by Kelly Jensen
Why did it have to be sunny?
“So, what do you like?” Brian opened his freezer. “I’ve got bread. We could do French toast. Hmm, I think there are some frozen waffles down here somewhere. Or if you’re in the mood for eggs, we could do that. Anything else you can’t eat?”
“I, um, don’t eat meat. Like, a vegetarian?”
“Like a vegetarian or an actual vegetarian? And why don’t you eat meat? Is that why you’re so pale? You look ill.”
Getting all frowny again, Josh slid behind the big island and claimed the same stool he’d used last night. “I don’t like the idea of animals suffering.”
“Suffering is a part of life.”
No answer.
“Do you eat eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Even though they’re baby chickens?”
A smile cornered Josh’s small mouth. “Mm-hmm.”
So he had some spunk. “Eggs without cheese coming up. Want an English muffin or something on the side? Can you eat butter? Never mind, this crap I use isn’t real butter anyway. Why don’t you go get the vacuum? I’ve got a handheld thing in the closet in the hall.”
Josh did as he was told, and Brian scrambled up a pile of eggs, whisking them through a puddle of “butter” because the boy was way too skinny. Brian toasted muffins, pulled jelly out of the fridge. Poured a couple glasses of juice and put on a pot of coffee.
They ate in a companionable silence, Brian feeling weird because he had someone in his house, but also . . . because he didn’t mind. Not yet. It was nice to have company, even if that company didn’t eat meat and didn’t talk much.
He picked up his cup of coffee, circling his hands around the warm mug. “So, tell me again what you were doing wandering around Morristown last night?” So far, all he’d gotten out of Josh was that his mom had kicked him out about a week ago—he didn’t ask why because fuck—and after his friend’s father found him camping out in their basement, Josh had wandered Newark for two days before catching a train to Morristown. He’d gotten lost twice between the station and Brian’s house, which considering the station was literally at the end of King Street, was somewhat baffling. “How did you know where I lived?”
“I looked you up. White pages dot com.”
“Huh. And you came here because . . .”
Josh bit his lips together and studied his plate.
Brian took a sip of his coffee. “Honestly, I’m surprised you know who I am. I was pretty sure your mom and grandparents had struck my name from the family bible or whatever.”
Josh gave him a sideways glance. “They don’t talk about you much. Mostly it’s a ‘don’t want to end up like Brian’ kind of thing.”
If only they knew.
“Awesome. And did you end up like me?”
Eyes filling with tears, Josh blinked at his plate. He sniffed and turned his head away, lifting one hand to scrub at his cheek with his sleeve. Brian let him be. He didn’t know how to comfort a kid, and if he were sitting at the kitchen counter of a virtual stranger, crying, he’d want to be left alone until he pulled himself together. Damn if the boy . . . young man? What was fourteen? Painful, that’s what it was. Fourteen sucked, whether or not you met the status quo.
“How did they find out?” Brian asked when the cheek rubbing had stopped.
Josh talked to his plate. “I told them.”
“Ah.” Brian lifted a hand and dropped it. “I’m sorry, Josh. Your mom can be a bitch, okay? But she’s your mom. I’m sure she’ll get over it.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Josh’s voice was thick with tears yet to be shed. “She kicked me out. Gave me fifty bucks and pushed me out the door.”
A cold shiver sidled down the back of Brian’s neck, pinching his shoulders together. “She . . . what?”
“She said she won’t have a gay son and told me to leave.”
“It’s 2018 for Christ’s sake.”
Eyes still wet, still tragic, Josh gave a big shrug and then seemed to collapse toward the counter. Brian let him fold—he had other shit to do, like stabbing the Redial button on his phone.
The call went to voice mail.
Brian was off the stool by then, pacing near the kitchen door. “You fucking bitch,” he hissed into the phone. “You really think kicking your son out of the house because he is who he is is acceptable behavior? You don’t deserve to have kids. You’re poison.” Gasping for breath, he glanced up to find Josh staring at him in horror. “Fuck you, Ellen. Is this because of me? Do you still hate me that much? You know what? You all deserve each other. Don’t call me back because I don’t want to hear your excuses. Just come get your son and make this right.” He ended the call and dropped his phone onto the counter.
“You’re sending me back?”
“You can’t stay here. I’m not . . . I can’t . . . I’m the bad example, okay? The whole family hates me.”
“They hate me too!”
“I cannot believe this is still a thing.” Brian paced back past the door, looking down when something snapped beneath his ugly slipper. “Missed a piece.” He bent to pick it out of the rubber sole and angled toward the trash can where he paused, one foot depressing the peddle, his hand hovering over the open lid. “Why did you tell them?”
“My sister said I should.”
“You have a sister?”
“And a younger brother.”
“Are you the oldest?”
Josh nodded.
“What’s your dad like. Can you talk to him?”
“He left when I was four.”
“Not going to ask why.”
Another hint of a smile touched Josh’s face.
“What about your other aunts and uncles? There were five of us.”
The smile fell away.
“Finish your breakfast. I’m going to make some more calls.”
“Why can’t I stay with you?” Josh’s eyebrows were crooked together in genuine question.
“You don’t even know me, Josh. I could be a degenerate. I am an asshole. I also don’t have time for a kid. I work. Long hours. I’m away a lot, and I don’t live the sort of life a kid should follow.”
Rather than cry, Josh seemed to harden under the assault. His mouth closed, his chin jutted forward, and his shoulders fell back a little. It was heartening to see, that he wasn’t completely soft. Then again, how could he be if he’d been raised by Ellen? If his sister had turned out anything like their father, and it sounded as though she had, Josh probably hadn’t had the most pleasant childhood. He’d have been too different from the get-go.
Scraping his fingers against his palm, Brian thought about doing the comforting-touch thing, fought against the urge, and finally compromised with a quick squeeze to Josh’s shoulder. “Finish up. We’ll go somewhere and do something this afternoon, okay?”
Josh ducked his shoulder out from beneath Brian’s hand and turned back to his breakfast.
Brian left the kitchen and went into his home office, phone out, a call already going through.
“It’s way too early for you to be calling to apologize for last night,” Vanessa said as she answered.
“I’m not apologizing yet.”
“Brian—”
“Wait, no . . .” He sighed. “I am. Okay. It was first thing on my to-do list today. I was even going to call last night, but figured you’d still be driving.”
Vanessa huffed through the phone. “Is there a palm print on your cheek?”
Brian reached for his cheek and an image of Josh scrubbing his face while he tried not to cry had him stopping with his fingers at his jaw. He dropped his hand and made a fist. “No.”
“There should be.”
“I know.”
“So why are you calling?”
“My nephew showed up last night.”
“You have a nephew?”
“Two of them, apparently. Probably more. I did have four siblings.” Brian glanced at the small collection of pictures hanging o
n the wall behind his desk, all of them him doing stuff with people who weren’t his family.
“How did he find you? Why?”
“Google or something, and Ellen kicked him out.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“You have Ellen’s son there? What does he look like?”
“He has blue hair. Listen, Ness, I need a favor.”
“I still don’t have my apology.”
“Are you sorry you slapped me?” Brian managed to touch his cheek this time, where he rubbed at an imaginary mark.
“No! God, you are so infuriating.”
“You love me.”
“Actually, not right now I don’t.”
“Ness—”
“No. Don’t. Tell me what you need.”
“Somewhere for Josh to stay while I sort shit with his mom.”
Vanessa said nothing for a beat, then: “You’re going to go see Ellen?”
“If she won’t take my calls, yeah.”
“How do you have her number?”
“Josh’s phone.” Which was cheap and cracked and shouldn’t even work. Maybe he’d get Josh a new phone before he— “So, do you have any suggestions?”
“Are you asking me to take him?”
“No.” Maybe? “Doesn’t the Smart Foundation have a house in Newark?”
“It’s not a great place, Brian. I mean, it’s better than being on the streets, but the kids there are sad. If Josh can go home, it’d be a better option.”
Brian nudged away his own memories of sad places. “What if he can’t go home?”
“Why can’t he stay with you?”
“Me? I’m not the right guy for this.”
“No, of course not. You’re just the money man. Put him in one of your properties, then. Pay the bills.”
“He’s only fourteen.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Bri. It’s not as if he has nowhere to go. You have a large family. Surely someone else can take him in.”
“I guess I’ll start making calls.”
“Maybe wait until tomorrow. It is Christmas, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Ness?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said what I did. I . . .” An oily and uncomfortable feeling surged around Brian’s gut. “I’m an asshole.”
“You can’t hide behind that forever, you know.”
“Why not? I’m forty-eight, single, and all my friends and exes are happy and together and getting married. Seems like this is the perfect time to be bitter and maybe feel sorry for myself.”
“Way to be a friend there.”
“You don’t want me to be your man of honor or whatever the hell it is you want me to do.”
“But I do. We’ve been friends since we were sixteen years old. Who else is going to stand there with me? Who else knows me well enough to not insist I have a hundred fucking bridesmaids all dressed in some frothy shade of purple? Or drag me out to a strip club the night before.”
Brian felt an evil grin corner his mouth. “We’re totally doing the strip club.”
“If it’s tasteful—”
“It’s the future, Ness. You can have any wedding you want.”
“If it’s the future, why are kids still being kicked out of their homes for being gay?”
Brian’s mouth turned downward, the motion making him feel old. And sad. “Point.”
“Well, you do need a project. Something to help you get over Simon.”
Brian looked at his picture wall again, specifically at the single remaining photo of him and Simon on vacation in Spain. The one he hadn’t been able to pack away. “I’m over Simon. It’s been two years.”
“Mm-hmm. So, are you going to be my man of honor?”
“Do I have to wear purple?”
“God, no. But we should coordinate.” Vanessa’s tone held laughter.
“So when is this disaster happening?”
“Were you even listening to me last night?”
“Of course not. I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself and hating you at the same time.”
“Brian.” Vanessa sounded exasperated.
“Hmm?”
“You should keep Josh around for a bit. I think it’d be good for you.”
“I really don’t know why you’d think that. I’m not the sort of person who takes in strays and then keeps them forever. I see a dog sniffing around my yard and I’m already yelling at it to get off my lawn.”
A soft cough pulled his attention from the vista of gray slush and sad trees outside the front window. Josh stood in the doorway of the den, covering his mouth as he coughed again. The distress pinching his face obviously wasn’t related to the seizure of his lungs.
“I gotta go. Talk to you soon.” Brian clicked off, dropped his phone, and chased his snuffling nephew back toward the kitchen.
Mal hissed as one of Satan’s servants pushed his heel toward his thigh, bending his right knee at what felt like an unnatural angle. The physical therapist let his leg go, her practiced fingers digging into the side of his swollen knee for a few seconds before encouraging him to bend the leg again. Mal concentrated on not swearing, which meant hissing again.
“Experiencing a lot of pain, hon?” the therapist asked. Her name might be Amanda. He usually had someone else, but with the holidays, his regular therapist was on vacation.
“I’m fine,” Mal said, the tightness of his words probably indicating how not fine he was.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up later.” She winked.
Too relieved she’d let his leg straighten to wonder whether she was flirting or offering him illicit drugs, Mal bent forward to massage his knee. The right side was still numb, and the left felt like it belonged to someone else. After his near fall on Christmas Day, it was even more sore, swollen to twice its usual size, and mottled with bruises. The staples had only been removed a week ago, and the scars were ugly. All in all, the abused joint didn’t much resemble a knee.
Amanda returned with her laptop balanced on one arm. “Okay, let’s see. Looks like you’ve been using one of the red bands.”
Red had recently been demoted from favorite color.
Amanda retrieved a resistance band and instructed him in the painful art of flexing, pushing, and generally wearing out any muscle and/or tendon in his leg not recently stitched back into place. It hurt. It always hurt. Mal pushed through the pain as he always did, letting the counts float through his head. He lost track now and again as his thoughts tore free of stinging reality to pass back over Christmas Day—which, in retrospect, might have been his most depressing performance yet. He shouldn’t have had that much to drink. His whole family seemed to think he was ready to call it quits.
Just a couple of broken legs. That was all.
Amanda tugged the band from his fingers. “Okay, now let’s do some leg lifts.” Her cool hands slid beneath his calf to add support as he corralled his thigh muscles and instructed them to lift.
Again, his thoughts wandered. This time to the discussion about Brian. He could picture the guy being an ass to his brother. Brian seemed the type. Recommending an incompetent tradesman was a dick move, though, and didn’t seem to fit what he knew of Brian. Reputation would be important to a guy like him.
“Can you go a little higher?” Amanda asked.
Grunting, Mal lifted his leg a little higher. A burning sensation traveled along the back of his leg, and when he considered the effort it took to swing this foot in front of the other one, he wanted to cry.
“Okay, let’s turn you out sideways.”
Mal hated this exercise. After turning so that both legs dangled over the edge of the table, he had to tuck his “good” leg under the bad one and lift both. He always imagined slipping off the table, his new ligament tearing before it had a chance to become his replacement ACL. The idea of having to endure surgery all over again made his stomach clench. Maybe not ever being able to walk p
roperly? His vision started to swim.
“You doing okay, hon?”
No, he wasn’t. Gritting his teeth, Mal forced a smile. “Just . . . sore. I nearly fell on Christmas Day.” He didn’t mention how much it had cost him to stay upright, even without his brother’s steady arm. How his knee had throbbed since, and the strain in his shoulder.
“I wish you’d said something when you first came in. That’s probably why the joint is so swollen. How’s your pain?” Her neat eyebrows scrunched toward the middle of her forehead as she studied the laptop again. “What have you been taking?”
“Advil.”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded. “How many times a day?”
“Ah . . . only at night.”
She shook her head. “Maybe try taking one right before PT. And with the swelling you have, definitely every day. The pain doesn’t make you stronger, Mal.”
Don’t I know it.
“Listen, I know it’s hard to find that balance between using your knee and allowing it to heal, but you really need to watch that you’re not doing too much. It could set you back. When’s your next appointment with your surgeon?”
And on it went. Same routine, different day. The hope he would make a full recovery clashing against the warning he might not. Admonishment and sympathy. And beneath it all, the cold and slimy fear that this was it. That this was as good as it got.
Then it was time for the only part of physical therapy he could say he enjoyed: the cold compress. Leaning into the upraised back of the work table, Mal reached for his phone, then decided to close his eyes instead. He was too tired to surf all the happy-happy-joy-joy of Facebook. Amanda arranged the icy cuff around his knee, activated it, and thankfully left him in peace.
Mal drifted more than wandered, not letting his thoughts snag anywhere for too long—though Brian continued to feature now and again. He wasn’t sure why, beyond the fact that the guy was good-looking, charming, and not his usual type. He allowed the beginning of a fantasy, the same old one, where he’d followed Brian home. Where hope had triumphed over fear—until the question of what to do with his crutches poked a hole in his daydream. Depression wallowed in, thick and heavy.