “He took the money?”

He hears the heartbreak in her voice. Not the money. He adds, “Not all. Just one envelope.”

“But that was for the poor people in Chad. I was going to take it to the bank tomorrow. To
send to the mission. And now it’s gone. What am I going to tell them? What if they don’t
believe me? They’ll think I just spent the money on myself.”

“Sunila, no one will think that. They will be sorry. That’s all.”

She is sorting through her envelopes and stacking them neatly back in the cabinet. How
often he has told her not to leave money there, but she won’t listen to anyone.

“Of course, he would take the one with the most money. They’re like that, you know. And
now those poor people in Chad will have to do without.”

“Sunila, take your money and put it in the bank.”

She closes the cabinet door and stands up. “Well, that’s it. Nothing to be done. No good
crying over spilled milk. Are you hungry?”

I’m not hungry you stupid old woman, I am exhausted from nearly being killed by a foolish
child. How can you stand there babbling about money for Chad?

And then he realizes; he is hungry.

“I’ve got some of that chicken curry. We can have with pilao, yes?”

She bustles off to heat the food and he feels the anger subsiding. The comfortable noises
of plates and silverware, the thunk and ka-thunk of the microwave door opening and shutting. The hum as it starts heating the food. The water from the faucet streams into the sink and she fills the kettle for tea. The fridge is opened and he hears the tuk of Tupperware being opened. She must have found the cucumber and tomato salad and his favorite coriander chutney. He imagines her arranging it all on the plate and putting the plate on a tray to bring to him.

He usually sits in the Laz-y-boy for his meals, but he can’t move from the edge of the bed. He tries leaning on the walker, but his legs won’t respond, won’t bend, won’t take his weight.

Sunila comes in. “I’m making some tea. Oh.” She stops. “Let me help.” She puts her arm
under his and eases him upright so that he can lean on the walker. Together, they shuffle to the Laz-y-boy and she helps him sit, plumping the cushions behind him so that he is propped forward.

“Thank you, Sunila.”

“Not at all. Can I bring your food?”

He smiles at her. “Yes, please.” There is gentleness in his smile. He wants her to see that he loves her. He wants her to see that he understands her panic. How strong she is. Instead of continuing to fuss over the money, she just gets on with the next thing and the next. After they eat, she will clear away the dishes and wash them. She will help him back into bed. And tomorrow, she will go on, cleaning and washing and cooking and helping him write his letters and reading to him when he is too tired to read for himself.

And after, as he listens to her climbing the stairs, quietly closing the bedroom door, he will pray for her. Lord, give her the strength she needs so that she can keep on doing the next thing. And the next.

When Sandra Hunter isn’t teaching at Moorpark College in Ventura, she toils up hills in Malibu where it is still possible to fly, by bike, above the clouds, she dances with her daughter on the beach and isn’t arrested, and she doubles the garlic in most non-dessert recipes.  Her short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in New York Stories, the New Delta Review, Zyzzyva, Talking River Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Glimmer Train, the South Dakota Review, and others.  “Hunger and Thirst” is part of a sectional novel with a working title of “Waiting to be Filled.”

Jeff crouched in the sandbox, pushing his bulldozer. In two weeks, he would be finished with second grade. He liked this time of year because it stayed light enough to play outside after dinner. He switched from bulldozer to dump truck as the screen door at the Barnes’ house slammed. Leaning over, he could just see their back porch. It was Mrs. Barnes. She pushed up the sleeves of her tattered blue robe, stumbled to the edge of the porch, and started yelling. “You sons a bitches! You goddamn commie bastards! Who the hell do you think you are, treating us like that?”

Jeff jumped as her hand slapped the railing. Mrs. Barnes staggered back a step, then lurched forward to slap it again. “You got no right! No goddamn right. Who the hell makes the decisions anyway? What ass-hole decided to do this?”

Picking up his shovel, Jeff bent over to keep an eye on Mrs. Barnes. She was leaning against one of the posts now.

“You think you’re God, but you’re not. You’re nothing but a goddamn sorry-assed bunch of bastards who think they can rule the world…”

The slam of another screen door distracted Jeff. His mother came tiptoeing across the yard toward him and crouched down once she reached the sandbox. She was wearing her rainbow-striped housedress and smelled sweet, like the powder she had in the round pink box.

“Jeffey, would you like a popsicle?” she whispered.

Jeff nodded eagerly. Two desserts in one night! Usually she was very strict about desserts; he must have done something really good today. Happily, he followed her across the lawn. “…and I don’t give a good goddamn what anyone else thinks, I know what’s going on…” The front door cut Mrs. Barnes off as they entered the house.

His mother gave him the Popsicle and sat him down at the kitchen table to eat it. It was orange, his favorite, the kind with two sticks. He bit off the top while his mother bustled around slamming the windows shut. That seemed strange because she had been complaining of the heat at dinner, but Jeff couldn’t ask why with his mouth full.

His mother patted him on the head and went into the living room where his father sat reading the paper. The sharp tone of her voice carried into the kitchen.

“Tom! We have to do something. It wasn’t so bad in the colder weather, but now it’s getting unbearable to have to close the windows every night.”

Jeff heard his father’s low pitched voice answer, but couldn’t make out the words.

His mother’s voice jumped back in. “I don’t know who we should call. But there must be something we can do. It’s just not right to have to listen to that every night.”

Jeff noticed the Popsicle was beginning to drip down the stick. He tilted it sideways and sucked at the bottom to try to slow it down. He wanted to finish without making a mess. Whenever he was messy, his mother talked about not buying any more of whatever made the mess. Her voice resumed in the living room.

“Talking to him won’t do any good. For all we know he’s in exactly the same condition, just not so noisy. Lord knows what Jeff hears. All we need is for him to repeat some of that language at school and then we’ll be down there trying to explain it all!”

Silence. Jeff worried it would be one of those nights when their talk ended in the crisp crackle of the newspaper from his father, and the sharp slam of the bedroom door from his mother. On those nights his mother tucked him into bed so tightly he could barely move, and her good night kiss was so curt and fast it was like a stab to his forehead.

He waited, then heard the strike and sizzle of a match, a pause, two quick breaths and a long exhale. The tang of cigarette smoke drifted into the kitchen, and Jeff relaxed. When his father lit a cigarette for his mother and they sat smoking together, her goodnight kiss was always gentle and tender.

Carefully, he put his Popsicle sticks in the trash and checked his clothes for drips that might have escaped.

Finding none, he moved close to the living room door. His father was talking again, low and soothing, and when he finished his mother laughed for a moment. “But seriously Tom, something has to be done. I can’t spend the whole summer with the windows closed at that end of the house, and besides, it’s not healthy for her. She could fall and hurt herself or hurt someone else. She’s yelling threats out there.” More soothing murmurs from his father.

“If you say so Tom, but it needs to be soon. Now I’d better get our little scamp into his bath.”

The next morning, Jeff trailed slowly down the block to the bus stop. Billy Morton was ahead of him, walking with Joe Carter and Stephen Brooks. They were deep in conversation as they reached the corner.

“Ma Barnes was at it again last night.”

“What is that, three nights in a row?”

Joe kicked a rock into the street. “At least. What was she saying this time?”

“The usual. Goddamn this and son of a bitch that.”

All three boys sniggered.

“Was she bombed?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “You better believe it. She could barely stand.”

“My mom says it’s getting worse every week.”

“Was she yelling her dear son Eddie’s name this time?” Stephan’s kick sent another rock to join Joe’s.

“Nope, just a lot about commie bastards.”

Jeff edged a little closer. They were talking about Eddie. Eddie was his friend.

“Jeez, you wouldn’t think she’d get so nutty so fast.”

“How long has he been gone now?” Billy stepped out into the street and nudged both rocks together.

“He left just after Thanksgiving, and it’s almost June now…”

There was a silence as the boys counted.

“Seven months!” Joe got the answer first.

“When do you think he’ll be back?”

“I dunno. Maybe a year. If he doesn’t come back in a box.” Billy said, letting fly with his foot and managing to hit both rocks in one savage kick.

Jeff moved away again. He didn’t like the way their voices sounded. It was like when they decided to steal his lunch box or play keep away with his hat.

That was how he met Eddie last spring. The boys had taken his new baseball cap and were making him jump to get it back. Eddie was walking by the bus stop on his way to work and saw Jeff trying to jump without crying. He crossed the street and grabbed Jeff’s hat out of Billy’s hand.

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing.” Billy muttered. Eddie towered over the three boys, and looked very tough in his green mechanic’s coverall. He seemed like a super-hero to Jeff.

“Why don’t you leave the little kid alone?”

“We were just playing. He doesn’t mind, do you Jeff?” Billy glared at Jeff, daring him to disagree.

Jeff didn’t know what to say. If he said yes, the boys would pound him as soon as Eddie left. If he said no, they’d take his hat every day and tell him he’d asked for it. Eddie solved the problem for him.

“Well, I mind. I don’t think its right for three of you big guys to gang up on one little kid.”

“It’s none of your business.” Stephan piped up from behind Billy, drawing nods and sounds of assent from the two other boys.

“It’s my business ‘cause Jeff here is my next door neighbor, and we’re buddies. Isn’t that right Jeff?”

He winked at Jeff. Jeff bobbed his head up and down.

“And I’m gonna make it my business to walk past this bus stop every morning to make sure you’re not bothering him. Got that?”

Jeff watched the three boys back away, grumbling about busybodies. Eddie stayed with him until the bus came and kept his word over the next few weeks, showing up at the bus stop most mornings.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was the evenings, when Eddie came home from his job at the garage. He started calling Jeff to come over and help him with his project. Eddie was an auto mechanic. “A grease monkey,” he called it. During the day, he worked fixing up other people’s cars. In the evening, he worked on his own; tinkering with the engine to make it go faster. He said it was his ‘hot car’. Jeff couldn’t figure out why. He’d touched the car once when Eddie wasn’t looking, and it felt the same as any other car.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Eddie talked to him while he worked. He told Jeff about his plans for the car, asked him to pass tools, and called him ‘buddy’. They’d work together until it got dark and the smell of baking came stealing from Eddie’s house. Then Mrs. Barnes would call them both in to her shiny kitchen and offer them a snack, usually fresh from the oven. Jeff didn’t know there could be so many kinds of cookies.

“C’mon in boys,” she’d say, while the light from the kitchen touched her carefully curled hair and glimmered off the pearls she always wore. “It’s getting too dark to see out there.”

It gave Jeff a wiggly proud feeling in the pit of his stomach to be classed in the same category as Eddie. He liked Eddie very much.

Jeff’s mother liked Eddie too. “Are you sure he’s not bothering you?” she asked when she called him in for his bath.

“Nah, he’s a good egg.” Eddie said, while Jeff beamed up at him.

“He’s so polite and well behaved.” Mrs. Barnes added. “I hardly know he’s here.” Eddie’s father, a quiet man, murmured his agreement.

That always pleased Jeff’s mother. “I’m glad to hear you’re minding your manners while you’re there. It’s nice to know you remember the things I tell you.” And she would give him the soft bedtime tuck in.

Things changed when the leaves started falling off the trees. Eddie didn’t talk as much when they worked together. His mother talked more, and they both smiled less. Mrs. Barnes’ conversation didn’t make as much sense, and she seemed to be talking to herself a good deal.

“Here’s your snack,” she would say. “Heaven knows you should stock up now. Who knows what kind of food you might find…But you’ll have to eat. No one can do anything on an empty stomach. I just worry that there won’t be much worth eating.”

One night when Jeff went over to Eddie’s he was surprised to see that no tools were out, and there was a sheet pulled over Eddie’s hot car.

“Come over here buddy, we have to talk.”

Jeff went over and sat on the little stool Eddie kept in the garage just for him.

“I wanted to tell you I won’t be able to work out here with you for a while. I have to go away for a few months.

You see, there’s a war in a little country called Vietnam. Have you ever heard of it?”

Jeff shook his head.

“Yeah, I wish I never did either. It’s over by China. You’ve heard of China, right?”

Jeff nodded. Sometimes, for a treat, his mother would make chop suey for dinner. She’d tell him that was what the children ate on the other side of the world in China.

“Anyway, I have to go to Vietnam to help fight in that war. I just found out I’m leaving next week and I’m gonna be busy getting ready until I go. So I wanted to say good-bye now, okay?”

When Eddie didn’t say any more, Jeff nodded. That seemed to be the right thing to do. Eddie stuck out a hand.

After a minute, Jeff did the same and Eddie shook it.

“I’ll look for you when I come back. I’ll expect my buddy to be ready to help me again.”

Jeff nodded once more and Eddie steered him to the door. “Take care, buddy,” he said, then turned and went in to the house. Jeff ran through the yard to his own door; suddenly frightened. He had never seen Eddie so serious.

Over the next months, Jeff heard that strange word Vietnam in more and more places. It was in the news program his mother listened to on the radio. It was in church when they took a minute to pray for ‘our brave boys overseas’. It was even on the playground where kids talked about brothers and cousins ‘pulling low numbers’. For a while, Jeff listened, hoping to hear about Eddie. But no one mentioned his name, and soon Vietnam became just another grown-up topic, like ‘demonstrations’ and ‘student unrest’.

It was around Christmas that Mrs. Barnes started coming out on her porch to yell at the
neighborhood. At first, Jeff’s mother had been understanding.

“It’s the stress of the holiday season.”

She baked a cake and took it next door. She told Jeff to stay home because there would be a lot of adult talk and he would be bored. But she came back very quickly.

“I stood on their front porch,” she told Jeff’s father, “out in that cold wind, ringing their doorbell and no one would answer! I could hear someone moving around inside so I know they were home. I just can’t imagine why they wouldn’t come to the door.”

Jeff’s father inclined his head toward Jeff and raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, all right. Jeff, scoot up to your room now and play. I have to clean up the kitchen and I don’t want you under foot.”

Jeff moved to the door and climbed the stairs as slowly as he could. His mother’s voice followed him.

“I thought they were such a nice family. But to act like this! I never thought someone could change so quickly.”

Mrs. Barnes continued to come out on her porch throughout the winter and spring. She stopped wearing her neatly ironed dresses and started wearing her robe, even in the daytime. Jeff’s mother stopped using her name and started calling her ‘that woman’. When school let out for summer, Jeff’s family took out a membership at the town pool. Every afternoon, they left the house and spent the day there. Jeff got a tan and learned to dog paddle. Jeff’s mother made new friends and exchanged recipes. Jeff’s father built a patio on the far side of the house, away from the Barnes, got a charcoal grill, and a big red apron that said ‘Chef.’

Jeff’s mother didn’t talk about Eddie or his parents unless it was an exceptionally loud night from Mrs. Barnes. Then his mother would say, “I don’t like the thought of Jeff going over there once Eddie comes home.”

“If.” his father said. “We’ll worry about that when and if the time comes.”

Eddie Barnes came home just before Halloween. He didn’t come in a box and he didn’t wear a costume. He had a purple heart pinned to his shirt and a metal hook sticking out of one sleeve.

The other sleeve was empty, and hung loosely from his shoulder.

Jeff didn’t see him come home, but he heard the story from the boys at the bus stop.

“Both his hands were blown clean off.” Billy said.

“They couldn’t even find any pieces.” Joe added, twirling his book bag by the strap.

“There must have been blood everywhere.” Stephan dropped his bag on the ground and stood straddling it, nudging it with his feet.

“I wonder what that must feel like.”

The sudden silence was awkward.

“He got a medal,” Billy rushed on. “Cause it happened while he was trying to save someone.”

“And the guy was booby-trapped; as soon as Eddie touched him, ka-boom!”

“Now he’s got a hook instead of a hand.” Joe stopped twirling his bag and started swinging it.

“What can you do with just a hook? He doesn’t have anything on the other side.”

“I bet he has to pee like a girl now.”

“And I bet he can’t even…” Stephan stopped suddenly as Billy nudged him. “What?”

Billy nodded toward Jeff. He’d moved closer when they started talking about Eddie.

“Don’t let the kid hear you. We might get in trouble.”

The three boys looked at Jeff, then moved away. Jeff didn’t care. Eddie was home.

Jeff waited for Eddie to call him over to his house, but the invitation didn’t come. Finally, he walked next door and rang the bell.

“Who is it?”

Jeff hesitated. Eddie sounded angry. The curtain over the door was wrenched aside, and Eddie’s face peered out. “Oh. It’s you. C’mon in.”

Jeff opened the door and followed Eddie’s back into the kitchen. The house smelled sour and musty, and the kitchen was cluttered and grimy. Eddie, dressed in a rumpled T-shirt and boxers, matched the kitchen. He sat down at the table and surveyed Jeff.

“You’ve grown. Now that you’re here, you can make yourself useful. See that pack of cigarettes?

Wedge one in here.” He held the hook up near Jeff’s face and turned to show a small opening. Jeff fumbled for the cigarette and tried to get it into the space.

“Not that way. There has to be enough sticking out so I can get my lips on it. That’s better. Now, grab that lighter and light me up.”

Jeff froze. His mother never let him near her lighter, and threatened dire punishments if she ever saw him touch one.

“C’mon, c’mon, you just flick that wheel with your thumb. Even a baby could do it.”

Stung into action, Jeff managed to light Eddie’s cigarette. He sat down across from Eddie and watched him inhale deeply. Eddie looked over at him. “You want one? Go ahead. I won’t tell.” Jeff stared and then shook his head. He’d be grounded for life.

“Suit yourself.” Eddie shrugged, an oddly off-balance action with only one arm. “It’s one of the few things I can still manage, so I do a lot of it.” He exhaled unhurriedly, letting the smoke trickle out through his nose. Jeff sat, hands pressed between his knees, waiting for Eddie to finish. The kitchen faucet was dripping slowly, and it made an odd counter rhythm to Eddie’s puffs on his cigarette.

Finally, he finished, knocked the stub out of his hook into a bowl on the table, and squinted over at Jeff. “So what’s your story these days, kid?”

Looking away, Jeff squirmed slightly in his chair. He didn’t like the way Eddie called him ‘kid’. He wished he’d go back to ‘buddy’.

“No story, huh? Just like me. No story, no chance of a story any more, just a lot of nothing. At the VA they gave me this,” he shook his hook toward Jeff, “and told me they could rig something up for the other side.”

He banged the table in disgust. Jeff jumped, then perched back on the edge of his chair.

“I told them not to bother. What’s the point? What good are a pair of hooks gonna do me? You can’t use tools with a pair of hooks, can you? CAN YOU?”

Eddie shouted the last two words at Jeff, leaning across the table toward him. Jeff shook his head, hunching away from Eddie’s yellowed teeth and stale breath.

“What the hell do you know anyway, you’re just a little kid.”

Jeff blinked and hung his head. They were buddies. Why was Eddie talking like this? He stole a quick look from under his eyelashes. Eddie was still looking at him.

“You don’t talk much, do you? Were you always this quiet? You’re like some kind of little spook, just sitting there, staring at me. Well, this is it, kid. This is all you’re ever going to see. So why don’t you just head back home to your mamma and leave me alone. I JUST WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE!”

Jeff didn’t remember how he got to the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back once more at Eddie. His expression hadn’t changed. He looked mad and scared and sad; just like Jeff was feeling. Jeff opened the door and ran out, leaving it to swing closed behind him.

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Jeff was out in the yard. His mother had shooed him outside, telling him to take advantage of the nice day before winter set in, and stay out from under her feet while she started tomorrow’s pies. Jeff went over to the sandbox and lined up his trucks.

His father thought he was getting a little old for the sandbox, but his mother told him to let Jeff alone. “He’s still a boy. Let him be one as long as he can.”

He cleared the leaves out of the corners of the sandbox and began to dig. Soon he had a road, a deep pit, and a parking area. He was just clearing out the space to try a tunnel, when a screen door slammed. He looked toward his house. His mother had promised him the leftover pie dough when she was done, but their door remained tightly shut. He leaned to the left and looked at the Barnes house. There was Eddie, out on the porch.

Jeff hadn’t seen Eddie since his visit to the house. No one talked about him much any more. When his name came up Jeff’s mother pursed her lips and shook her head, and even Billy, Joe, and Stephen no longer speculated about him. Jeff looked at Eddie through the trees. He seemed to have trouble walking. He got up to the porch railing and leaned against it, looking up toward the tree tops.

“You sons a bitches. You goddamn assholes. Who the hell do you think you are? Look what you’ve done to me. You had no right to play with my life like that.”

Quietly, Jeff began to gather up his trucks.

“I hope the goddamn commie bastards who did this burn in hell with you right next to them, you sick sadistic psychos. You think you know what’s best, but you don’t know a goddamn thing.” With the trucks neatly gathered in the corner of the sandbox, Jeff got up, brushed off his pants, and headed toward his house.

“You sent me to the other side of the world just to blow my fuc…”

Jeff closed the door firmly behind him.

“All done outside?” his mother said.

“I think Dad’s right. I’m too old to play in the sandbox.”

Cathy Strasser is an Occupational Therapist and freelance writer. She has had short stories published in the Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine, The Literary Bone, Silverthought Press Women’s Anthology, Touched By Wonder Anthology, The Chrysalis Reader, as well as a two article series in Cabin Life Magazine. She is currently working on her first book, Autism: A Therapist’s Journey Toward Enlightenment, describing her experiences in working with children with autism and will be published by AAPC in late 2007. Cathy is a member of The New Hampshire Writer’s Project and co-founder of the New England Chapter of the National Association of Women Writers. She lives in Sugar Hill , New Hampshire with her husband and two children.

DS is my name. My mom calls me Desiree–the desired one, but I go by DS–DS
for dog shit. I’m sixteen. I do drugs. I run.

I’m back in Juvie again. Be here a while too. They can’t figure out what to do
with me—I run from placements. The last one was out in the middle of the northern
California desert. Boring. As soon as I stepped off the school bus, Maggi, she was
the mom, had a list of chores–and I had to keep my eye on three little raggedy
kids while I did them. Maggi locked herself up in the bedroom with the TV. She got
sinus headaches. She came out when I had dinner ready, sniffed around, piled up
her plate, and headed back for the TV. We ate a lot of macaroni and cheese. And I
shoveled a lot of chicken shit cleaning the coops. I fed the chickens and collected
the eggs before school every day. Maggi sold eggs for her cigarette money. Once
a week, I got a pack for helping. She used to keep them under her bed. I figured
she wouldn’t miss an extra pack a week. And she didn’t–one of the kids was a
snitch. Maggie knocked me in the teeth with the TV zapper when she found out–
then blamed me cause the zapper broke. Maggie wasn’t all that bad, I just got
bored cleaning chicken coops–so I ran.

I work as a whore when I’m out. I get knocked around sometimes, but the pay’s
good. Better than cleaning chicken coops. I usually work the truck stops. I keep my
hair short and my tits aren’t much. The truckers aren’t sure if I’m a boy or a girl.
One guy was gonna knock my head off when he found out I was a girl. He made
such a racket another trucker climbed in the rig and tore into him. Told him to get
his ass out of there or he was calling the cops. That scared the shit out of me. I
don’t need any more trouble with the cops.

I thought the second guy wanted me to ride the bony pony, but he cleaned up
my face–even tried to put a band aid on my split lip. It just slid off when I tried to
talk. He bought me a double cheeseburger and a chocolate shake. He didn’t say
much. Just that he had a couple of kids my age. He dropped me off in Susanville–
that’s where my mom was living then–and told me to keep away from the truck
stop and behave myself. I did for the rest of the night. It was getting cold.

My mom was living with the Tattoo Man from the circus then. That’s what I
called him. He had a trailer down behind the stockyards. He didn’t want me in the
trailer, but I got to sleep in the camper stuck on the back of his pickup. It wasn’t
too bad. He had a sleeping bag. A month later it got really cold. The neighbor had
a cat–a fat old orange tom with half a tail. Even with him in my bag, I almost froze
my ass. The windows in the camper froze and I got needles in my throat when I
breathed. I get asthma sometimes. I think the cat knew it. He tried to hold on to
his hair.

That night, when the trucker dropped me off, I knocked on the door of Tattoo
Man’s trailer. It only had one hinge, so I never messed with that door. I didn’t
want to be the one that dropped it in the dirt. They were doing crank. I’d made
enough money that night so Tattoo Man let me stay inside.

By the time I really froze my ass–it was just before Christmas–he and my mom
got busted. That sucked. The cops were pissed at me because I’d been skipping
school. That’s the funny part. I really do like school. School for the dog shit kids. I
don’t like regular school with all those jocks and cheerleaders with their fancy
clothes and their noses in the air. In my kind of school, we know we’re dog shits
and don’t stick our noses up at anybody. I like to think we’re the real people. Now
I don’t think all cheerleaders are fancy-ass freaks. I know one–or about one, and I
think I’d like her.

It’s time for dinner. I’m in lockdown and have been for the last twenty-eight
days. I still get to eat. They bring me a tray–slide it through the slot in the door.

“I wonder who’s working graveyard?” I asked staff when they brought my
dinner, but they didn’t know. I hope it’s Mrs. Manley, cause she talks to me. She’s
the one with the cheerleader granddaughter. Sometimes she works graveyard on
the weekends. Usually with Mr. Roberts. He’s nice, too. I’d like him for a
grandfather.

I’m a room alone because they know I’m a whore. I’m in Room One. I have a
little window in my door and can see the kids go by if the flap’s up. And I have my
own toilet. I like it–even if staff can watch me pee. There’s a monitor in the
control room. The toilet’s cold and I don’t sit long, anyhow. I don’t have a toilet
seat. Not just because I’m a room alone–nobody does. The sink–almost big
enough to float a goldfish–is built in the back. I can sit backwards on the toilet and
brush my teeth. Good idea, huh. Too bad they don’t make toilets like that in
regular homes–with a seat of course. And I talk to the toilet. Not really to the
toilet, but if I stick my head in the toilet, I can talk to Jay in Room Two.

Jay’s the reason I’m in lockdown. I’m in love with Jay. He’s kinda skinny, but he
has dark hair and dark eyes, and he’s smart. He knows the name of every bird
around here. He told me his name was Jay for Blue Jay, but I think he was just
kidding me. He’s a good artist, too. He drew a picture of me once. I was dressed
like a warrior princess flying over the mountains on the back of an eagle. I’ve
known him for a long time so this isn’t one of those short term relationships like
my mom always has. Every time she meets a guy–and she picks some pretty
freaky guys–he gets busted, she gets busted, or he kicks the crap out of her and
throws her out.

Jay’s been in and out of Juvie since he was ten. Twenty-three times so far. That’
s more than either of his two older brothers and he says there’s no way
they’re gonna beat his record. They’re both in CYA now. You don’t come back from
Youth Authority. Jay brags a lot. Once he was out and back in here in three hours.

He ate lunch, they released him, he stole a bottle of Jack Daniels at Safeway,
and was back in by dinner.

He’s got a plan–we talk about it through the toilet. They won’t send him to CYA
if he’s crazy. He tells them he sees things and hears voices. He had a fit at school
last month. Yelled he was having a flash back then pulled his desk over on top of
him and started kicking and spitting. It scared the teachers. The staff who watches
us in school called for backup and they made us all get against the wall. Then
they took Jay down and cuffed and shackled him and took him to his room. He told
me through the toilet that night it was all a fake. I sure believed him. So did a lot
of other people. Melody in Room Eight was screaming she’d never do drugs again.
That’s a lie, but maybe she believed it then. That’s why most of us are here. We’re
druggies.

Jay’s an Indian. When he’s not in Juvie, he lives down river with the other
Indians. He says he does drugs because it’s part of his religion. It helps him see
things better. I think he gets high for the same reason I do. I like it.

It’s snack time. If I lay on my bed and put my ear against the block wall just
below Bambi’s front foot, I can hear everything in the activity room. I really have
Bambi on my wall–and flowers, too. They have pictures painted all over the place
in here. With my ear by Bambi’s foot, I can hear movies or the AA meetings. On
the graveyard shift, if they turn the TV off, I can hear the staff talk. There’s some
pretty interesting stuff that goes on around here on the graveyard shift.

Jay won’t talk to me tonight and I’m worried about him. I think he played crazy
too long. Last week when they let him out for a shower, he tried to jump a staff–a
big staff. That was dumb. He yelled he saw a moose and it was attacking. That
was dumb, too. He has a moose and some trees painted on his wall. He could
come up with something better than that. He got pepper sprayed and that’s not
much fun–take it from me. I’ve been sprayed twice. He yelled he wanted to commit
suicide. That’s stupid, too. Take that one from me, too.

They took all his bedding and clothes and gave him a paper Barney gown– one
of those bulky brown hospital gowns that stick out in back and make us look like
Barney on TV. They do that to you if you’re a pain in the ass or say you’re thinking
of suicide. If you’re just a pain in the ass, you usually get your stuff back piece by
piece on the graveyard shift. It’s cold here in the summer. The air conditioning runs
all night. I mouthed off big time once and ended up naked as one of Maggi’s
chicks. I’d have promised anything just for a shirt. I thought I was back sleeping in
Tattoo Man’s pick up. Lucky for me, Mr. Roberts worked graveyard that night. He
gave me my stuff back, even my clothes, as soon as the swing shift left. He just
told me to cut out the funny business and go to sleep. I don’t think he likes
working here. He always says, “Two years, four months, thirteen days, and I’m
out of here,” or something like that. He has grandkids. I bet he’s a good
grandfather.

He was the one who took me down when I was pepper sprayed. It was the last
time I was in here. I had Room One again. Lucky for me I’m a room alone. I
always get the good room. Jay was down the hall. He’d been locked down for
seven days and his roommate told me Jay was talking suicide again. I couldn’t talk
to him through the toilet, so I started yelling, “Blue Jay, I love you.” Once I started
yelling, I couldn’t shut up. They took my bedding. Then they took my clothes. I just
kept yelling, “Blue Jay, I love you.”

Boss Lady shot the pepper spray through the slot. I jumped behind the door so
she couldn’t hit me, so they clanked the door back. It’s a big steel door. You have
to watch your toes–we can’t have shoes in the room–they’re dangerous–the
laces, you know. She came at me like something from outer space with a big gas
mask and some kind of Michelin Man suit. I kept jumping around and she couldn’t
get a good enough aim, I guess, so she sprayed the wall, sprayed the bed, and
sprayed Mr. Roberts. Finally, she got it right up under my nose and I felt it slurp
down my face like that silly stuff they shoot at you in parades–just before my eyes
got it. I ran around like a trapped hamster. I knew better than to stick my head in
the toilet to wash it off–Jay did that once and he warned me not to try it. I heard
Boss Lady yell at Mr. Roberts to take me down. He straddled my back and cuffed
me and I felt him put his hand between the toilet and my head. I was jerking
around so much I had a big lump there the next day.

Mr. Roberts came back that night during the graveyard shift to see if I was okay.
Staff’s not supposed to open doors at night–because we’re dangerous, but he
came in with Mrs. Manley to talk to me. My asthma was bothering me so she
brought my inhaler and let me puff. I kept a damp cloth over my eyes. It burns
worse if you open your eyes–remember that, if you’re ever pepper sprayed. She
sat on the bed and rubbed my back while he talked to me. I pretended I was sick
and they were my grandparents.

Mrs. Manley is the one who helps me pretend. She’s the one who has the
granddaughter. She doesn’t know I’m pretending about her granddaughter, so
don’t tell her. When I know she’s going to work graveyard, I try to sleep during
the day. That’s pretty easy to do around here–especially if you’re in lockdown. I
don’t have a window to the outside, just Bambi. I tell time by the food. If they
gave me breakfast some night, I bet I wouldn’t be able to sleep. They don’t turn
the lights off because they have to do fifteen minute security checks so you don’t
plug the toilet or kill yourself. Mrs. Manley can’t come in my room. The only night
she did was that night with Mr. Roberts and I won’t ever tell.

Last week, Mrs. Manley brought a pillow and sat outside the slot on my door.
She says she has a bony butt and can’t sit on the cement very long and her back
gets tired if she bends over to talk in the slot. I don’t think she looks like a
grandmother. She looks younger than my mom. I haven’t seen my mom for over a
year, so she probably looks even older now. Last time she came to visit me, the
deputy brought her in. We didn’t say much. It’s kind of awkward to talk to your
mom while she’s in shackles and a belly chain.

“Like my new jewelry?” She held up her cuffs.

I wanted to give my mom a bad time about my last home furlough. I knew I was
gonna get a pee test when I checked back in–they told me three or four times.
She had some good stuff and we got high. She told me they’d never know if I
drank a cup of vinegar before I checked back in. I didn’t think it was such a good
time to bring it up with the deputy there.

Back to Mrs. Manley–maybe the crank is getting to my brain. My mind sure
wanders a lot. She’s got this granddaughter who’s sixteen just like me. She’s just
about my size and has blonde hair just like mine. I’m not sure about her eyes. I’ll
have to ask about that. This granddaughter–Sara’s her name–is smart. Really
smart I’d guess with some of the things she’s doing. I’m smart, too. The teachers
tell me how smart I am. I don’t think they’d all be lying to me. I’m certainly a good
reader. There’s not much else to do in lockdown.

I saw a picture of this granddaughter once. It was a prom picture. She had on a
red strapless dress and her hair was done up in fancy curls. I could have fancy
curls if I let my hair grow out, so we’re really not that much different. She works in
a department store. Not a JC Penney, but one of those ones the rich kids shop in.
Sara’s not rich. Her mom’s a single mom and has to work two jobs. I’m not rich,
either, so we’re alike that way, too. She was a cheerleader for three years but
had to quit so she could save money for college. I’ve never been a cheerleader. I
wouldn’t want to be either. The only time I really yelled, I got pepper sprayed.
Sara isn’t a cheer leader anymore anyway, so that makes us more alike. The only
thing we’re different in–she doesn’t do drugs. Mrs. Manley says Sara looks down
her nose at kids who do drugs. I asked Mrs. Manley if she was sure Sara didn’t do
drugs. She said she was sure.

Mrs. Manley didn’t like to talk about Sara at first. I think she was
afraid maybe I’d be upset, but I told her it made me feel good that
somebody was happy. I wanted to know what classes she was taking.
Sara’s in her third year of Spanish. I don’t know about that one. I know
how to say taco and burrito. They don’t have Spanish in the schools I go
to, but I get A’s when I go. In lockdown, that’s part of my punishment–I
don’t get to go to school. Last time I talked to Mrs. Manley she told me I
ought to zip up my lip, get out of lockdown, and get back in school. I
know she’s right, but I need to stay here to help Jay out for a while.

I can pull inside my mind and pretend I’m Sara. You know, I think that’
s a better name than DS. If Mrs. Manley doesn’t work tonight, I think I’ll
pretend I’m Sara. “Yes, Ma’am. Would you like to see our new sale
item? We have it in red, too.” Then I’ll slip my fingers through the fancy
clothes on the sales rack and find a red strapless gown–no I have one
of those. Maybe blue to match my eyes. Are my eyes blue? I better find
out.

Jay still has them fooled. Dr. Drug told them to give him another shot
tomorrow. Dr. Drug’s the staff’s name for him, not mine. I heard
Graveyard complain about him. He has half of us on the same meds–
when he shows up. Last time I saw him, he never looked up to see if it
was me. Just kept writing. He asked my name, I told him, and he said,
“Thank you, that’s all.” I told him I didn’t think I needed so much Xanax
anymore. I certainly wasn’t nervous. I slept all the time. He didn’t even
look up. He must have read in my file that my name is Dog Shit and was
afraid he might get some of me on him. I don’t like all the meds they
give me. I wonder sometimes if they’re part of the reason my mind
wanders. I tried cheeking them, but lost points and missed movie and
treats for a week. I want to get out of lockdown as soon as Jay’s okay,
so I better take my meds. They’re talking about Dr. Drug again. He called
in and renewed everybody’s prescription over the phone. Even the two
kids that left yesterday for Boot Camp.

Last night, the Chippies brought in three bookings– all guys from
Sacramento. Sara lives in Sacramento. I kept watching the tall dark-
haired one. I’m not sure what Sara’s boyfriend looks like. I forgot to ask
about that one, too. I almost had myself believing it might be him. Then I
convinced myself Sara’s boyfriend was probably too smart to get caught
by the CHP in a stolen car. He might be Spanish-looking though, since
she’s so interested in Spanish.

Before breakfast, Jay came by for his hour out. He shuffled by my
room in cuffs and shackles and that paper Barney gown. He looked at
me like one of those wild men you see in the movies–a crazy preacher in
the old west. He scared me. Now I know why he wouldn’t talk to me in
the toilet last night. I think they made him crazy. The last three days
they’ve given him shots so he won’t see things. I need to tell him to stop
acting crazy before they make him crazy. When he came back he
wouldn’t look at me. I saw his ass hanging out of the Barney gown. I
turned away so I wouldn’t embarrass him.

After breakfast I called him through the toilet. He said, “I don’t want
to talk. I have a headache.” I told him to please stop pretending to be
crazy. He said, “I’ll try.”

Before lunch, just before the kids came back from school, Boss Lady
came in and talked to him. Even with my ear on the wall I couldn’t
hear.

When Boss Lady left, I called Jay until staff came and told me to get
my head out of the toilet or they’d take my bedding. Day staff watches
the monitor in the control room a lot more. Jay got his mattress and
pillow back so he must have told Boss Lady he’d stop acting crazy. His
Parole Officer came in and talked to him. He was in there a long time
and I started worrying. Maybe he was gonna go to Boot Camp–or a
mental hospital. My mom was in one of those for a while and she said it
wasn’t any fun–people always screaming and hollering.

It’s pretty quiet here. Except when the Indians come in drunk and
start yelling, “ENP”–eternal native pride. They’re worse than
cheerleaders. Cheerleaders just jump around and stand on each other’s
backs. The Indians–Jay’s one of the noisiest–yell “ENP” and kick the
doors and bang their fists.

I went to a basketball game once. It’s worse than that. I told you we
have metal doors–so heavy you have to watch your feet. When they kick
those doors and yell, it makes me nervous. That’s when I’m glad I’m
taking meds. I saw a movie about Custer once. Custer would have
headed home in a hurry if he’d heard them kicking those metal doors
and yelling. The racket goes on for a while then out comes the pepper
spray. Poor Mr. Roberts got caught in the middle of the last one. Boss
Lady missed and sprayed him again–right in the face.

Jay’s calling me in the toilet. He says the PO says he’s gonna go to
Youth Authority. I guess he knows I’m crying. He tells me to keep quiet
and start kissing ass so I can get out of lockdown. He’s glad he’s gonna
go. He’ll get to see his brothers. I want to talk, but he says his head
really hurts. He cheeked his morning meds so he can figure things out.
He’s not gonna tell them even if he does see things because he doesn’t
want another shot in the ass.

I got a good on my day shift score and Jay got his clothes back. I
heard them talking about me at shift change. If I get goods for the next
three days, I can get back in school. Maybe I can get one of the teachers
to find me a Spanish book.

Today’s Wednesday. I wonder if Sara’s working after school today. I
thought about writing her a letter, but it’s against the rules. No contact
between staff and the dog shits–or staff’s granddaughters and the dog
shits.

I have DS on my left arm. I did it two years ago with a staple and a
ball point pen. I lost points and missed a few movies for that one, too.
I’m working on ENP now–on my left leg so staff won’t find it. If I get
down in the corner under the camera they can’t see me. I have a staple
hidden in my mattress. Staff hasn’t found it. We had a room search this
morning. I hate that. They tear up my bed and poke down in the wire
screen where we used to have a window. I’m a very neat person. I
always line my pillow case up along the seam of the blanket. I can’t get
a pen till I get back in school, but if I keep the scab off, I’ll have the EN
part finished by next week.

Smells like rolls for dinner–and macaroni and cheese. I wonder how
Maggi’s doing. Her kids are probably all in school now, so she won’t
need a foster. Mrs. Manley and Mr. Roberts are working graveyard. I’m
gonna sleep a little after dinner so I’ll be awake.

Jay says he’s doing okay. He liked the macaroni and cheese. His
mother’s a rotten cook–burns everything. Mine never burns anything–
she never cooks. I told him to make sure and wake me up when he got
his bedtime meds so I’m awake for graveyard.

I can’t sleep. We had yogurt for snack–strawberry. I’m gonna find out
what color Sara’s eyes are. When I get out of lockdown I can have hand
lotion once a day. I’m gonna start rubbing some on my face–and let my
hair grow.

Jay’s calling me. They gave him a blanket. I told him he’d probably
have the rest of his stuff by graveyard. He told me not to worry–he’s
fine. He wants me to have the silver bracelet with the eagle on it he has
in his locker. He can’t take it to YA. I told him I love him. He wouldn’t say
he loves me. I think it’s just hard for him to say it. Giving me a bracelet is
just as good.

I haven’t seen Mrs. Manley, but Mr. Roberts came by to see if I was
okay. I told him I needed to talk to her and he thought I needed pads
and was too embarrassed to ask him.

Mrs. Manley brought me some pads and asked if I was okay since
I’d been bleeding last week, too. Not much gets by her. If Sara’s
mother’s like her, that’s why she’s so sure Sara doesn’t do drugs. I told
her I wanted to get out of lockdown and back in school so maybe I could
go to college. That really just popped in my mind, but I knew it was a
sure way to get her back to talk. She’s the kind that thinks everybody
ought to work hard and go to college. I figured I better see if Jay was
still okay, then work on getting my story straight.

Jay finally answered me. He told me to go to sleep. He was tired and
didn’t want to talk. He flushed his toilet in my face.

Mrs. Manley dropped her pillow by my door and we talked. Sara’s
studying for a hard history exam. And her eyes are blue–the same color
as mine. Mrs. Manley checked her watch and got up to do another room
check.

It doesn’t take fifteen minutes to hang yourself. It isn’t noisy either.
We were talking very low through the slot so we wouldn’t wake up Jay.
Neither of us heard anything. Not a bump. Not a gasp.

That was a year ago. I still think about Jay. At first, I blamed
everybody–his mother, his PO, his older brothers in YA. Even me. I
wondered how I could have saved him. I guess I was so busy trying to
figure out how to save me, I didn’t have all that much time for Jay’s
problems. The other day I found a crow feather in our back yard. Jay told
me crows take good care of their families. Maybe he’s a crow now.

I wore that silver bracelet for a long time. I’d run my finger over the
eagle wings and picture him flying through the clouds with that funny
little grin he had when he was happy. Did I tell you he was a real funny
person when he wasn’t all doped up? Last week, I tucked the bracelet
away in the backpack in the bottom of my closet. Yes. I have a closet
again. And a bed that isn’t a cement slab. I’m with another foster. My
foster mom, Andi, is a recovering alcoholic. We spend a lot of time at
meetings. And I still have Bambi. A real one this time. He comes into our
backyard each morning while I’m eating breakfast and waits for his
snack–he likes apples and carrots best.

Me and Sara e-mail. Mrs. Manley isn’t staff anymore. After Jay died,
she quit. She helped me get this foster placement and she told me she’d
kick my butt if I messed up.

My hair is long now and I had it done up for the prom, but not like
Sara’s. We’re alike in some ways. I have a foster mom who’s a single
parent and sometimes has to work two jobs. We both want to go to
college and we both work. There’s no fancy store here and I couldn’t get
on at JC Penney, but I work at Burger King. And we’re different. Sara
looks down her nose at people who do drugs. I don’t.

I still want to run, but not from Andi. I’d like to run with Bambi and
figure out where he hangs out during the day. Andi says, “Go for it if you
can keep up with him. Just be back for dinner.”

My name is Desiree, the desired one.

Carolyn Harris lives in the Cascade Mountains with her husband, Dave, and too many cats. She is a member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. She blogs at Wednesday’s Woman. Her articles have appeared in travel and sailing magazines, and her book RV in NZ: How to Spend Your Winters South–Way South in New Zealand can be seen at www.rvinnz.com. Wednesday’s Child, a novel set in a northern California logging camp, is looking for a home.

The Armani shoes, the sleek indigo-black ones with the angel-hair laces he could never keep tied, were too big for William, but he slipped them on anyway. He’d wanted to wear one of Frederick’s suits, too, maybe the newish Pierre Cardin that Frederick had liked because he swore the tiny black-and-white checks were slimming, the one William  thought really made Frederick look like a circus clown, although love had kept him from saying so.

But the suit was impossible on William, the shoulders drooping wide on both sides like little mutant fins, the sleeves dangling past his wrists, the flapping waist that suggested William might be a spokesman for Weight Watchers, except it wasn’t his weight he’d lost. He couldn’t wear that to the grand opening, but he didn’t mind sliding around inside the Armanis, just for one day, and if it got too awful he had his clogs in the canvas tote. Surely no one would care if he made himself more comfortable inside his own store.

His own store. It had been Frederick’s idea, the older man thoughtful as always even with his guts turning to jelly and a daily joint the only thing that had still worked to keep the pain at bay. “Look, sweetie,” he’d said as William helped him into the tub one night near the end, “this is perfect. It’ll keep you busy, put food on the table, which God knows you need, you skinny little thing, and it’s all I’ve got to give you. And you can stay here,” he’d said, with a weak little wave that scattered rose-scented bubbles across the black-and-white tiles, “at least until Cassie gets wind of it.” Then he nearly sank under the water until William got him propped up and started scrubbing his back with the loofa. Cassie. William hadn’t met her, and Frederick usually referred to her as the evil stepsister, the reason Frederick hadn’t inherited the house from his aunt outright.

And it was Frederick who’d found the empty retail space and negotiated the lease and hired a couple of his former students, tobacco-chewing dropouts, to move the stuff in, although it was just as well he hadn’t been around to see the brutes manhandle even the most delicate pieces.

As William scuffed down Central Avenue, braced against a chilly November wind and stopping every so often to tie the shoes, he could scarcely believe that at the age of twenty-three he was on his way to the shop that he owned, the shop to which only he had the key, the ancient black safe of which only he knew the combination to, and that in just a few minutes after opening the door, no more than that surely, he would be pressing all the buttons on the complicated new cash register Frederick had ordered just for him, to ring up the first sale. His own store.

William & Frederick. That had been William’s idea, and it pleased him. They’d wanted to call the store Blue Ridge Antiques, but when Frederick checked around, thumbing through the phone book, a blustery call to directory assistance, an Internet search for listings up and down the Valley, he turned up no fewer than fifty shops with that name, including one hidden away inside the ghastly mall outside town, and another a few miles south, that looked, when William drove Frederick’s Riviera down to investigate, like it had been somebody’s garage, converted into a flea market, half an acre of rickety tables covered with muddy tarps, and a hand-lettered sign out front that said, “Make an Offer! Swap Meet Saturday.” But the perfect name had come to William two weeks ago while he sipped a latte in Java Mountain, watching the lanky kid behind the counter flirt with the fuchsia-haired Madonna, worried about the letter he’d received that morning, just gibberish to him, from the lawyers handling the estate, the Richmond firm of Botts & Allen, whose offices had impressed William with their dignified style, plush Persians and early Americana. That’s it,  William said to himself, or maybe out loud because the girl with the freakish hair turned to  look. An elegant, refined name, to sell elegant, refined antiques. William & Frederick.

It wasn’t all elegant stuff, though, William had to admit. Frederick had owned some fabulous pieces, collected over half a century of shopping and travel, and roomfuls he’d inherited from the aunt he’d claimed was royalty. “We’re all queens here, honey,” William had said, mortified when Frederick didn’t laugh. “Well, she was,” he’d insisted, running his hand over the dark surface of the walnut Queen Anne highboy, the gem of the collection. Then there was the mahogany breakfast table that had its own name. Duncan Phyfe, Frederick called it, as if it were a guest in the house and not a piece of furniture. “Let’s join Duncan Phyfe in the kitchen,” he’d say, determined that they should actually use the thing, despite William’s fear of damaging a valuable antique. “What,” Frederick had said, “you don’t think the colonists ever spilled their tea?” The one piece that really unnerved William was the Khmer bust of Buddha, which Frederick said he’d acquired for a blowjob in Bangkok in the sixties. William didn’t doubt the price, a currency familiar to him, but Bangkok didn’t sound like the kind of place Frederick would have been caught dead in—dusty and smelly and filled with women on the make. That wasn’t Frederick at all. When he’d arranged everything in the shop before the grand opening, William had settled the bust into a corner and, when its stony eyes followed him everywhere as he dusted and shifted and rearranged, hoping customers wouldn’t notice the little nicks and scratches that cropped up everywhere like acne from his not-so-long-ago adolescence, he draped over it a soiled batik sarong from that same Asian trip. But in addition to those valuable artifacts, William had elected to display stuff that people in their god-forsaken, drought-parched village might actually buy: Frederick’s childhood rocking horse; a pair of glass candlesticks, with red wax cascading down the sides from last Christmas; five shelves of dusty books, “The Classics” Frederick had called them when he’d tried to get William to read something other than mysteries and true crime, and there were plenty more where they came from in the den at home; a yellow porcelain teapot that William had no use for now that he could drop the pretense he’d adopted to please Frederick, even though he knew Frederick knew it was all for his benefit, but they both had gone on as if the love of chamomile was something they shared. Thank God he could drink coffee again.

William stopped just short of his store, in the glare of the tacky gift shop Frederick had
always refused to step foot in, but that William admired for its clever inventory, like those
darling salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Dalmatians. He gazed at his future. His
store wasn’t on high-traffic Main Street—the rent for both vacant spots there had been too
expensive, one next to the coffee house and one tucked between the tavern and the town’
s only nail salon—but he could see his door from the corner of Central and Main, a location
Frederick had been sure would guarantee success. Of course, the door was below street
level, five steps down into a tiny courtyard, more like an overgrown window-well that
collected leaves and cigarette butts and any other trash that blew down the hill from the
courthouse, and would probably fill up with grimy snow come winter, but the gold lettering
on the window, William & Frederick, was visible, even from across the street. It sparkled a
little, William thought. He stooped to tie his shoelace.

Dodging a red pickup and then a Ford van with a crater on the passenger side that looked like the kind of dent an old cannonball would make, although William couldn’t imagine how that had happened, maybe some Civil War reenactment gone awry, he crossed the street in mid block. He didn’t have to fish in his pocket for the key because he was wearing it around his neck on one of those lanyards, a gift from Frederick because William, who had never owned anything valuable to speak of, had a knack for losing keys. It didn’t matter so much, really, because the house was never locked, most folks didn’t bother unless they lived on the west side of town, and Frederick hadn’t let William drive the Buick except on special occasions. So the house key, the one key William had, until the shop, was more a token of Frederick’s affection than it was of any practical use. William didn’t bother to take the lanyard off, just bent over and fit the key in the lock, jiggled it a little like the real estate agent—that handsome, thick-haired Mr. Lynch who had seemed to hurry through their appointments—had demonstrated when he showed them the property.

A musty smell greeted William (why hadn’t he ever noticed it when all this stuff was
cluttering up the house?), and new paint, the lilac they’d picked over the bleeding-heart
pink because the pink was too passionate, Frederick’s color, and was sure to bring up all
kinds of memories he didn’t want to deal with. The lilac was just right, soothing and soft, a
color that made you think of your grandmother’s garden, which was exactly what customers in an antique shop should think. Or at least that’s what Frederick had asserted
when he told William the rest of his plans for the store.

“I don’t want you going back there,” Frederick had said, and William knew he meant
back where they’d met, as if William could ever think of hustling again. Frederick had
rescued him, given him things, taught him things. Now he knew about wine and music and
antiques. A little, anyway. That other life was over.

“No,” William said. “I’d rather kill myself. But at least that way we would be together.”
That was something else they talked about, how fate had united them when Frederick
popped into a gay bar in D.C. and found William, and nothing like a little colon cancer was
going to tear them apart, at least not for long. Frederick wouldn’t listen to that, though.
He shook his head. “You’ll meet someone, honey. You’ll move on. I know that. But in the
meantime, there’s enough stuff in this old house to keep an antique store going a long
time, and when it’s gone you can buy some junk and sell that. It’s decided, then.” And
William had gone along to keep Frederick happy. The momentum had been too strong to
fight. “A shop. You know, I’ve always wanted to run a shop, keep the customer happy,
service is our business and all that. Where everyone expects you to be gay anyway, so it’s
no surprise when it turns out you are. And I’d paint it lilac, like my grandmother’s garden.”

Lights on. William hadn’t realized before just how dark the space was, on an overcast
fall morning, on this side street with no direct light anyway and the shop window half-
hidden by the stairs. Even with the fluorescents the place felt like a cave, or the bowels of
a ship, and William made a mental note to use the proceeds of his first sale to install
better lighting, maybe a couple of torchieres like Frederick had shown him in one of his
magazines, or a spotlight aimed at that nasty Buddha, maybe it would even help sell the
thing. He took a quick look around, sure he wouldn’t get another chance once the store
flooded with customers, a last-minute inventory of Frederick’s life before the hordes
started picking at the brocade on the Venetian divan, testing the strength of the spindly
comb-back Windsor chair, the one Frederick had never let anyone sit in, not even
featherweight William, for fear it would collapse into splinters, or caressing the seductive
satin of the Rococo rosewood chairs, the pair that Frederick had been given by a friend,
about whom he never said any more, no matter how much William pleaded, or forgave him for past indiscretions.

William wanted just one last minute of respite before he started haggling with the gaggle of bargain hunters: “It’s not quite what I’m looking for, and isn’t that a burn mark on the top, and I saw the exact same piece at Blue Ridge Antiques for a third what you’re asking, and I couldn’t possibly go any higher than . . .” William’s eyes landed on a Georgian wing chair that had been one of Frederick’s favorites at home, angled by the fireplace, perfect for a quiet evening with a book and that awful cognac he liked, while William curled up on the couch with a Heineken. The leather was caramel, and spidery veins had emerged on the seat where it sagged into a bowl.

“Come sit with me for a second, honey,” said the chair, although it was Frederick’s lilt
that William heard.

William turned around, slowly, making sure he was as alone in the store as he thought he was. “I am not getting into a conversation with this chair,” he said. “I’m not. Do you hear me, Freddy?” He spun on his heel and saw the Buddha, hiding under the sarong. “Do you hear me? So please just shut up.” William knew perfectly well that the furniture wasn’t talking, any more than the cozy tub at home called to him, or the big four-poster in their bedroom whispered in his ear. He wasn’t crazy. He missed Frederick, that’s all. He missed candlelight suppers of exotic dishes he’d never heard of before, he missed that awful opera screeching from the stereo, he missed being corrected whenever he  mispronounced a word. He missed Frederick.

He hopped to the cash register, always reluctant to step on the grizzled Heriz rug from the living room, even though Frederick had insisted rugs were meant to be walked on. “They’re not fragile, honey,” he’d said more than once. “Some camel probably fornicated on this rug.” William had been unconvinced. “All the more reason not to walk on it,” he always said. William took up his position behind the counter, turned on the cash register, saw by Frederick’s marble-and-gold Belgian mantel clock that it was almost ten, and eyed the door, ready for business.

Just before noon, William still stood behind the counter. The door had yet to open, although he had watched countless legs go by, legs cloaked in jeans and cowboy boots, bony legs in running shorts and Nikes, elephantine legs that ended in what looked to be fuzzy slippers, shapely legs in high heels behind a stroller. A little girl peeked out of the carriage and waved at William. William waved back.

“Well, it’s understandable that business would be slow the first day,” William said aloud. “I’m sure there’ll be a crowd at lunch.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said the wing chair.

“I’m not talking to you,” shouted William.

When no one came in during lunch, William looked for ways to keep busy. He took down the grand opening sign he’d taped to the window, got out the Windex to attack a streak he’d noticed, and put the sign back up. He took Frederick’s collection of Toby jugs out of the glass case under the cash register and dusted each one, wiped the shelves, and put the jugs back, careful to leave them facing forward, as Frederick had shown him after dusting them at home. Then William pulled the books off the shelves and set about arranging them, in alphabetical order by author, and wondered if maybe he should kill
some time by reading one of them.

“Frederick would be pleased,” he said.

“And astonished,” said the bookshelf, a handsome oak lawyer’s cabinet with glass doors and white porcelain knobs. “But what you really ought to do is move a chair outside, so people can see some signs of life.”

William backed away. “Shut up!” But when he thought about it he saw it wasn’t a bad idea, and he settled on one of the sturdier pieces, a heavy Roycroft chair from the dining set Frederick had been so proud of because he’d assembled it from different arts and crafts designers—the Greene Brothers, Gustav Stickley, even Frank Lloyd Wright. William lugged the thing out to the sidewalk.

“Ouch,” said the chair, when William bumped it into the door. “Be careful.”

“Sorry,” said William. He went back inside, hopped over the rug, and grabbed a book off the shelf without looking to see what it was, then sat outside, with his knees together as Frederick had taught him, Frederick’s gray cashmere sweater over his shoulders, waiting to be noticed. The street was empty. William opened the book and read: “Call me Ishmael.”

At three, William was hungry. He made another mental note, this time to bring his lunch in the future, but on opening day he’d been so sure he wouldn’t have time to eat anyway, he hadn’t bothered to pack anything. And he was reluctant to close, even for a minute, to run down to Java Mountain for coffee and a bagel, because surely in the time it took to get there, have that slow-witted boy with the snake tattoo on his wrist, cute as he was, make the sandwich and the latte, someone would have come looking to buy the highboy and gone away disappointed. He stood up, sleepy from reading about the doomed whaling voyage, and took a step toward the shop door, then stepped back, worried even now that he’d miss a customer if he took a break. His stomach growled.

“Put a note on the door, sweetie,” said the chair. “I’ll be right here and people can wait.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said William. He scribbled a little sign—Back in 5—and taped it to the door. He ran up to the corner, took a right on Main, and ran back, slipping inside the Armanis both ways, confident there’d be someone in the chair when he returned.

“Did anyone come?” William asked the chair, wheezing from the unfamiliar exertion.

“Nope,” said the chair. “Nobody. Nada. Zippo. Zero. Zilch.”

“Shut up,” screamed William, and looked around sheepishly when he remembered he was standing on the sidewalk. He sat down, sipped the latte and nibbled at his bagel, toasted, with rosemary chicken salad, no tomato, and opened the book again, this time in the middle to see if the action might have picked up by then. “Chapter 49. The Hyena.” Hyena? What happened to the damn whale? “There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke … ”

“You got that right,” William said, and closed the book. He dragged the dining chair inside.

At five, William banged the “enter” button on the cash register, heard the satisfying bing-bong when the drawer popped open, and counted the day’s receipts. Zero, of course.

“Nada, zilch,” said the chair. He certainly didn’t remember selling anything, but he considered the possibility, likelihood even, that he had spaced out, suffered temporary amnesia perhaps, because surely there had been a steady stream of customers, it being opening day for the elegant new antique shop near the corner of Central and Main, a location that couldn’t miss, painted in surefire lilac, William & Frederick, a welcome addition to commerce in the sleepy hamlet. He closed the drawer.

“Good night,” said the chair.

“Good night,” said William.

Although the first day had been disheartening, even frightening because it raised the specter of poverty that his life with Frederick had, until now, allowed him to nearly forget, William arrived the next morning armed with a rosy outlook. For one thing, the shop was less lonely than the house. He’d moved so many of Frederick’s things into the cramped store, and they’d been so vocal while the hours dragged on, that he actually looked forward to leaving the echo chamber that had once been the living room of the Victorian mansion and having a chat with the wing chair. Even if no customers appeared, at least he’d have someone to talk to. Maybe the Louis XVI armoire would speak up today. William had always wanted to learn French.

By the end of the first week, though, William was truly discouraged, the talkative antiques being little relief in the end, a steady cinema of bleak alternatives playing in his head—getting a real job, seeking out the brother he knew he had somewhere but hadn’t spoken to in a decade, going back to the bar in D.C. where he’d first latched onto Frederick, almost as hungry and desperate now as he had been then. The furniture tried to cheer him up, assuring him it was only a matter of time, that the breakthrough would come, that he only needed to be patient. William listened, dusted everything as lovingly as he had seen Frederick do it, and even tried to read more about the devilish whale. At home he’d painted a new sign to hang in the window, “Grand Opening Sale,” but it hadn’t enticed a single browser into the store, much less a paying customer, and since it blocked what little natural light he had, William took it down.

On Saturday morning, he opened the glass case to take out the Toby jugs yet again, to remove for the fifth straight day dust that hadn’t had a chance to settle from the first cleaning, when the shop door scraped open.

“Helloooo,” crooned the woman who entered, a behemoth in a flowered dress, with overflowing chest and hips, breathless from the five steps down. She looked vaguely familiar to William, as half the town did. Whenever he and Frederick had ventured out of the house, resolved to ignore pointing fingers and stage whispers, Frederick offered William a running commentary on the townsfolk. “That’s Bobby Cabe, a drunken old backwoodsman who tried to pick a fight with me once because he thought I was staring at him, not that I’d be the least bit interested in him even if he were the last fag on earth. Now he’s just belligerent and babbles on about fairies, and it’s not me he’s talking about, I’m reasonably sure. That one over there is Mildred Rutledge, from the high school. From what I hear, she’s fond of young boys, so you better look out. And that one, the one with the white hair bent over double like she’s looking for a dime, that’s Henrietta Doak. She’s ninety years old and still drives herself around in her late husband’s Cadillac, so when you see her coming, best get out of the way.” William wasn’t sure if this woman was one Frederick had described, but he wouldn’t have been able to remember anyway, despite her eye-popping girth, caught up as he was in the excitement of having his first customer.

In his haste, he dropped the smallest Toby jug on the glass shelf, and gasped when the handle, a delicate, gray thing in the shape of a dolphin, or a whale maybe, or at any rate some big fish, rolled away, sheered clean from the face that made up the body of the jug, apparently a seafarer of some sort, William couldn’t tell. A mental note to glue the fish back on, and William donned his widest smile, stuck out his hand as Frederick had suggested even with the most unlikely buyers, and this woman looked as likely as William could imagine, and welcomed the giantess into the shop. Mrs. Benson, as it turned out.

“I knew Frederick,” she said in a low, sympathetic voice, as if they were at the funeral, although that had been over a month ago, early October, and no one from town had been there except the lesbian couple who ran a candle and macramé shop out on Sparksburg Pike, and a handful of Frederick’s former students. “He might not have known me, though,” she admitted. “My boy Joshua was in his literature class for a while, but we put a stop to that when we heard.” Heard what, William wanted to ask, but even around Frederick, gentle, patient Frederick, he’d been afraid to ask questions because it seemed like the answer was always something he was supposed to have known in the first place but, he usually rationalized, he’d been too busy just surviving to learn. His confusion must have been scrawled on his face, because Mrs. Benson whispered, in a pitying voice that said, as clearly as if the words had come out of that cavernous mouth, “don’t tell me you didn’t know,” along with the words she actually spoke: “About his illness.”

Oh, that. He had cancer, it wasn’t the other, William longed to say, looked over at the wing chair, the most outspoken of the collection, and shook his head, silently apologizing.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for, Mrs. Benson?” That’s what Frederick had told him to say, wasn’t it, get the customer to commit to a quest, then put the Holy Grail in her hands and you’ve made the sale. Assuming you had the Holy Grail in stock, of course, and hadn’t offered the Golden Fleece instead. Just browsing, she said, so William took up his post behind the cash register while Mrs. Benson pawed over Frederick’s Waterford goblets, and the silver cake server that William really should have taken to a jeweler to appraise, but that seemed too crass somehow, and an insult to Frederick. Mrs. Benson stumbled into a Victorian writing table, a one-of-a-kind mahogany jewel on which Frederick had written daily his letters and lists, recorded every household expenditure, graded remedial compositions, and she looked over at William with stiletto eyes, so disturbing in a woman that large, as though he most certainly had put the table in that spot for the sole purpose of injuring her. William shrugged, hoping it conveyed his meaning, which was, I’m terribly sorry, but I hope you haven’t damaged Frederick’s desk, lady, or there’ll be hell to pay.

Mrs. Benson browsed a while longer, and picked up and carried around with her like it was  a watermelon, or maybe a football, a pear-shaped coppery vase that Frederick had said was Ming but to William just looked Chinese and William hadn’t even wanted to know what Frederick had done to get. She sat for a minute in the wing chair that William could hear groaning under her incredible bulk, ran her fingertips over the cracked leather, then struggled up and over to the bookshelves, and lifted her glasses to read the titles. She even took one out to thumb the pages. But her wandering eyes always came back to the offending table.

“How much is it?” Mrs. Benson’s voice had lost both its ingratiating melody and funereal whisper, and she was now all business. “Your best price, of course.”

This was the moment Frederick had tried to prepare him for, the first negotiation with a customer. There was so much to consider! He wanted to make his first sale, of course, because he had to admit that things were not going well and he’d been so sure the money would just be rolling in at this point, and there was always the apparition of the evil  stepsister lurking in his subconscious, so a sale would be a good thing, an omen of better things to come maybe. But he couldn’t start out too low, could he, because the desk had some value, and not only the price Frederick had paid for it or the services performed in Paris or New York or wherever, but it had belonged to Frederick! Frederick used it! Frederick treasured it! On the other hand, there was the rent, and if he didn’t sell this piece and several more by the end of the month, William would have to dip into the cookie jar of cash Frederick had filled for him, and as Frederick had explained over and over again, that was not—what was the word Frederick had used—sustainable.

But despite all the planning, Frederick hadn’t gotten around to telling William what the prices should be for anything. What did William know? He’d never sold a thing, apart from his own companionship, unless you could count that fiasco behind the men’s fragrance counter at Macy’s one of his regulars had finagled for him and that William had walked away from during a coffee break. Too stressful, too much to remember. Frederick had begun to talk about antique prices once, but somehow the subject of his stepsister had intruded and he’d gotten so upset, so overcome with what it would mean to William when she eventually showed up to claim the house and whatever William hadn’t managed to sell by then, that he hadn’t been able to continue. He’d gone downhill fast after that, barely able to speak, too weak to leave the house, too horrified by his appearance to allow visitors. And now William was on his own.

He opened a notebook, a black three-ring binder, and looked for the writing table on the list. Frederick had made the list years ago for insurance purposes, and when they were going through his papers, near the end, he had discovered it and handed it to William. “Perfect,” he’d said, in a breathless gasp. “An inventory. Just what you need, my boy.” And William had put the list in the binder, a dusty torn thing he’d found in the attic, and had decided that the values assigned for insurance purposes surely were the least he should try to get for each item. Hadn’t Frederick called it perfect? He ran his finger down the page to the writing table, then across the row to the value, and closed the book. But wait, he thought, that’s where I should end up, so I’ll add a little for bargaining purposes, and then I’ll give her a discount and we’ll all be happy.

“Because you are such a delightful woman, I could let you have this darling table,” William began, imitating as best he could the warble Frederick had demonstrated repeatedly, and remembering what Frederick had said about flattering both the customer and the purchase, to make them think they were made for each other, “for five thousand five hundred dollars.” The woman’s jaw dropped. Comically, William thought. He wondered what he’d done wrong.

“You’re joking, of course,” she said, recovering, laughing even.

Was the price absurdly low? It seemed expensive to William, but then he’d never lived in the world of objects until he’d met Frederick. For years, after running away from his mother and stepfather’s home in New Jersey, his older brother already free, off in the Army, the only thing on his mind had been food and shelter, and sometimes getting high, and after awhile even food and shelter receded in importance. But then Frederick had rescued him and brought him home to the country and the house filled with curio cabinets, lace tablecloths, real china plates, engraved silverware. Frederick had tried to teach him, but there was only so much a boy could absorb. How could he know the real value? Too low? Or was the price too high? That must be it, William realized. Frederick wouldn’t have put a low value on the insurance forms, even William understood that, when he stopped to think about it. He might have inflated the value a tiny bit, right?

“I could consider a discount,” William said, reciting the dialogue he’d learned from his lover, his mentor and savior. “One shouldn’t really bargain with the customer,” Frederick had insisted. “Bargaining is so … tacky. But one may offer a discount. A special price. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“I bet you could,” said the leviathan, and ran her bloated finger over the table one more time. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for it. And that’s because I hit the jackpot at bingo last night.” She pulled a wad of bills from her purse and counted out two twenties and ten wrinkled ones. William hesitated, felt Frederick pushing him to take it, heard the armoire whispering that rent day was just around the corner, actually lifted his hand to touch the cash, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the Buddha, shaking his head under the sarong. William put his hand in his pocket.

“No,” he said, taking a step back from the counter. “It’s worth much more than that.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Benson. “Bingo has its limits, I’m afraid.” She stuffed the bills back in her
purse and moved to the door, turned the knob, pulled it open, raised her foot to step out.

“Wait,” said William.

Mrs. Benson closed the door and grinned. Maliciously, William thought. She reached into her purse and waved the cash at him.

He looked at the floor. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

The following week, William’s expectations were lower. He’d put the Armanis away in Frederick’s cedar closet, along with the checked suit, the cashmere sweater and all the rest of his clothes. He’d have to give them away or, better yet, leave them for Cassie to deal with. William’s Dockers, that Frederick had bought him when he couldn’t stand to see him in jeans any longer, and the clogs—Frederick bought those, too, of course—would do just fine. It’s not like anyone would see him anyway, tucked away in the dark basement. He arrived at the shop just at ten, a lunch packed, nothing fancy, a bruised apple and expired yogurt, no reason to think that the situation had changed, especially now that his one and only customer, the enormous Mrs. Benson, would spread the word that his shop was too expensive and that he, skinny, pasty little William, would never make it in the world without Frederick. On the way, he’d stopped at the Ace Hardware and picked up some glue, the only kind he knew, the milky white stuff that smelled like pudding, tasted a bit like it, too, if he remembered right, and set about fixing the little Toby jug. That done, he pulled the book off the shelf and settled into the wing chair. If I’m going to be bored to death, not to mention starving and poor, he thought, I might as well do what Frederick was after me all the time to do. “Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long ago, having little or no
money in my purse—”

The shop door swung open and a gust turned the page. “Hellooo. Anybody home?” It was
that colossus again, this time with a woman who could have been her twin in tow, or rather her shadow, William thought, since she looked to be just a deli slice compared to the big woman’s beefy slab. And anyway, their resemblance might only have been an illusion, as William realized he might have lived his whole life so far thinking that all old women looked exactly the same, only in different dimensions, with the salon-curled, blue-gray helmet and the high-collared flowered dress and gold broach.

“This is Lydia, and I told her all about how charming you were and how you had some wonderful goodies in your shop and those candlesticks would look just fabulous on her mantel and how much do you want for them?” Mrs. Benson tugged Lydia to the armoire, where the candlesticks sat in semi-darkness. William had struggled out of the chair while she spoke and now opened his binder with the insurance list. He ran his finger down the page, but didn’t see the candlesticks anywhere, which was no surprise because at home he’d found them under the sink in the powder room and knew they’d either been forgotten, or worthless. He picked one up and then the other, pleased with their heft, and even the dripped wax cheered his fingers, reminding him of his last Christmas with Frederick. He set them down gently on the counter and looked again in the binder. He ran his finger down the page one more time and stopped when he came to the armoire, value $15,000.

“I can let you have the pair for, let’s see,” William said, stalling, hoping they’d think he was calculating a discount off the asking price, when in fact he had no idea what number would be high enough to keep this gargantuan and her shadowy friend from buying the candlesticks, “I think, maybe, I suppose, two hundred dollars.”

The wraith called Lydia opened her purse and pulled out a checkbook, but Mrs. Benson laughed so loud the Buddha’s sarong fluttered and Frederick’s rocking horse launched into motion. Mrs. Benson shook her head and laid a meaty hand on her friend’s arm. Lydia looked up at her, obviously puzzled.

“You’re a silly boy, William. No doubt this appealed to dear, sweet Frederick.” She raised her eyebrows, and William understood she wasn’t talking about Frederick’s weakness for antiques. “But it’s no way to run a business.” With that, Mrs. Benson pulled Lydia, whose hand still clutched her checkbook and a fountain pen, up the stairs. The window shuddered, William thought, when the door slammed behind them.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the highboy. “You had the fish on the line and you let it get away.”

“But at least the store is still afloat,” said the wing chair. “For now.”

“Forget the list, mon cher,” said the armoire. “Go low.”

In the afternoon, a young couple came in, a sloppy bra-less teenager with a pierced eyebrow, and a slim young man about William’s age in khakis and a polo shirt, a silver ring on his thumb. William watched his careful steps, trailing the heedless girl. They looked at everything, laughing and poking at each other, “you’re such a nerd,” said the girl, and “at least I don’t have a tattoo on my butt,” said the young man. She called him Donnie, he called her Pammy, more like sister and brother than a couple.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked them.

“We were just looking,” said the girl, pawing through a drawer full of costume jewelry that Frederick—William didn’t really want to think about why Frederick had a drawer full of costume jewelry.

“Yeah, just looking,” said the man, now keeping his eyes on William, straightening his collar.

He stuck his hand out, thin and pasty, a light grip, like William’s own. “I’m Donnie.” Now the
girl turned around to look, eyes wide.

“William,” said William.

The girl clucked, grabbed Donnie and pulled him out the door. Donnie waved.

At home that night, there was mail. Addressed to him. He never got mail, but enjoyed the ritual of opening the box and going through the catalogs and junk mail and solicitations still being delivered for Frederick. This was a pale-blue envelope, the kind you might expect to be scented, with his name on it and a return address in California, and a regular first-class stamp, not one of those telltale bulk postage stamps he’d noticed on all his other mail. Frederick’s mail. Who did he know in California?

It was from Cassie. She’d just heard, was deeply saddened, sorry she and Frederick hadn’t been closer, and by the way she’d be arriving next week to turn the house over to a Realtor she’d hired and would William be so kind as to be gone by the time she got there? William sank to the window seat, clutching the letter, pictured Frederick in his silk robe descending the stairs, Frederick reading by the fire, Frederick beating eggs for a soufflé. What to do?

The next morning was damp and drizzly and William was happy to open the shop, shake out his umbrella, and ease into the wing chair to wait and think. There was still room in the shop, he saw, especially if he started piling things up, so he could call those awful boys Frederick had hired and ask them to bring another load over from the house. William didn’t have much of his own to move, he could use one of Frederick’s suitcases and still have room for some more of Frederick’s things, and until something turned up he could sleep on the divan, shower at the Y maybe, and things would be fine. “You’ll see,” he said to the armoire. There was no answer.

He was still sitting there, gazing out the window, when he saw a pair of skinny legs in tight black jeans go by. Then the same legs went by in the other direction, stopped and crouched down, and that guy from the other day, Donnie, was looking in, upside down, grinning, William thought, but it was hard to tell that way, with the chin at the top. Donnie waved, and then his face popped out of sight and the legs skipped away. William felt a chill.

The titan came back, with Lydia in tow. “You silly boy,” Mrs. Benson said, opened her purse
and pulled out the bills she’d offered before. Lydia peeked around her megalithic friend and
flashed her checkbook at William, a narrow grin on her lips.

“Forget your pride, mon petite chou,” whispered the armoire. “Take the money,” said the wing chair, “what choice do we have?” “Cassie is coming,” said the highboy. William backed into the counter, rattling the Toby jugs on the glass shelves, and nodded as the whale closed in.

He slid out of her path, spun around to the cash register and pressed the buttons. Nothing
happened. He looked up at her and shrugged. Pressing harder on the numbers, he hit “enter” with the heel of his hand, as if he just hadn’t been convincing enough the first time, as if the machine would not allow him to surrender Frederick to this goliath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Donnie’s legs again, the black jeans, slowly now, stopping just at the steps. With a sheepish grin toward Mrs. Benson, William felt around the back of the box and threw the switch, felt the hum of power in his fingers, and rang up the sale, the insurance list forgotten. The drawer popped open and William slipped the bills inside, while Lydia wrote out her check—twenty dollars, Mrs. Benson had decreed—for the candlesticks.

“I’ll pull the Lincoln around in a few minutes,” said Mrs. Benson, and plowed up Central, with Lydia in her wake. While the door was still open, Donnie stepped in.

William pretended to busy himself at the cash register, which for the first time actually harbored cash, but watched Donnie move through the store, examining everything he and the girl had seen already, making his way deeper inside, stopping again at the pile of costume jewelry. He turned toward William with a tiara in his hand, slipped it into his wispy blonde hair and blushed crimson, then set it down on the counter. “How much is it?”

“A dollar?” guessed William, suppressing a laugh. Donnie’s fingers brushed William’s palm when he handed him the bill, and they both turned away. William felt himself blushing now, too.

He’d barely finished the small sale when the door whooshed open again. A young couple—
newlyweds, from Philadelphia, they announced right away, as if that somehow was going to make a difference in any price he might quote them and, William had to admit, it did incline him toward a bigger number than he would have otherwise—instantly moved in opposite directions, the woman asking William about the highboy, then the armoire, while the husband shouted questions from the back about a dusty school desk he’d noticed in the corner. “It’s from the oldest school in the county, a real collector’s item,” William lied loudly to the husband, with a wink to Donnie. “Previously owned by royalty,” he crowed to the wife, when the door opened again and an elderly couple came in and started nosing around and they were all still in the store when Randy, from Java Mountain, strolled in, waved at William, and began fingering the books. Donnie leaned against the counter. William pretended not to notice.

As William was writing up the chair for the young couple, watching how the dark finger hair
curled over the man’s wedding ring while he steadied the checkbook, the older couple asked for the price of the armoire and this time William halved the insurance estimate, told them there was room for discussion and let them mull it over and in the meantime Randy had grabbed a couple of books off the shelf and stood at the register with his wallet open. Donnie still leaned. Oh my, thought William, this is just as I’d imagined it would be. The world isn’t going to come crashing down after all! Let Cassie come!

Randy had gone with his books and the old couple was still examining the armoire and William would be sorry to see it go, but selling the most expensive piece in the store would be a real coup, even at the more realistic price, and he left them alone to talk themselves into it.

Mrs. Benson’s Lincoln pulled up out front, idled there, a little cotton candy cloud of exhaust out the back, and he knew it was finally time. He leaned over the writing desk, tried to hold both ends and lift, but the table dragged its feet. William laughed at himself. You are a silly boy, aren’t you, he thought, the table doesn’t have feet. Well, it does, but . . . He leaned over again and it still seemed like the table was reluctant, but William knew perfectly well what was happening. He wasn’t a total dunce, despite what his stepfather might have thought. It wasn’t the furniture who was foot-dragging. Donnie hopped around the counter, touched his hand to William’s shoulder and grabbed the other side of the table.

Clifford Garstang has published in Confluence and the Ledge. His story “Nanking Mansion” won the 2007 GSU Review Fiction Prize and will be published shortly. He also has work forthcoming in Potomac Review, The Hub and elsewhere. Leviathan originally appeared in North Dakota Quarterly. Garstang blogs at Perpetual Folly.