Words We Don't Say

by K. J. Reilly

  Anyway, under the teachers-intervene-to-fix-everything method, I was suspended for three days for fighting. Benj got to lie down in the nurse’s office with an ice pack on his face, and some freshman girl brought him lunch and he didn’t get punished at all.

  I asked Principal Redman before my pop and me left his office if I could still go do my community service at the soup kitchen the next day, basically neglecting to bring to his attention the fact that Benj Kutchner would be there, too. Redman said yes after stumbling a bit at first. He seemed rightfully impressed on account of the fact that even though I had just punched someone in the face I was apparently still a good person. But that was only because he didn’t know my real motivation for doing community service was seeing Eli.

  Then in the school parking lot my pop, who hadn’t said much of anything in that meeting except, “I’ll take Joel home and have a talk with him,” said, “What on earth were you doin’ hittin’ Benj Kutchner? You know that boy ain’t right in the head.”

  I said, “He stole my fruit cocktail,” and regretted it the moment it came out of my mouth.

  Pop just looked at me in his strong, silent way like one of the heroes from real old movies, like John Wayne or Steve McQueen or Paul Newman, one of those guys who didn’t talk much but knew his way around right and wrong. Then he climbed into his truck and fired up the engine. Apparently he didn’t want to pursue a conversation about fruit cocktail or anything else that was likely to make no sense whatsoever to someone not on the giving or receiving end of that punch.

  If you think about it, what was I doing with a can of fruit cocktail in the first place, and what was Benj Kutchner doing stealin’ it?

  The whole thing made no sense.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ELI 3:24 a.m.

  I know that I pretty much break stuff and you pretty much fix stuff but maybe that would work because opposites attract.

  I could try breaking less stuff maybe.

  Or you could break stuff and I could fix stuff.

  Either way.

  I’m good with both.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 3:37 a.m.

  Okay, I have a bunch of new symptoms. All of them nasty. According to WebMD it’s either a parasite, phlebitis, or a pulmonary embolism.

  Probably all three.

  Just so you know.

  at 3:30 I was already in the back of the soup kitchen with Mrs. T setting up for dinner when Eli showed up.

  I walked out of the pantry carrying a stack of plates just as Eli walked in. As she was hanging up her jacket she said, “Benj isn’t coming tonight because his face hurts and he’s supposed to put ice on it every fifteen minutes.” Then she added, “You shouldn’t hit anyone, Joel.”

  I put the stack of plates down and said, “I know that, Eli.”

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  I couldn’t tell her about Rooster and the food or Benj slurping down the fruit cocktail, so I just said something about the fact that sometimes you have to take a stand when something isn’t right. And Eli looked at me fiery mad and said, “That’s what I’m doing now. Taking a stand for something that’s not right. Someone, somewhere along the way, must have told you that it’s wrong to hit people.”

  “No matter what?”

  “Yes. No matter what.”

  “So what if—”

  “Don’t do a what-if, Joel.”

  “I can do a what-if, you brought it up. What if you and I are walking down a dark alleyway and five men jump us and they have guns pointed right at us and one of them says, ‘We’re going to shoot both of you in one minute.’ Can I hit them then, Eli? The five guys with the guns?”

  “That’s not a fair example.”

  “Why not?

  “Because.”

  “No, because. You said it’s wrong to hit people no matter what. Well, that’s a what.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Come on, tell me. Can I hit them, Eli?”

  “You mean to say that if you and I are walking down a dark alley and five men jump out with guns and one of them says he will shoot us in one minute, you would actually consider hitting them?”

  I slowly nodded my head.

  Then I started to gloat.

  Stupid, stupid mistake.

  Eli just shook her head from side to side like I was the stupidest person she had ever met and then as she headed toward the kitchen I called after her, “Well, would you hit them?”

  Eli just turned around and looked at me with that same you’re-such-a-dumb-fuck-I-can’t-even-respond expression on her face, and then she finally said, “What?”

  “Would you hit them? I mean, even if I got us killed, at least I tried and in case we are ever walking down a dark alley together I want to know if you’ll have my back.”

  Eli continued to look stupefied.

  “Well?” I said.

  “No. I would not hit them, Joel. First of all, I would avoid the back alley and if I was that stupid and I did walk down one I would try to talk my way out of the situation.” Then she paused and added, “And I would have faith. That God would help me.”

  I was thinking, God? Here we go again with God, and I threw my hands up ’cause me and Eli had had this God battle a couple of times before and it did not go well. “You’re betting on the same guy who sent the five men with guns to shoot you? You’re going to wait for Him to bail you out?”

  “If my choice was the creator of the entirety of the universe or you and your juvenile fists, no offense, but I’d go with Him.” Then she paused for a beat and added, “Or Her.” Eli turned and marched back to the kitchen, pushed the door open, and got to work helping Mrs. T with the coffee and tea setup while I stood there like the dumb fuck I apparently was with my mouth hanging open.

  We didn’t talk any further until later that night when a new guy showed up and I went over and whispered to her, “Let’s give him a name. Who do you think he looks like?”

  Eli was still pissed off and said she didn’t want to play, so I said, “I’m sorry.”

  She said, “For what?”

  I said, “For hitting Benj.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “And for the God comment,” I added.

  “It’s still not okay,” she said and then she stormed off.

  I called after her, “I know that.”

  And I did.

  But Eli had God and I didn’t.

  So we were fundamentally different.

  She believed in Him—or Her—and I believed that everything was on Me.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 2:04 a.m.

  You should retire Andy’s locker number like the Yankees did for Lou Gehrig’s #4 jersey.

  Andy had locker #624 in the front hall in case you don’t know.

  Andy Westfield. Locker #624.

  You remember Andy. Right?

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ELI 2:47 a.m.

  Remember when we were in seventh grade at Family Fun Night and you got up on the stage before the whole school and all the parents and sang the Celine Dion song “My Heart Will Go On” and you couldn’t sing and it was really bad? I was really scared that everyone would laugh but you meant it so much that all the moms started to cry and everyone stood up and clapped like you just won best new artist at the Grammys.

  That was it for me. That was pretty much the first time I fell in love with you.

  I was like, holy shit. I could never do that.

  on Monday after my suspension, Mr. McGuire held up a pass for me and said that I had to go see Mrs. Wilson, the school psychologist, for something he called “mediation and resolution.”

  I knew Mrs. Wilson pretty well on account of what I went through last year when everyone was worried about me. It wasn’t that I had done something wrong, it was just one of those things that fell under the category of really bad shit happens sometimes and it sucks.

  When I got to Mrs. Wilson’s office, she said, “Hi, Joel,” and Benj was sitting right there in front of her desk looking a
t his phone. Mrs. Wilson had a few books piled up and our folders out on her desk, and she basically told us that she wanted to make sure that now that we had some time to cool off there were no hard feelings and I wasn’t gonna go and hit Mr. Kutchner anymore.

  That’s what she called him, “Mr. Kutchner.” And she kept saying shit like, “conflict resolution,” and “active listening,” and “adjudication,” and “conciliatory,” and “peace dividends,” and “emotional restitution,” like that meant anything to either one of us. But as for when Mrs. Wilson asked me directly if I would be hitting Mr. Kutchner again, I just said, “That depends,” and she looked mighty mad on account of the fact that most kids who just got suspended for fighting would say that they wouldn’t hit anyone ever again in their whole lives even if it was a flat-out lie. They wouldn’t make the “no hitting” contingent on something. But Joel Higgins was still pretty pissed off at Mr. Kutchner. I had just spent three days fixing flat tires and rebuilding transmissions and putting on brake pads down at the station with my pop, which is way harder than sitting in school waiting for the hot pretzels to go on sale in the cafeteria or the next time I would get to see Eli walk by. Plus, I figured since Benj knew there was a good chance I had food in my backpack he was gonna be like a raccoon with his sights on a Dumpster.

  While Mrs. Wilson was mulling over her plan of attack on what to say to the kid who just said that he might very well hit someone in the future depending on what that person did, she sat back in her chair and pursed her lips. I was thinking that whatever she was supposed to say probably wasn’t printed right there in one of the brand-new guidance counselor books of things to say to kids who were in a fight that she had open on her desk and she was going to have to come up with something impromptu on her own. But before she did, Benj turned and looked at me and asked, “Joel, are you going to take Driver’s Ed this semester?” and I said, “Yes.” Then Benj asked, “Want to sit together in English today?” and I said, “Only if you leave my backpack alone,” then he said, “That depends on what you have in there,” and I jumped on him with a quick, “No, it doesn’t.” Then I said that he had to respect my stuff and stealing is stealing and I’m not someone he wanted to mess with or bully and that if he did it again he was gonna be sorry. And then I said that there were rules in this world and he needed to follow them and then Benj said he was sorry about the fruit cocktail.

  It got real quiet for a few minutes and then Benj asked, “Can we still be friends?”

  And I looked at the floor and said, “We were never friends.”

  He said, “I know. But still, can we hang out in the hallway and joke sometimes like we usually do?”

  And I said, “Okay.”

  Then I said that I was sorry that I hit him but not really because he deserved it and then Mrs. Wilson looked at us like we weren’t even speaking English and she coughed a little and pretended to read the papers in her folders, which were probably about how teachers should intervene to fix everything, and then she said, “Well, it sounds to me like things here are settled.”

  But it sounded like more of a question than a statement of fact, and I was gonna say as long as Benj keeps his paws out of my backpack because there are hungry people in the world and I can only take so much food from home without my mom noticing, but then I saw Benj’s bright orange socks and I said, “I’ll be your friend if you give me your socks.” Mrs. Wilson sighed and threw the folder she was holding down on her desk because even though she probably has a degree in advanced adolescent thinking, our conversation confirmed that she had absolutely no idea how kids think.

  Then while Kutchner was busy taking off his socks, Mrs. Wilson asked if either of us wanted to come back for another session next week. When Benj didn’t answer I just said, “No, thank you. I think we’re good.”

  Then Mrs. Wilson said, “So you’re not going to hit Mr. Kutchner again, right, Joel?” And I said, “That depends.”

  At which point Mrs. Wilson just threw her hands up in the air and said, “I did not hear that.” Then she gave us a pass and the bell rang and Benj and I walked to English together because that was the class we both had next.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:10 a.m.

  I’m sorry that I beat your best score at Grand Theft Auto. That wasn’t fair. I won’t play it again ever.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:11 a.m.

  Okay, I smashed the controller. Like, fucking killed it. Jackson’s pissed. I said I didn’t do it. But I think he knows. Jacey is five and doesn’t smash shit. And my mom’s the only other person in the house. I mean, come on.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:13 a.m.

  The school might be buying the whole junior class Camaros.

  I think I’ll get black or red hot.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:14 a.m.

  Or maybe silver ice metallic. Silver’s cool.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:14 a.m.

  With rally stripes and fender hash marks.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ELI 2:06 a.m.

  The second time I fell in love with you was the next time I saw you. And then it was pretty much every time I saw you after that.

  Rooster and me, and I never veered from my schedule of hitting his place right after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays when he wasn’t home.

  That is, until the Thursday when Eli asked if I wanted to help her make bag lunches in the cafeteria after school. Her church group usually made the peanut butter sandwiches for the homeless people on the Lower East Side of Manhattan in the church basement, but the sandwich-making part got canceled that day because the preschool needed the space for a sing-along. I was still five foot eight and she was still five foot ten, but a guy can’t say no to an opportunity like making peanut butter sandwiches with Eli, so I basically said yes.

  When I got to the cafeteria Eli had a whole assembly line set up on one of the long tables so we could make as many sandwiches as possible in the most efficient way. But I slowed the whole process down on account of the fact that she had to show me how to spread the peanut butter on the bread real thin so those big jars of Jif would last longer, something I was having a really hard time getting a handle on. I acted as if I’d never made a sandwich before since she kept putting her sandwich down and taking my hand in hers and saying, “Do it like this,” as the heat rose in my cheeks. But I wasn’t about to self-correct. I made forty-seven peanut butter sandwiches that afternoon and each and every one of them started out with way too much peanut butter, and I enjoyed every one of those lessons on how to make those sandwiches probably as much, or more, than the people who got them enjoyed eating them.

  But the point was, I showed up late that Thursday afternoon at Rooster’s shanty with my cling peaches and chicken-and-stars soup, and he jumped me.

  You could say our schedules collided. I’m guessing that he thought I was there to steal his stuff and he had me pegged against a tree before I knew what hit me. Didn’t say anything either, just grabbed me and nailed me to a big old oak with his big old grizzly fists like he was gonna kill me.

  “Wait,” I said, realizing just how much stronger Rooster was than me. “Hold on. I’m just bringing you stuff!” But Rooster had hot eyes, if you know what I mean. Like the crazy people in the scary old movies. Not cold and detached like the serial killer type either, more openly wild and violent—more Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest than Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs.

  There was a spark of recognition in those eyes, though, just for a split second. So I jumped in to try to see if I could get it to take. I said, “I watch your stuff Wednesday nights at the soup kitchen and Eli gives you cake.”

  Something registered and Rooster released his grip, just a little. Then I pulled out a can of Campbell’s chicken-and-stars soup from my jacket pocket to show him and he let me go a bit more, probably putting two and two together and getting something in the vicinity of four. Not quite four mind you, but close enough. Then Rooster let go altogether, took the can of soup
from me, and held up one finger on his right hand like he wanted me to wait and then he stepped into his shanty. I wanted to run, but my feet had a different plan. They just stayed stuck there in the fallen leaves and dirt at the base of that tree like they had set down roots of their own.

  When Rooster came back a minute later, he was carrying a dirty white plastic bag all tied up in a knot that looked like it was from a grocery store. Handed it to me like it was a gift. When I took the bag from him I noticed that his gloves were off for the first time since I met him and two of his fingers were missing from his left hand. I just nodded my head and started to inch away, then full on walk off. Then flat-out run. He probably figured that whatever was in that bag made us even. His way of saying, “Thanks for the food and stuff,” I supposed.

  I didn’t dare open the bag until I got home. And then I opened it outside before I went in. Afraid of what I would find. Some rotten food he was saving up for hard times, I figured. Or worse.

  I was wrong about the rotten food.

  But I was right about the worse.

  a gun, though.

  Not in a million years.

  A .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol. With an inlaid wood grip and a six-inch barrel. Wrapped in a rag.

  I turned it over in my hands, then looked back in the bag. There were three bullets rattling around loose in the bottom and something else, too.

  I dumped it all out and examined the bullets and then ran my fingers over the smooth edges of what was a shiny brass police badge. My hands were shaking when I rewrapped the gun and put it, along with the badge and ammo, back into the bag. Then I hid it in the far corner of my garage. Tucked the bag inside a big stack of broken old bricks my pop had dug up from a walkway that he had replaced a few years back. I walked back to the house, my heart pounding as if I had just run a hundred-yard dash at record-breaking speed. When I stepped inside I found my pop in a heated argument with the TV—the last inning of a Yankee game that, from the sound of it, wasn’t going well for the Yankees or for Jackson Higgins. I quickly bent down and patted Lacey, our antique Labrador retriever, on the head, and then walked right through the living room without saying a thing to my pop. I found my mom in the kitchen sitting at the table drinking tea and reading an Oprah magazine and she smiled at me when I came in and whispered, “Game’s over in ten minutes, then it’ll be All Quiet on the Western Front.”