The Best American Short Stories 2012

by Tom Perrotta

  Consequences, Cater is always saying.

  I feel shitty, Bit’s always saying.

  Let’s talk about you, Andrea the social worker is always saying.

  When you sober up come see me, the fat checker at the Quik Stop is always saying.

  Funny fucker, the guy in the gold convertible is always saying.

  The bookstore kid finally comes back. He’s got a little card, like a driver’s license, and he gives it to Bit with a pen. There, now you have a discount card, the kid says. On the little piece of cardboard, where it says Name, Bit writes, Funny Fucker. Where it says Address, Bit writes: Anything Helps.

  Bit starts walking again, downtown along the river. For a while he and Julie camped farther down the bank, where the water turns and flattens out. They’d smoke and she’d lie back and mumble about getting their shit together.

  Bit tried to tell Cater that. Yes, he’d fucked up, but he’d actually been selling his vouchers to buy this book, to get his shit together. But Cater was suspicious, asked a bunch of questions, and then Wallace piped in with He’s lying and Bit lunged at Wallace and Cater pulled him off—rough about it too—Bit yelling God damn this and God damn that, making it three-for-three (1: No drinking, 2: No fighting, 3: No taking the Lord’s, etc.), so that Cater had no choice, he said, rules being rules.

  Then I got no choice either, Bit said, pacing outside the Jesus beds, pissed off.

  Sure you do, Cater said. You always have a choice.

  Of course, Cater was right. But out of spite or self-pity, or just thirst, Bit went and blew half his book money on a fifth, spent a couple of nights on the street, and then shot the rest of the money on another. You think you’re through with some things: picking up smokes off the street, shitting in alleys. He woke this morning in a parking lot above the river, behind a humming heat pump. Looked down at the water and could practically see Julie lying back in the grass. When we gonna get our shit together, Wayne?

  Bit walks past brick apartments and empty warehouses. Spokane’s a donut city, downtown a hole, civilians all in the suburbs. Donut City is part of Bit’s unified urban theory, like the part about how every failing downtown tries the same stupid fixes: hang a vertical sign on an empty warehouse announcing LUXURY LOFTS!, buy buses that look like trolley cars, open a shitty farmers’ market.

  Very interesting, Andrea says whenever Bit talks about his theory. But we talk about ourselves at group, Bit. Let’s talk about you.

  But what if this is me? Bit asked once. Why can’t we be the things we see and think? Why do we always have to be these sad stories, like Fat Danny pretending he’s sorry he screwed up his life when we all know he’s really just bragging about how much coke he used to do? Why can’t we talk about what we think instead of just all the stupid shit we’ve done?

  Okay, Wayne, she said—what do you think?

  I think I’ve done some real stupid shit.

  Andrea likes him, always laughs at his jokes, treats him smarter than the rest of the group, which he is. She even flirts with him, a little.

  Where’s your nickname come from? she asked him one time.

  It’s because that’s all a woman can take of my wand, he said. Just a bit. Plus I chewed a man to death once. Bit right through his larynx.

  It’s his last name is all, said Wallace. Bittinger.

  That’s true, Bit said, although I did bite a guy’s larynx once.

  You think you’re so smart, Wallace is always saying.

  And do you want to talk about Julie? Andrea’s always saying.

  Not so much, Bit’s always saying.

  We’re all children before God, Cater’s always saying.

  But Cater isn’t even at the Jesus beds when Bit stops there. He’s at his kid’s soccer game. Kenny the intake guy leans out the window and says he can’t let Bit in the door till he clears it with Cater.

  Sure, Bit says, just do me a favor. He takes the book from the bag. Tell him I showed you this.

  Bit walks past brick storefronts and apartments, through nicer neighborhoods with green lawns. The book’s heavy under his arm.

  Another part of Bit’s unified urban theory is sprinklers, that you can gauge a neighborhood’s wealth by the way people water. If every single house has an automatic system, you’re looking at a six-figure mean. If the majority lug hoses around, it’s more lower middle class. And if they don’t bother with the lawns . . . well, that’s the sort of shit-burg where Bit and Julie always lived, except for that little place they rented in Wenatchee the summer Bit worked at the orchard. He sometimes thinks back to that time and imagines what it would be like if he could undo everything that came after it, like standing up a line of dominoes. All the way back to Nate.

  Bit breathes deeply, looks around at the houses to get his mind off it, at the sidewalks and the garden bricks and the homemade mailboxes. It isn’t a bad walk. The Molsons live in a neighborhood between arterials, maybe ten square blocks of ’50s and ’60s ranchers and ramblers, decent-sized edged yards, clean, the sort of block Julie always liked—nice but not overreaching. Bit pulls out the postcard, reads the address again, even though he remembers the place from last time. Two more blocks.

  It’s getting cool now, heavy clouds settling down like a blanket over a kid. It’ll rain later. Bit puts this neighborhood at about 40 percent sprinkler systems, 25 percent two-car garages, lots of rock gardens, and lined sidewalks. The Molsons have the biggest house on the block, gray, two-story, with a big addition in back. Two little boys—one black, one white, both littler than Nate—are in the front yard, behind a big cyclone fence, bent over something. A bug, if Bit had to bet.

  Hullo, Bit says from his side of the fence. You young gentlemen know if Nate’s around?

  He’s downstairs playing Ping-Pong, says one of the boys, and the other grabs the kid’s arm, no doubt heeding a warning about stranger-talk.

  Maybe you could tell Mr. or Mrs. Molson that Wayne Bittinger’s outside. Here to see Nate for one-half a second is all.

  The boys are gone awhile. Bit clears his throat. Shifts his weight. Listens for police. He looks around the neighborhood and it makes him sad that it’s not nicer, that Nate didn’t get some South Hill fosters, a doctor or something. Stupid thought; he’s embarrassed for having it.

  Mrs. Molson looks heavier than the last time he stopped by, in the spring—has it been that long? More than half a year? She’s shaped like a bowling pin, with a tuft of side-swooped hair and big round glasses. A saint, though, she and her husband both, for taking in all these kids.

  She frowns. Mr. Bittinger—

  Please, call me Wayne.

  Mr. Bittinger, I told you before, you can’t just stop by here.

  No, I know that, Mrs. Molson. I’m supposed to go through the guardian ad litem. I know. I just . . . his birthday got away from me. I wanted to give him a book. Then I swear, I’ll—

  What book? She holds out her hands. Bit hands it over. She opens the bag and looks in without taking the book out, like it might be infected.

  Mr. Bittinger, you know how Mr. Molson and I feel about these books. She tries to hand it back to him, but Bit won’t take it.

  No, I know, Mrs. Molson. He pats the postcard in his back pocket—picture of a lake and a campground. It was mailed to their old apartment. Bit’s old landlord, Gayle, brought it down to the Jesus beds for him, what, a month ago—or was it three months now?

  Dad—I’m at camp and we’re supposed to write our parents and I’m kind of mad (not really just a little) at the Molsons for taking away my Harry Potter books which they think are Satanic. I did archery here which was fun. I hope you’re doing good too. Nate.

  I respect your beliefs, Bit tells Mrs. Molson. I do. It’s probably why you and Mr. Molson are such good people, to open your home up like this. But Nate, he loves them Harry Potter books. And after all he’s been through, me being such a fuckup—Jesus, why did he say that—I’m sorry, pardon my . . . and losing his mother, I just . . . I mean . . .
Bit can feel his face flushing.

  Mrs. Molson glances back at the house. For what it’s worth, we don’t push our beliefs on the boys, Mr. Bittinger, she says. It’s all about rules. Everyone here goes to church and everyone spends an hour on homework and we keep a close eye on what they read and watch. We have the same rules for all the boys. Otherwise it doesn’t work. Not with eight of them.

  No, I could see that, Bit says. I could.

  Bit read the first Harry Potter to Nate when he was only six, even doing a British accent sometimes. Julie read him the second one, no accent, but cuddled up in the hotel bed where they were crashing. They got the books from the library. After the second one, Nate started reading them himself. Bit kind of wishes he’d kept up, before the dominoes started going: before CPS came, before Julie got so hopeless and strung out, before . . .

  We’ve been doing this a long time, Mrs. Molson is saying. We’ve had upwards of forty foster kids and we’ve found that this is what works: adherence to rules.

  Yep, that’s how we saw things too, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate him having a stable home like this. I really do. My wife and I, we did our best, and we always figured that once we got everything back together, that, uh . . . but of course . . .

  Mrs. Molson looks down at her shoes.

  This wasn’t what he meant to do, this self-pity. He wanted to talk like real people, but Bit feels himself fading. It’s like trying to speak another language—conversational suburban—and it tires him out the way group does: everybody crying out their bullshit about the choices they’ve made and the clarity they’ve found. And he’s worse than any of them, wanting so bad for Andrea to like him, to think he’s fixed, when all he really wants is a pinch. Or a pint.

  Bit clears his throat.

  It’s just . . . you know, this one thing. I don’t know.

  Mr. Bittinger—

  Finally, Bit smiles, and rasps: Anything helps.

  She looks up at him with what must be pity, although he can’t quite make it out. Then she sighs and looks down at the book again. I guess . . . I could put it away for him. For later. He can have it when you can take him again . . . or when he’s on his own, or with some other—

  Thank you. I’d appreciate that. Bit clears his throat. But before you put it away, could you show it to him? Tell him his old man brought it for his birthday?

  Sure, Mrs. Molson says, and then she gets hard again. But Mr. Bittinger, you can’t come by here.

  I know that, he says.

  Next time I’ll call the police.

  He begins backing away. Won’t be a next time.

  You said that last spring.

  Backing away: I know. I’m sorry.

  Call Mr. Gandor and I’m sure he’ll set up a visitation.

  I will. Thank you, Mrs. Molson.

  She turns and goes inside. Bit stands where he’s backed up to, middle of the street, feels like he’s about to burst open, a water balloon or a sack of fluid, gush out onto the pavement and trickle down to the curb. When are we gonna get our shit together?

  Quickly, Bit begins walking toward downtown. He imagines the curtains parting in the houses around him. Think you’re so smart. Let’s talk about you. Jesus he wants something. He stowed his cardboard back behind Frankie Doodle’s; instead of going to the Jesus beds and pleading with Cater, maybe he’ll go get it. Hit that corner again. Tear it up one more night, like he and Julie used to do. Maybe the guy in the gold convertible will come by and give him another twenty. He tries to think of something good. Imagines the guy pulling up and Bit spinning his sign and it reading Funny Fucker and the guy laughing and Bit jumping into the car and them going to get totally fucked up in Reno or someplace. Anything helps funny fucker! Funny fucker helps anything! You want to talk about Julie? Fuck funny anything helps! How long you been saving for that book, Bit? Anything funny helps fuck

  Dad!

  Bit turns and there’s Nate, stand-pedaling a little BMX bike up the street, its frame swinging beneath his size. Jeez, he’s big, and he’s got a bike? Of course he does. What thirteen-year-old doesn’t have a bike? He remembers Julie waking up once, saying, We gotta get Nate a bike. Even fucked-up Bit knew that not having a bike was the least of the kid’s problems.

  He tries to focus. The kid’s hair is so short, like a military cut. Julie would hate that. There’s something else—his teeth. He’s got braces on. When he pulls up, Bit sees he’s got the book in its brown bag under his arm.

  I can’t take this, Dad.

  No, it’s okay, Bit says. I talked to Mrs. Molson and she said—

  I read it at camp. This kid in my cabin had it. It was good. But you should take it back.

  Bit closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness. No, Nate, I want you to have it.

  Really, he says, I can’t. I’m sorry. And he holds it out, making direct eye contact, like a cop. Jesus, Bit thinks, the kid’s different in every way—taller and so . . . awake.

  Take it, Nate says. Please.

  Bit takes it.

  I shouldn’t have wrote that in my postcard, Nate says. I was mad they wouldn’t let me read the book, but I understand it now. I was being stupid.

  No, Bit says, I was glad you sent that card. You have a good birthday?

  It seems to take a minute for Nate to recall his birthday. Oh. Yeah. It was cool. We went to the water slides.

  And school starts . . .

  Three weeks ago.

  Oh. Sure, Bit says, but he can’t believe it. It’s not like time passes anymore; it leaks, it seeps. He wants to say something about the grade, just so Nate knows he knows. He counts years in his head: one after they took Nate, one after Julie, and one he’s been trying to get better in the Jesus beds—a little more than three years the Molsons have had him. Jesus.

  So . . . you nervous about eighth grade?

  Nah. I was more nervous last year.

  Yeah. Bit can barely take this steady eye contact. It reminds him of Cater.

  Consequences, Cater’s always saying.

  I was more nervous last year, Nate’s always saying.

  I don’t feel good, Julie’s always saying.

  Yeah, Bit says, no need to be nervous. He’s still in danger of bursting, bleeding over the street.

  You okay, Dad?

  Sure. Just glad I got to see you. That ad litem business . . . I’m not good at planning ahead.

  It’s okay. Nate smiles. Looks back over his shoulder. Well . . . I should—

  Yeah, Bit says. He moves to hug the boy or shake his hand or something, but it’s like the kid’s a mile away. Hey, good luck with school, and everything.

  Thanks.

  Then Nate pedals away. He looks back once, and is gone.

  Bit breathes. He stands on the street. Feels the curtains fluttering. What if Julie didn’t die? What if she got herself one of these houses and she’s watching him now? You ever gonna get your shit together, Bit? You gonna get Nate back? Or you goin’ back to cardboard?

  Bit looks down at the book in his hands.

  At the Jesus beds last weekend, after Bit explained to Cater how he was only a couple dollars short of buying this book for his kid, Cater stared at him in the most pathetic way.

  What? Bit asked.

  Cater said, How long you been saving for that book, Bit?

  What do you mean?

  I mean, ask yourself, how long you been a couple dollars short?

  He supposes that’s why he went crazy, Cater always looking at him like he’s kidding himself. Like he’s always thinking, How long has it been since you saw your kid, anyway?

  Bit stands outside Auntie’s Bookstore holding a twenty-eight-dollar book. Holding twenty-eight dollars. Holding a few fifths of vodka. Holding nine forty-ounce beers. Holding five bottles of fortified wine. Holding his boy. Civilians go into the store and come out carrying books in little brown bags just like the one he’s got in his hands.

  Here’s why at the Jesus beds they can only talk about all th
e stupid shit they’ve done—because that’s all they are now, all they’re ever gonna be, a twitching bunch of memories and mistakes. Regrets. Jesus, Bit thinks. I should’ve had the decency to go when Julie did.

  Back at his corner, Bit eases against the light pole. You think you’re through with some things. But you aren’t.

  It’s about to rain; the cars coming off the freeway have their windows up. It’s fine, though. Bit likes the cool, wet air. The very first car pauses at the bottom of the hill and its driver, a woman, glances over. Bit looks away, opens the thick book, and begins reading.

  The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands pointing at each other’s chests . . .

  The light changes but the woman doesn’t go. Raindrops have started to dapple the page, so Bit pulls his jacket over his head, to shield the book. And when he goes back to reading, this time it’s with the accent and everything.

  ADAM WILSON

  What’s Important Is Feeling

  FROM Paris Review

  WE’D BEEN SHOOTING for two weeks already, melting. Most of the crew had chiggers bad. Chiggers, we were told, crawl in and lay eggs beneath your skin. They attack ankles and genitals. The cure is nail polish. A good coating will smother them to death. We wore the clear stuff so it wouldn’t show.

  Only the L.A. people got them. The Texans wore sulfur in their socks to keep the chiggers out. They didn’t mention this trick to us. Nathaniel and I sat on our opposing motel beds—AC on, anchorman singing box scores in soothing Texas twang—examining the bumps around our sock and jock lines. My body was a morgue; chigger corpses floated through my veins, suffocated under my skin.

  “Tonight I plan to dream about Monica Bradley,” said Nathaniel. “Her dream self will meet my dream self somewhere in the depths of my unconscious, and we’ll talk until sunrise.”