by Saints
“No way.”
Reed sheds his coat and sits at the foot of my bed. He reeks of the frigid Dorchester air, my favorite scent. “How about Benji? Pretty fucked up, huh?”
I lean against the headboard. “He’s a tard. Was too fucked up. Got himself killed.”
Reed’s eyes dart around, from the ceiling, to the slasher film, to the endless mounds of laundry strewn about. “You know, it could have been me too. What if I went with him? Then I’d be dead right now.”
“It was a freak accident,” I say.
Two teens begin shrieking for their lives on the screen.
Gently, Reed plucks up my pipe and sets it back down. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident. It’s like, I was thinking, what if God’s the real boogey man. Worse than Freddy or Jigsaw or Jason. Maybe he’s out to get us.”
“God probably doesn’t care that much. I’m pretty sure we’re all killers in our own way anyhow.”
“I thought you would be upset,” Reed says. “So…are you?”
Sighing, I say, “We’re really broken up now. It’s totally final. I’m supposed to cry, so I’m waiting for that to happen.”
“Don’t worry. I’m gonna stay with you.” He pulls back my quilts like a tender bayside tide. “Come on,” Reed whispers, “Let me in.”
He slides beside me, thrusting his chest against my back.
Once the threat of trick-or-treaters subsides, my mother piles plates with roast beef, corn, and mashed potatoes. Reed spits out his cough drop and we eat on my bed, before both falling asleep to the soundscapes of B movie murder.
* * *
I hustle north on the Mass Pike.
Reed says, “Slow down, Dusty.”
Just after Exit 32A, I pull over. There are bushes mown down and busted tail light chunks gleaming in the cold sunrise.
“Fuckin’ spooky shit,” Reed whispers, tipping back an extra-large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup.
I glare at this place, the place where Benji’s organs, like factory cogs, ceased movement. I’ve decided that his death is really quite simple: if a child carelessly breaks his toy, it stops working and becomes useless. Still, I cannot shed the idea that, perhaps, death was Benji’s final slight.
Already, a pathetic highway memorial is planted nearby. There are photos tacked to trees, scented candles and small sugar pumpkins. Jenna, I’m sure, was quick to construct this.
Reed turns to me. “Should we get out and say a prayer or something?”
“It won’t do any good, I don’t think.”
* * *
Lonny resides in a Canton split-level. He is often boasting about the improvements to his finished basement. Despite new needle holes that polka dot his arms, Lonny co-owns Maymark Furniture Stores with his stepfather. I sometimes see the commercials between horror movies.
With a leering smile, Lonny says, “Dusty! Thought you disappeared on me. You didn’t forget about our little loan, did you?”
I follow him down to the basement. “I do have homework and tests and shit like that, you know?”
“Double lives. I have one too,” he says. “But porn is my passion, my paradise.”
I begin to peel off my dungarees, yet they become snagged and I almost topple to the plush carpet.
“Careful, sexy boy,” Lonny says. “Ya lost weight like I said. Want some coke?”
“No,” I reply. “Thanks, no.”
“You feeling loose? Relaxed?”
“Sure.”
Lonny locks the legs of his tri-pod. “How’s your mom doing anyway?”
“The same, I guess.”
“She finish law school yet?”
I nod. I pass him my naked childhood photos. “I want three-hundred for these. I know you’ve got friends that’ll want them.”
Lonny thumbs through the first three pictures and then, quickly, slides them in his rear pocket. Smirking, he motions to the sofa. “You like that couch?”
“It’s nice.”
“Got it for almost nothing. The distributor sent the wrong color. Dumb fucks.”
“Oh,” I whisper.
“Okay. Get on it and, like…spread your legs…”
I obey his commands.
I ask, “Six-hundred more, right? Then we’re square?”
“Boy scout promise,” he tells me. “You think we should do a theme? Like a doctor’s office theme? Or a sports theme?”
“I guess if you want.”
“Ah, fuck it. Themes are too much work. Alright, sweetheart, now look bored. Nice.”
I glance away from Lonny’s lens and see fabric swatches in the corner. I also see one automatic rifle.
He says, “I bet you suck off all the boys after gym class, huh?”
“Not so much.”
Lonny sidesteps, zooming, clicking, pinching at his groin. “Now, take out your cock. Show me what you got.”
“Lonny?”
“What, sexy boy? You freakin’?”
“No,” I say and shrug. “I’m fine. But what if I brought a friend sometime? So we can be done, you and me.”
Lonny’s expression looks somewhat like a frown.
* * *
A spray of smashed jack-o-lantern chunks freckle the pharmacy parking lot.
One elderly woman scuffs toward us. Despite the dingy heavens, she wears a visor.
I say, “Care to donate to kids with leukemia?”
She frowns. “Naw. No, thanks. I need to know where my money is spent.”
I reply, “Well, it goes to help all those kids with leukemia.”
The woman gropes her pockets, finally threading a tissue free. She swabs her nose. “I know my quarter will probably go towards address labels or bumper stickers. They’ll make calendars with it. My money!”
Reed interjects, “Everything in this can…it goes straight to the kids. Every penny.”
She steps closer, grips her purse. “What do you care anyway? Shouldn’t you be chasin’ girls and smokin’ drugs? You got leukemia?”
“No. I don’t,” he says. Reed shakes the can nervously. It pings, rattles.
“He doesn’t, but I do,” I say. “And he’s my best bud in the whole world. And he just wants me to get better. It’s like, some days, I already feel dead.”
* * *
When I return to my bedroom, I find Benji’s perfectly trimmed obituary waiting on my bedspread. This is my mother’s attempt to appear concerned. Glaring at the blotted print, I see the Telegram has used his official yearbook photo. The newspaper claims Benji had “died suddenly,” leaving his mother and two brothers. It states that he “excelled at many sports, particularly basketball.”
I strip and begin stroking my dick, squinting at his senior smile.
* * *
While we lay in bed, Reed skates his fingertips across my shoulder blades.
I ask him, “What do you wanna to watch?”
“Whatever you want,” he replies.
“Nightmare on Elm Street 2?” I suggest. “So gay. So good.”
Reed rolls onto his back, stinking of throat drops. “Is your mom pissed I’m here so much?”
Shrugging, I say, “Who cares? But don’t your parents miss you?”
“I text my mom like, a million times a day,” he says. “She just wants to make sure I’m happy. But it’s better if I stay here. I like staying here. I feel safer. With you, I mean.”
“Why?” I’m snickering.
“If we were in a horror movie, you’d be the good one.” Reed chuckles. “And the good one always lives.”
Since breaking my left arm in a sixth grade shoplifting scheme, I have not felt my tears aching to pour free as they do now. Perhaps, if I allow them to flow, I won’t feel so capsized every second of every minute.
I tell him, “I’m bad, Reed. I’m not good. You don’t know lots of things about me ’cause I lie…all the time I lie.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I like you.”
“I like you too,” he say
s.
“He uses my real name for the videos. He told me he didn’t have to come up with anything else because I was born with a slutty name.”
Reed’s face grows pinkish. “I know. I’ve seen a few of ’em.”
“Isn’t that sort of sick and sad and pathetic?”
Reed presses the tip of his nose to mine. “All I know is you’re good, Dusty. So good.”
* * *
I pad downstairs in just boxer shorts. Knuckling my eyeball, one renegade lash grates my pupil, causing a teary haze.
“Hi, Dusty.” Jenna, Benji’s girlfriend, sits on the sofa.
“Why is this happening?” I exclaim, squinting at her exceptional blonde ponytail.
“I just came to see your mom. You know, for a little makeover.”
“Bigger tits won’t bring Benji back.”
Jenna glares at her cell phone, scrolling and scrolling. “I’m trying to cheer myself up. It’s been a hard couple of days. And I want to look nice for the funeral too.”
“You’re…so…sweet.” I sit across from her, spread my legs and stare.
Years ago, I decided that Jenna is much more intelligent than everyone else because she’s decided to simply act unaware of the obvious. It must be simpler and truly, she probably achieves what she’s aiming for.
Jenna taps her phone. “Will it hurt?”
“Will what hurt?”
“The needle, silly. Your mom said I won’t feel anything, but a needle is a needle.”
I plunge my hand into a nearby candy dish. I begin raking through the dusty, clumped Halloween corn.
“She told me I’d be fine,” Jenna says, “but I really, really hate shots.”
“I don’t believe a lot of things my mother says. Did she tell you she’s a lawyer?”
Jenna looks up at me. “No. Is she?”
Rising, I yank on my groin and turn toward the staircase.
“Look, I don’t hate you or anything,” she says.
“Oh, good.”
“I’m just…I’m glad I don’t have to feel jealous anymore. Like…we would talk about you…even when we weren’t talking about you. He blamed it on taking Accutane and Adderall, but I think Benji wanted to be with you most of the time.”
* * *
I glance at my phone and see that it is after 2:00 AM.
I ask Reed, “Should I go to the funeral?”
He unwraps another lozenge and clicks off I Know Who Killed Me.
“If I don’t go, will people think I’m an asshole?” I ask.
“I’m sure plenty of kids already think you’re an asshole.” Reed is chuckling now.
“Shut up. Fucker,” I say. “What if Benji’s watching? And maybe I can get some crying done there. Then I’ll feel a little better at least.”
“I’ll take you,” Reed says. “Anyway, we better go so we don’t piss off God and end up goners.”
* * *
Glory howls, weeping on the front steps. She wears a blistered, ballooned face. “I texted you, bitch! Look at me! You done fucked me up!”
“Holy shit,” I whisper, aghast.
My mother reaches out, petting the air. “Sweetie, sweetie. Just calm down. And please be quiet.”
“What’s happening?” Puss dribbles from Glory’s bulbous cheeks.
My mother says, “I told you, just give it a few days and you’re going to look fierce. I promise, sweetie.”
“It burns, Julia! My face is hard. Like a rock.”
“It’s fine, totally fine” my mother says.
Glory moans, “It hurts to talk!”
My mother begins closing the door. “Like I said, do not go to the doctor. Cause it’s gonna die down and…it’s gonna be okay. You’ll be ready for the stage. Just wait.”
Glory growls like some fabled beast. Her snarling soon recedes, further down the block.
I snatch my mother’s arm, saying, “She better be okay.”
My mother jerks away. “She will be! I know what I’m doing, Dusty. Jesus Christ in heaven.”
“I really wish you had gone to law school. You might need that degree.”
* * *
I ignore the syringes bleaching in the sink.
In one hand, I grip a broom, in the other, a wine glass. I will attempt to summon my sadness. Almost begging for tears, I long to feel different or new or reborn. I recall listening to Benji’s heart thump, too slow as it always did. I conjure images of his shredded, limp corpse. I think of morticians pumping Benji’s body with brightly colored chemicals. I let go. The glass drops and shatters on the floor.
“What the fuck?” my mother says, entering the kitchen. She carries a large box. “Ugh. That sound.”
My cheeks remain dry. “Sorry. What’s that?”
She beams. “You’re going to freak. I bought some leopard seat covers for the Cutlass.”
My shoulders sink and I begin sweeping up the wreckage.
“Come on, Honey Pot. I’ve been working so hard and I had to treat myself. There are some appointments tomorrow. I’ve got a handle on things. I guess I better buy some new wine glasses, though.”
Like every child, I have contemplated running away from home. To Toledo, to Niagara Falls, to the Poconos. I knew, even at age seven, that my mother could never survive without me. My younger self would always unpack the rolled coins and candy bars and wait for her next scam.
* * *
St. Anne’s Church is spattered in Halloween egg prank remains.
I tell Reed, “I bet the ground is already frozen. He can’t be buried.”
“It has been pretty cold,” he says.
I hike up my slack, creased trousers.
Reed asks, “Then what will they do with him?”
“Put him in a freezer until April, I guess.”
“Vile,” he says.
Mourners stream through the parking lot. Male classmates wear chinos, slicked hair and smoke-drenched hoodies. The females mostly look like sluts with short black skirts and smears of makeup never suitable for chemistry class. Three elderly women hobble by us.
Reed asks, “You think God is watching right now?”
“Well, it is church. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
A lumbering goon lurches closer. Tattoos of some kind ring his wrist. “You Dusty?”
“Why?” I ask.
“You were pals with my brother. Benji said you helped him out.” The boy stinks of discount vodka and he carries a necktie.
“We had some classes together,” I say.
“No,” he replies, cackling. “You helped him out. Now that he’s gone, just so you know, you can help me out too.”
A woman charges toward us. She nabs the boy’s arm and tows him backwards.
“Ma? The fuck?”
She turns to us and says, “Boys, thank you for coming. It’s very…polite. You must have nice parents.”
Reed says, “I’m sorry for…everything.”
She smiles for only a moment.
“Me too,” I say. “I’m sorry. Benji talked about you all the time. I’m glad you felt well enough to come and, like, say goodbye.”
She begins shaking her head. “I guess he told you some of his stories too. I’ve been finding out that I’m all kinds of sick. Apparently, I’ve got cancer and Lupus and MS. I’ve got a real mean trick heart too. Never knew.”
* * *
Reed and I arrive home with two large Dunkin’ Donuts cups. We plan to smoke weed and watch Shivers.
“Cop Carmichael called!” my mother hollers, scrambling from the kitchen. “Glory must be talking to them. We gotta get all this shit outta here. Like now!”
Instantly, my mother and I gather vials, stuffing plastic CVS bags.
Reed picks up a calking gun. “What about this?” he asks.
“Yeah. That too,” she replies.
“Unbelievable,” I say, almost spitting.
My mother drops used syringes into an Amazon box. She pleads, “No one get pricked or jabbed. Fucking
be careful!”
“What are you going to tell them?” I ask.
“Just…that she’s a liar and that I don’t do that and that they can search me and that…she’s…I don’t know…delirious from all her HIV meds…”
“Is she even going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“You can’t scam everyone!” I hear my own voice climbing, cracking. “She’s your friend, mom. She’s our friend.”
“I can’t afford to have friends.” She glances at Reed. “And neither can you.”
My chest is jacking. “I never thought we’d get this bad…”
“Dusty, I don’t have time for your drama…Now, take all this. Drive to some suburb and find a dumpster. When no one is looking, get rid of it all.”
“What if I say, ‘no’?” I whisper.
“Then maybe you’d be guilty too.” My mother kneads the air. “Go.”
* * *
Beyond the frosted windows, Dorchester whizzes by. I see a slashed recliner among the sidewalk trash, waiting for retrieval. I consider the number of Christmases, Super Bowls, and Halloweens that chair has been part of. A knit cap hugs Reed’s head, one giant pompom bounding with every neglected pothole bump.
I say, “If you want, I can drop you off.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m not letting you go by yourself.”
I produce a slight, faux smile. “I’ve tried to change our lives. I’ve tried to fix our lives. You know, what we do. I just can’t figure it out. It’s weird.”
“It’s going to be okay, Dusty,” he tells me.
“I don’t know what okay is. Hey, would you try something for me?” I ask.
Reed bobs his head. “Okay.”
* * *
We’ve already stashed everything behind Maymark Furniture’s central location.
I tell Lonny, “Another advance. It’s just…rent is due…”
He flaps his hand toward Reed. “He got a big dick?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I need at least a thousand, though.”
“Maybe start by saying, ‘please.’ Let’s just see how far you two go, okay?” Lonny clicks on his deluxe sound system. “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)” begins to throttle, epically. “Want some coke?”