Saints+Sinners

by Saints

  “That’s it,” I say a moment later. “Stay here.”

  I retrieve a tiny foil package of antibiotic cream, a luxury I do not waste on regular customers. I tear the foil and rub a little onto the new tattoo. She closes her eyes. I know I should stop, but I keep stroking that tiny spot.

  “How old were you when you were conscripted?” I ask.

  She says, “Fifteen.”

  Child soldier. We’ve taken the sting out of that term now that half the Front self-conscripts before age ten. They know no other world. At least the old men on the tankers still look toward the horizon.

  “Have you born seed?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Has it been suggested that you do?”

  “Suggested, yes,” she says. “I cannot make that dedication. It’s not in my nature.”

  “It is not in my nature either.” I move my fingers down, circling the opening of her body. She’s wet. I have lost track of what punishments would befall me were this crime discovered. “Your tattoo is done,” I say, still touching her.

  I transfer the moisture from her body up to her clitoris which is now visible. Tiny. Red. Erect.

  “If that is all you’ve come for…the patrol will be changing soon. It is a good time to travel,” I say.

  Her eyes fly open. She is older than I realized. I can see that. But her startled, frantic eyes tell me she is unpracticed in this art. She understands what I am doing, but she does not know how to ask for more.

  “Not all my family are conscripts,” she whispers. “Before the war…I had a sister who lived in the south. It was different there.”

  Her voice is strained.

  “Should I stop?” I ask, rolling her clitoris between my thumb and finger like a pearl.

  “No.”

  I move my fingers above her clit and rub deeply. In the little pool of light cast by my lamp, we are the only two people in the world.

  “There are rumors,” she says. “I’ve heard the admirals say that the Front is losing power. They say there are places in the south. They say we may be the last city where the Front still holds power.”

  “There are always rumors,” I say. There are always rumors of hope. It is in our nature.

  “They say the Front checks the ships for messages,” she whispers although every ethanol-drunk sings that same story on the piers. “That is why we don’t know. They say no one who sails past the meridian may return. They say the Front leaders are afraid. There is no need for the Front in the south.”

  “Stories,” I say.

  “But if they were true?”

  If they were true? I stroke her sex gently. She is sighing now, breathing heavily, lifting her hips.

  “They have churches and music and gardens.” Her eyes are closed and her hands grip the armrests.

  I want to dream with her. A cottage with a garden, nasturtiums. But I know what dreams do. I’ve seen it in the sailors’ eyes.

  “This is all there is,” I say.

  Her hips strain against my hand.

  “There has to be something…” She moans as I squeeze her clit. “Something else, something more.”

  I keep my touch light. She squirms. We stay like this for a long time. I draw her closer and closer to release. I am dreaming of yarrow and anise. I love the sergeant’s dreams, her suffering, her innocence. Finally, her soft moans take on an edge of desperation.

  “Oh, God,” she whispers. “I can’t…please.”

  Her body knows how this must end.

  I kneel down. It is the only thing I can do. I kneel down, and I take her whole sex in my mouth. I plunge my tongue into her until I find a rhythm, a port, a compass. She is crying now and her hands are in my hair, pulling me to her, urging me on. When she comes, her body arches up and freezes, electrified. I can feel the pulse of her release against my face. I think somewhere in the distance I hear gulls crying.

  * * *

  That night I lie in my cot, listening to the gulls, thinking about the sergeant. Before she dressed, she told me she had received a letter from her sister…a year ago. But, still, that is not so long compared to the war.

  “She’s waiting for me,” the sergeant said. “Come with me.”

  I think about the sailors. I’ve never tried to leave the city. People do. Some wash up dead. Some disappear. I cannot sell my shop. The Front reclaims all salvage property brought into commerce. But the sergeant has resources, and I know the dark pathways beneath the docks. You can charter a boat if you have the means.

  I slide my hand beneath the band of my loose canvas pants and find the same bright spot I found on her. I draw my pleasure out as long as I can. When I come, I feel as though a thousand stars have pricked me, like a needle yearning beneath the skin. The sound of gulls. The first crude brushstroke on a cave wall. Her blood. Our sex. She says she knows other officials who have left. The tales of old men. The war took everything. She says she will come for me. She says we will leave together. Better to lie beneath the tankers than to hope.

  Still, I rise before dawn. I take out my gun. I do not clean the needle I used on the sergeant. Instead I mix her blood with my ink. I draw a black line along my wrist, up my arm, into the tender skin. I trace the whole vein, then shade it, give it substance. I color it the blue-red of live blood. It crosses other images. My art. My hope. She says she will come for me. I wrap my instruments in clean muslin. I know men who have died for less.

  Trick Hearts

  Michael Graves

  I bark at the cheerleaders. “Hit the bricks! We were here first!”

  Skittering away, their hair ribbons flounce.

  Reed tells me, “You don’t have to be an asshole, Dusty.”

  Today, on this Saturday, our donation can is stickered in S.A.D.D. logos. Students Against Drunk Driving. While Reed fidgets, coins ting about.

  I tell him, “The UNICEF kids better not show up either. They’re mega pushy.”

  Reed sighs and says, “It’s not like it used to be. Maybe people know that we’re full of shit.”

  “Just keep smiling, but in a sort of sad way. We need enough for a twelve-pack or this party tonight is pointless.”

  My phone thrums with a message from Benji. I glance down and see yet another photo of his brutish cock.

  “I’m starving,” Reed says.

  “Same. Maybe I’ll go in and steal more Halloween candy.”

  A woman with white sneakers and two brawling tots approaches. She tells them, “Stop with your crap or no friggin’ treats.”

  The children swat at one another.

  “Morning, Ma’am,” Reed says. “Would you like to donate to S.A.D.D.?”

  “Huh?”

  “A donation? To Students Against Drunk Driving.”

  The woman sighs. “Shit. I don’t know if I got any change.”

  “We’ll take dollar bills too,” I tell her.

  One child slaps the other’s cheek. Crying erupts.

  “Ugh. Fine,” the woman says. “Here’s a buck.” She stuffs the currency into our can, almost wincing.

  I say, “Thanks for helping to keep drunk students off the road. Have a stellar day.”

  * * *

  I dump coins into the Credit Union’s seemingly magical sorting machine. I tell Reed, “I hope it doesn’t get clogged. That always happens. And the tellers get so pissed. Especially the fat gay one.”

  Our money clinks, churning through the apparatus.

  “How much do you think we got?” Reed asks.

  “No clue.”

  Reed grins. He unwraps a throat lozenge and places it on his tongue.

  “Are you getting sick or something?”

  “Uh, no. I just like the way these taste.”

  “Cherry, huh?” I say and smile.

  Despite his wayward, ink-black hair and his face, pimpled like a box grater, Reed often looks handsome. Lonny wouldn’t turn him away.

  He asks, “What should I dress up as tonight? My cousin gave me a lion costume. Is th
at gay? Is that ghetto?”

  I shrug.

  “What are you gonna be?”

  “Every Halloween since I was like, seven, my mom has forced me to do drag. I wanna be scary. Maybe I’ll just wear a stupid zombie mask. I don’t know.”

  * * *

  I often wish my mother could somehow become a supermom or a mama bear or a martyr mom, but she is far too busy being selfish. In truth, she is quite like a friend I only enjoy for an hour or so.

  Right now, my mother holds a vial up to the light. Shaking it, she glares at the debris that swims round and round.

  “What even is that shit?” I ask. I’m slouched at the dining room table, sifting through my childhood photos.

  “It’s some kind of pricey gel. Injectable. FDA approved,” she says. “Technically, it’s expired. So, they had to get rid of it. But Jenny said it still works.”

  House music begins whomping from the parlor where Glory, Dorchester’s second most famed drag performer, stomps to the beat. Her wig flaps about, neon nails laser-like.

  “Julia!” Glory yells, “Come dance. Now!”

  My mother muscles open a box of syringes and smiles at me. “So…I’m going to be a doctor. I’ll plump patients up, make them look sexy and young. The money will be fabulous!”

  “You’re gonna kill someone,” I say. “And then you’ll end up in jail.”

  She lowers her soot-colored eyes. “I’m really trying here, Dusty. You make more money than me these days. The electric company owns us. And the landlord too. This way, I can pay some things off. Like maybe even the Dell bill. Where did that computer end up?”

  I chuckle softly. “In the basement, probably.”

  “Well, you killed it with porn,” she says and giggles. “Hey, I just got a hundred and fifty bucks! I did Mrs. Harris’ tits!”

  “Aren’t they big enough already?”

  “That’s what I said. But she’s a paying customer. So I obliged.”

  I finger a naked photo of my six-year-old self.

  “Maybe if my business takes off, I can finally get my ’74 Cutlass. I already have the floor mats, Honey Pot.” My mother slurps her third glass of Pinot. She thrusts her face close to mine. “Me and that Cutlass are destiny. I know it.”

  “Whatever, Doctor,” I say, almost tittering.

  Glory calls, “Dusty! Come out with us tonight!”

  My mother says, “Yeah. You used to love Jaques. It’s the Witches and Bitches Ball.”

  “You’ll dance yourself dead!” Glory shouts.

  My mother cackles and the goblet tumbles from her lazy grip. Shattering, glass chunks fling to and fro. One large splinter skates across the floor.

  “Oh, shit,” my mother says. She begins to softly cluck with sobs. “Don’t move! Don’t get up!” Her body is quaking.

  “What in the fuck?” Glory plods in.

  “It’s just…that was scary. I’m sorry.” She cups her mouth. “What a scary sound…”

  * * *

  Reed and I strut past a Jedi, a crayon, and five whores. Spiderman argues with Jesus about Percocet while the cross-country jerks force a kitten to drink rum.

  My costume, a high jacked Pinterest idea, was fashioned by my mother just this afternoon. I’m wearing a hooded sweatshirt fastened with several mini cereal boxes. Franken Berry, Count Chockula, Boo Berry. A plastic knife impales each breakfast treat.

  “Do you like my costume?” I ask Reed.

  He squints and replies, “Um, yeah. Yes. I don’t get it, though.”

  “I’m a cereal killer. See?” I stab a box.

  Reed shrugs, yanking on his lion whiskers.

  My phone vibrates and I see that Lonny has sent me another text message: “Where r u cutie???????? Don’t even think about fucking me over. CALL Me!!!!”

  “I’m gonna find Benji,” I tell Reed. “Don’t put the fuckin’ beer in the fridge.”

  “Gross. It’ll get skunky.”

  “And don’t put it down,” I say. “Kids’ll start to scrounge.”

  * * *

  Black and white make up smear Benji’s face. He smells like weed and already dons a dopey grin.

  “I wanted to be Paul Stanley,” he says, “but I couldn’t figure it out. So, fuck it. I’m Ace Frehley.”

  “Kiss sucks,” I say. I yank a wad of money from my sock and pitch it into his lap.

  “Jesus,” he says, grinning. “How many videos did you do?”

  “Anything about your mom’s transplant?”

  “Not like we can afford it. Her kidneys are toast by now anyway.”

  I can feel my face soften.

  Benji says, “They suck out all her blood and then give her new blood. Someone else’s blood.” He pulls on his groin. “Lupus. Ain’t that a gross name? Even for a disease, I mean?”

  I shuffle toward him and stroke his skinned head. “I wish you weren’t so fucked up.”

  “Yesterday, she said she can’t wait to die since she already feels dead. And I kinda hope it happens. Ain’t that the worst?” Benji says.

  “I wouldn’t want to feel dead either.”

  Benji peers at me and says, “Hey, does that kid Reed like you or something?”

  “He’s my friend. We go canning together.”

  “Whatever,” he says and half-snorts. “Bet he’s a total bottom anyway.”

  I long for the former Benji. I wish for my summer boy heartthrob. During June, I felt as though the public basketball courts had been paved for only his lay ups, only his cackles, only his sunset hand jobs. Benji had stolen me a bouquet of dimpled balloons from King’s Motor Lot in July. During August, we bore the heat, sleeping forehead to forehead, almost naked in the bed of his dead uncle’s pickup truck. Whatever the summer day, he would always say something like, “I love when you blink for me. Them long lashes are like spider legs. Daddy long leg lashes.”

  Benji now asks, “Can we fuck real quick?”

  I sigh. “Did you bring a rubber?”

  “Awwww,” he complains, “I’m out.”

  “Then stop using them on her.”

  He shrugs. “Jenna can get pregnant. You can’t. At least I don’t think,” he says with a chuckle.

  I swill my discount ale.

  Benji begins to drum his fingertips on my hip bone. “You beg me to be nice to you all the time. Why can’t you be nice to me right now?”

  I tell him, “We shouldn’t have to try so hard.”

  Benji unbuttons his corduroys. “Hurry up, though.”

  * * *

  Two Trumps wrestle and one underclass girl, refusing costume, remains plopped beside Reed and I. She continues passing us beers. I have seen her before, perhaps at the grocery store or the drug store or the shoe store.

  I jab Reed’s shoulder. Even though he is directly by my side, I send him a text message:

  I think this girl is a sophomore. Sophomores are vile.

  Wut’s that meen? he replies.

  I’m stifling laughter.

  It means nasty. Gross.

  Oh. K.

  She probably wants to suck your dick.

  Reed sinks deeper into the couch. He, replies: THAT is VILE.

  Aloud, I say, “I’m gonna go soon.”

  “Naw. It’s fun.” He squeezes my hand. “Stay.”

  “Benji can give you a ride home. He said he wants to ask you something.”

  Reed stares at me for seven seconds. “What for?” he asks, sour-faced. “That guy’s pretty much an asshole. Everyone knows you two mess around. You in love with him or something?”

  “I guess I’m trying not to be.” I snap open a brew. “Did you know he has a mega learning disorder? It’s kind of hot…but kind of sad.”

  Reed laughs. “Morons don’t give me a boner. Look, I’m going with you. You’re my designated driver. S.A.D.D., remember?”

  * * *

  It’s Sunday and I have slept beyond noon. Easing downstairs, I bat away my erection. I see Glory, wigless, slumped at the kitchen table. My mother
slides a needle into her brown cheek, plunging fluid inside her flesh.

  Glory says, “I guess zombies do rise.”

  My mother asks, “What happened last night?”

  “I didn’t even get that wasted,” I say, yawning.

  My mother jabs the syringe toward me. “But Benji…”

  “Let’s not talk about him.”

  “Honey Pot…He crashed his car. He died. He’s…dead.”

  I can feel my entire self quickly wring out like a soapy dishrag. Any shred of comprehension floods free.

  My mother explains, “Cop Carmichael called. I guess Benji ran off the Pike. He…hit a tree. Shit. You probably don’t want to hear this…like this. Ugh. Fuck.”

  “It’s okay to cry, baby boo,” Glory says.

  “Dusty doesn’t do that,” my mother explains. “Even when he was an infant. The doctor said it was creepy.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry about your boyfriend, Honey Pot.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t even think we were friends really.”

  “Are you gonna be okay?”

  I shake my head and say, “Probably? Thoughts and prayers, I guess?”

  * * *

  I have puffed away all of my weed and Sleepaway Camp 2 plays on our pirated cable. As trick-or-treaters crow and squeal on the street below, I can smell my mother’s never-ignored Sunday dinner. She is dicing, roasting, seasoning, and I permit myself to be fooled some. Coiled in my bed, I almost feel cozy.

  There is a faint thud on my door. “What?” I moan.

  Reed squeezes through, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He says, “It got fucking cold out. Like winter. All those little bastards are gonna freeze for their loot tonight.”

  “I hope my mom turned off the lights.”

  “You wanna dress up and give it a try?” Reed asks. “We still got baby faces. Might be your last chance for a Krackel bar.”