The Agony of Bun O'Keefe

by Heather T. Smith

  I walked past Big Eyes’s room. She was on her knees. “Heavenly father, hear my prayer.” I asked her what she was doing. She said, “Praying for you,” and I said, “Why?” and she said, “Because you’re hurting,” and I said, “No I’m not. I’m nothing.”

  —

  It was the third day of 1987. I said no to the newspaper. And busking too. What good was consistency? It never helped Jimmy Quinlan, not according to Reverend Bill McCarthy. He said Jimmy screws up his life for stupid reasons and goes round and round in circles, and forgets “the mission remains constant and has its hand extended for him in any condition that he might find himself—sick and poor or rich and sober. The mission remains constant.”

  Yet Jimmy Quinlan couldn’t get off the booze. Reverend McCarthy said Jimmy was on a merry-go-round. At the time, I thought, Stop going in circles, Jimmy. Stop drinking and stay at the mission. But I get it now. Life was easier on a merry-go-round and I wanted on. I wanted to be spun out of my stupor.

  I went to Big Eyes’s room and plugged in her curling iron. When the light went red I gripped the rod. The pain they thought I should feel for my mother, I felt in my hand. Was that good enough? I was going to let go on five Mississippis but Big Eyes came in on three.

  “Jesus Christ, Bun.”

  Chris put my hand in a bowl of cool water, then bandaged it with cream. He gave me a pill for pain I didn’t feel.

  I spent the rest of the day in bed, thinking about nothing.

  Busker Boy came home late and said, “Why, Nishim?”

  I had no idea. So I said so.

  “Talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

  I owed him that much.

  “I forgot how to feel when my dad left. But you reminded me how. Now, I’ve forgotten all over again.”

  “What can I do to make it okay?”

  A brief flutter in my chest. “I don’t know.”

  I pulled up the covers. Busker Boy sat on his comforter and strummed his guitar. He sang a song about bringing me a sense of wonder.

  He’d done that.

  But then he told me about the three-hundred-pound lady dead in the garbage bags.

  And I was back in that house.

  And the wonder was gone.

  He told me to get some sleep and I said, “Turn off the light if you want,” and he said, “No, I’ll wait,” and I said, “Turn it off,” so he did.

  Chris went to the funeral as Cher. Long black dress to match her long black hair.

  Big Eyes wore rosary beads over a neon yellow dress.

  Busker Boy wore a vest made from caribou hide.

  Dragon Man laughed. “Nice duds, Tonto.”

  I wore my (his) flannel shirt and the soft gray sweatpants from Big Eyes.

  Everyone around me had red-rimmed eyes. Tissues emerged from pockets and purses like a magician’s endless scarf.

  I didn’t use a single one.

  Not even when his hotel friends came back to the house and said nice things and smoked skinny cigarettes in his honor.

  The head chef asked if I was okay.

  I was fine.

  Chris told him I’d lost my mother as well and it was too much to handle. He said, “She’s shut down.”

  Shut down what?

  Someone brought a fiddle.

  They asked Busker Boy to sing. He tried. But his voice, which was usually a river, smooth and flowy, sounded like someone threw stones in it, jamming it up.

  He put his guitar away and went to his room.

  I didn’t know Pop Girl was there until I saw her follow him.

  Raised glasses. “To Chef!”

  I went to the kitchen. I took a molasses cookie out of the tin and took a bite. It was like a mouthful of sand. I spit it out. I laid the cookie on the counter. It had one perfect bite missing, but nothing about it was perfect. It would never be whole again.

  I cracked it into small pieces then broke the pieces into crumbs. I rubbed the crumbs between my fingers. Pulverizing them.

  What’s it all about, Bun?

  He should have asked someone else. Someone with answers. Then, maybe he’d still be here.

  Cher came up behind me. Pulled me away from the mess.

  “Oh, Bun. Just let it out.”

  “Let what out?”

  A sigh. “Everyone’s gone now. Why don’t you turn in for the night?”

  Busker Boy and Pop Girl were in my (his) bed.

  “Doesn’t she ever knock?”

  “Give us a few minutes, Bun.”

  I closed the door and sat on the stairs to the attic. Dragon Man came home. He asked me to go upstairs.

  So I did.

  There were twelve steps to his door.

  And five spindles on the back of the wooden chair.

  He patted his lap three times.

  “Come tell me a story.”

  I sat on his knees. He pulled me closer and slid his hand down the front of my sweatpants.

  And I could feel again. It was a zing and a buzz. He nudged my head with his. When I turned he put his mouth on mine.

  I could feel again but I couldn’t. A numb jolt. A frozen shock. You could be two things at once.

  I wanted to say stop but the muscles that moved my mouth wouldn’t work. He moved his hand from Wonder Woman’s blue and white-starred bottoms to her eagle crest top, and I thought, Why doesn’t she stop him? She’s Wonder Woman.

  I counted Mississipis till a car horn beeped outside and he pushed me away.

  “Make sure you tell Tonto we got acquainted.”

  I thought, Wait, don’t you want to hear a story? and I knew I’d press rewind later ’cause it was a weird thing to think.

  I walked downstairs on boneless legs. I looked at his (my?) door. Was it okay to go in?

  I held the bannister all the way down the next flight and went to the nook. I wrapped his (my?) flannel shirt tight around me and curled into a ball on the beanbag.

  I closed my eyes but the spark through my eyelids was back. It was hot and burning and I wanted it gone. Forever, maybe. Like Chef.

  My mouth tasted smoky and stale so I imagined a spoonful of strawberry jam. It was fresh and sweet. It was a different time and a different place. It was Strawberry Fields Forever.

  A hand on my thigh. I jumped.

  “Here you are.”

  Was I there? Was I real?

  “She’s gone now. Come on, off to bed.”

  His arm around my shoulder. I wanted it there and I didn’t want it there.

  “You tired?”

  I meant what I said

  And I said what I meant…

  An elephant’s faithful

  One hundred per cent!

  “Yes. I’m tired.”

  Him on the floor, me in the bed. He reached for the light.

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  I’d never made a promise before.

  And then I did.

  To the nicest person I’d ever met.

  And then I went and wrecked it all.

  Something was coming up my throat.

  “I’m sorry, Nishim. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

  Let it happen? Did he know? He couldn’t have.

  “It’s just, it’s been a bad week and I just didn’t care anymore, so when she followed me I let her. I should have told her to go, not you. This is your room, your bed. It wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”

  I threw up.

  “Jesus!”

  He freaked out and called Chris, who cleaned me up and gave me a sip of water. “What a drama queen,” he said. “It’s just a bit of vomit.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  “It’s been a shit week. Two deaths? That’s enough to make anyone barf up their guts.”

  I closed my eyes and when I opened them it was still night. Busker Boy snored softly. A sliver of light shone in from the crack under the door. I wondered, could Dragon Man be a shape-shifter? Could he turn into a snake an
d slither under the door and into the bed?

  Everything felt wrong. It was that lost book feeling multiplied by a million. And it was all my fault.

  I crawled out of bed and climbed between the comforter folded in half on the floor. He lay on his side and I backed into him, close enough to feel the heat of his body but not enough to touch him. In the morning, I’d tell my first lie and say I fell out of bed in the night.

  —

  He believed me the first morning, but not the next.

  “I don’t think you should be crawling in with me. If you can’t sleep, just wake me and I’ll turn on the light. I’ll stay awake till you fall back asleep, okay?”

  The next night Dragon Man was standing over my bed. “Tell me a story.”

  I let out a scream that sent Busker Boy scrambling for the light.

  He wiped sweat off my brow. “I will send for a dream catcher. My ukumimau, my grandmother, makes them. It will catch your bad dreams and let only the good ones pass through.”

  He was my constant.

  But I was still spinning on the merry-go-round.

  They whispered about me. “She’s not dealing well. But at least she’s not in shock anymore. At least she’s grieving now.”

  My tears were for Chef and the broken promise, but I let them think they were for my mother too.

  They said talking would help. Chef was right about memories. Even good ones could be painful to remember. I talked about them anyway. I talked about duck à l’orange and cooking for kings and queens and the view from Signal Hill at night.

  I didn’t talk about the broken promise.

  ’Cause he told me not to go up those stairs. And I didn’t listen.

  If I lost him, where would I go when I stopped spinning?

  —

  Busker Boy started calling me Shadow, ’cause I followed him everywhere. He didn’t say it in a mean way. He said it with a smile. He announced his every move: “Come on, Shadow. Let’s go get a snack.” He even woke me up to get the paper.

  Being his shadow was hard. I needed to be with him, ’cause of Dragon Man, but being with him reminded me of the bad thing I had done.

  I wondered if you could get the DT’s when you were fourteen. DT’s were delirium tremens. Jimmy Quinlan got them when he stopped drinking. They caused shaking, nightmares and confusion, all the things I’d been feeling since I broke the promise. It made sense, in a way. ’Cause I was withdrawing too. Just like Jimmy. Not from alcohol, but from the world.

  —

  They sat around the living room singing Chef’s favorite tunes and Big Eyes made Kraft Dinner and Chris said, “Chef would be rolling in his grave.” I didn’t like the sound of that. They apologized when I didn’t eat. “Sorry, Bun, we can’t cook like Chef.” It wasn’t the taste. I didn’t deserve it, that was all.

  They told stories about Chef and it felt good, like everything was normal. But then I slipped my hand under my shirt and felt the smooth, shiny eagle crest and got a funny feeling that must have showed on my face. “You okay, Bun?” I didn’t like telling lies so I said I had to go to the bathroom, which was true, but I never got there ’cause Dragon Man was coming out and said, “Did you tell Tonto I damaged his goods?”

  My mother bought damaged goods. Dented cans half off.

  He stared at me, licking his lips, then smirked when the crotch of my light gray sweatpants darkened with pee.

  Chris found me in my room and helped me look for my jeans.

  “It’s not uncommon, my ducky. Even at your age. Not after a traumatic event.”

  He left the room so I could change and I said, “Wait for me,” so he stood outside until I was ready.

  Back in the living room I sat as close to Busker Boy as I possibly could.

  He sang a song that made our hearts hurt.

  Big Eyes broke down. “He won’t go to heaven. Not now.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Chris.

  “The Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ”

  “So where do you think he is then?” said Chris. “If he’s not in heaven?”

  “In hell,” she said, “according to my mother anyway.”

  Busker Boy cleared his throat. “Maybe we should talk about this another time.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what your friggin’ mother says,” Chris said. “Chef’s up in heaven sautéing artichokes and having a toke.”

  “Well I hope he’s having fun,” she said. “The selfish bastard.”

  Busker Boy stood up and nodded for me to do the same. “Come on. Time for bed.”

  “Selfish?” said Chris. “How can you say that? He was troubled. About what we’ll never know.”

  Big Eyes wiped her eyes. “I just hope God forgives him.”

  Busker Boy paused at her side. “Maybe,” he said, with a hand on her shoulder, “the one that needs to forgive him is you.”

  Later, in bed, I asked him what he’d meant.

  “Once you forgive,” he explained, “you can begin to heal.”

  “Does the person who needs forgiving heal too?”

  “With forgiveness, everyone heals.”

  “Is Chef in hell?”

  “No, Nishim. He is not.”

  “Where is he?”

  “His body is in the ground. But his spirit lives on. He will return to this world in another physical form.”

  “What kind of form?”

  He smiled. “Maybe he’ll come back as a polar bear.”

  That night, I dreamt Chef came back as a kitten but Dragon Man turned into Wolverine and ate him. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but when I opened my eyes Busker Boy was sound asleep, so it must have been one of those silent screams. I wanted to fall off the bed and land on the floor next to him, but he told me not to do that anymore, he said to wake him, but that wouldn’t be fair so I tried to drift off on my own by mouthing my narrator script.

  For four nights and three days Quinlan has drunk no cheap wine, no hard liquor, no rubbing alcohol, no aftershave lotion. Last time he lasted nearly five months. This time it’s too early to tell. Every night now is a private agony, every day a victory.

  Every night now is a private agony.

  Every night now is a private agony.

  I could feel Dragon Man’s breath on my cheek and it reminded me. Busker Boy told me not to go up those stairs. And I didn’t listen. I was the Queen of Sheba and deserved everything I got.

  —

  He read from the entertainment section. “Aretha Franklin was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. First woman ever.”

  “I don’t think I know her.”

  “Yes you do. You know, ‘Respect’?”

  A knock on the door made me jump.

  “Never heard of it,” I said. “Why don’t you sing it for me?”

  He reached for the door handle.

  Sing me the song. Don’t answer the door. Sing me the song instead.

  A puff of smoke.

  “Hello, little one.”

  I pulled up the covers.

  “What do you want?” asked Busker Boy.

  “Nothing. Just checking in.”

  “Good. Because we’re even now.”

  Dragon Man winked at me. “Yes. We are.”

  “We’ll be out of here as soon as I find us a new place.”

  “No rush.”

  Busker Boy shut the door in his face.

  I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But I did. And in my narrator voice, too. “For Jimmy and the thousands like him the mission is both a sanctuary and a threat.”

  “Why’d you say that?”

  I moved down to the end of the bed, pretended to read the paper.

  He put his arm round me.

  “What’s wrong, Nishim? You’re shaking.”

  It was the DT’s.

  “Is it the landlord? Don’t worry about him. He won’t hurt you. Not while I’m around.”

  I was falling in a hole that was getting bigger and
bigger.

  “Come on, Shadow. Let’s get some breakfast.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  When he was gone I knelt on the floor. Heavenly father, whoever, someone, anyone, please hear my prayers. Please, don’t let him hate me.

  —

  He was trying to swirl a spoonful of jam on top of a bowl of oatmeal.

  “Sorry. I don’t seem to have Chef’s touch.”

  I stayed in the doorway. “I have something to say.”

  Chris and Big Eyes looked up from their breakfast.

  Busker Boy leaned against the counter. “What is it?”

  “I did something wrong.”

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  I fiddled with the bandage on my hand.

  “Just say it,” said Big Eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”

  I pressed rewind to the Wish Book. Don’t worry, Nishim. I forgive you.

  I looked up at the nicest face I’d ever seen in my whole entire life.

  “I broke a promise.”

  I waited for it to sink in. It didn’t take long.

  His voice was tight. “Tell me.”

  Big Eyes looked at me, then at Busker Boy. “What’s happening?”

  My throat was dry. I wanted Purity syrup. I wanted to clink glasses and say Merry Christmas.

  Chris caught my eye. “Bun?”

  Busker Boy’s chest rose up and down and he said, “Tell me,” louder this time. So I did.

  “I went up to the attic.”

  They all had a pang, I could tell.

  His voice went from tight to barely there. “When?”

  “After the funeral. You told me to give you a few minutes. So I went to the attic.”

  He put his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

  I pressed rewind. You told me to give you a few minutes.

  “I’m not blaming you. I should’ve waited outside.”

  He gripped the counter. “Tell me everything.”

  Twelve steps.

  Five spindles.

  Three pats.

  Replaying it was re-living it.

  “Can I have my oatmeal?”

  “No,” he said. “You need to start talking.”

  I slipped my hand under my shirt.

  My favorite heroes are Wonder Woman and my mama.

  That girl in the commercial, I was jealous of her. Or was I envious? I didn’t know anymore.