Deathskull Bombshell

by Bethny Ebert

“We need to talk,” Corey said, crossing her arms over her stomach.

  Post-pregnancy, she still looked bloated. Her eyes were puffy.

  The miscarriage was a long time ago. She went on with work and school, didn’t miss a single day. It happened the day of his uncle’s Easter party, a Sunday. She was back in class the next day. Like it never happened.

  Nobody needed to drop any GPA points over some dead baby, she said.

  She was a 4.0 sort of girl, 40-30-38, a perfect ten. Very mathematical. Practical. One might even say sturdy. So this needing to talk thing, Austin thought, this needing to talk thing probably had something to do with numbers, and would probably end up in some sort of subtraction, and then some sort of division.

  He was right.

  He wasn’t sure what reasons she gave. The ground dropped out from under him, making it hard to listen. Nothing to grab onto for safety. He fell out, then, from her, from himself, from the earth. The poles of gravity removed themselves and there was Austin Dillard, floating somewhere in a dark sky with nothing to ground him, no baby, no woman, no love. Free. This was a blessing they said, men would kill for freedom. Long-term romance killed everything good about a woman.

  But they didn’t understand.

  Corey Davisson was perfect.

  Somehow it was him she ended up with. He didn’t know why God had bothered to favor him like that. Now it all seemed like a big joke.

  He remembered all the guys in the hood who knew Corey growing up. They noticed when Austin started chasing her. They got protective, mean, but when he refused to budge, they seemed to decide collectively to run with it. Sometimes they’d punch him on the shoulder, go on pickle boy, hah-hah-hah, you be careful now, like they were already married.

  Maybe that was the problem, he wouldn’t marry her. Maybe it was the baby. He didn’t know. As soon as she started talking break-up, he died. He was gone.

  She did give him reasons, he could tell by her face. She looked sad, concerned, but not angry. Her eyes were calm, they were dark. They looked like the sea. He wanted to disappear there and drown, or get a camera to get this all down and prevent it from happening completely. Just something he could keep.

  But then she was packing up all her maternity jeans and sweatpants and baggy hoodies and eyeliner pencils from his mom’s basement, everything in a suitcase, and he just sat on the bed, their bed, only now it was his bed. It would never be their bed again.

  He watched Corey walk out the door. Somehow, deep in his heart, he knew he’d never see her again, and even if he did, it would never resonate quite like love or friendship. Now, only nothing connected them but history. If he saw her again they would never be lovers, only two dead people avoiding each other’s shadows on the sidewalk.

  Chapter nineteen

  May 2009

  “I’ll think about it,” Nick said into the phone as he dried the dishes, the phone tucked in the crook of his shoulder. He always wore an apron during dish duty, and it was always a different apron than his cooking apron. Nick was very particular about this. Green apron for dish duty, and Kiss the Cook apron for cooking. “Uh-huh,” he said, putting the bowl he was drying aside. He grabbed a baking tray, caressed it with the dish towel, then put it down and picked up the notepad he kept by the telephone. He wrote a few things down. “Okay. Alright, I’ll call you. Uh-huh. Bye.”

  He hung up, making a face. “God.”

  “What?” Alex asked.

  “My friend Heather. She’s always on my ass about do this or do that.”

  “That sounds nice,” Alex said.

  Nick glared at him. “Her friend’s looking for a place to live, and she wants to know if we need a fourth roommate. What do you think?”

  “I think we should ask everybody and take a vote,” Alex said. “A three-person vote makes more sense than only two votes. Suppose one of us disagrees.”

  “Hey, Parker!” Nick shouted up the staircase. “I made tilapia!”

  Parker bounded down the stairs, several at a time. He was obsessed with fitness lately, forever testing new ways to run and jump and stretch. Nick suspected it had something to do with his old friend Stevie, who’d recently broke his leg. Suddenly it was a real thing that invincible men could feel pain.

  Parker looked around the kitchen, where there was no tilapia. “Liar,” he said.

  “My friend Heather just called us. A friend of hers just got dumped and he’s looking for a place. He works full-time.” Nick paused. “Do you want a fourth roommate?”

  “I don’t care,” Parker said. “I want tilapia.”

  Nick gave him a blank look.

  “No, I don’t mind. Jeez.” Parker rummaged in the freezer.

  “Okay,” Nick said. “Alex?”

  “We should interview him first so we know he’s not a serial killer or an escaped convict. I saw on the TV once, this guy, he killed all of his roommates and then he ate their corpses. It was pretty nasty. He used their bones as furniture. I don’t think they interviewed him first. I don’t know what kind of sauce he used either. You’d think people meat would be kind of dry.”

  “Right on.” Nick nodded, looking at his notepad. Sometimes you had to just treat people like what they said was logical. “Well, the guy’s name is Austin. He’s twenty-four and he’s a telemarketer. I don’t think he’s in school right now, but it sounds like he has plans to go back. Heather didn’t mention any cannibalistic tendencies, but we can bring it up in the interview.” He looked at the dishes in the sink. “I’ll call her tomorrow. I’m sick of the phone.”

  Parker stretched, scratching his stomach. “Me too. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”

  “Me three,” Alex said.

  Nick rolled his eyes. Dumb. It was tough, living with them, but somehow they made it work. He wondered if this Austin guy did housework. Well, a full-time job was a good sign. It’d help with rent and utilities.

  Something caught Nick’s memory, but he couldn’t remember what it was. His hand, and something about cigarettes. He looked at the ceiling, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  Chapter twenty

  December 2003

  “Who’s your favorite of the Misfits?” Parker asked. They were sitting together on the floor going over old punk magazines. A plate of unfinished Cheetos, just out of reach. Parker wanted to eat them, but he didn’t want to risk getting the orange Cheeto crap on his hands and ruining the magazines.

  It was like professional photography. You couldn’t replace that.

  “I dunno,” Nick said. “I never really thought about it.”

  “Oh,” Parker said.

  They sat together silently, looking over the pages. Their knees were almost touching.

  There was a picture of the Ramones, looking effortlessly cool with their sunglasses and leather jackets. Parker liked that one. The Ramones were badass. Everything about them was badass. Dee Dee was his favorite, so poetic, the most handsome of the Ramones with his dark eyes and pissed-off stare.

  “What about the Ramones?” he asked. “Do you have a favorite of them?”

  “Not really,” Nick said.

  Parker sighed.

  They flipped the pages.

  Chrissie Hynde scowled at them from underneath a spooky hairdo and gobs of black eyeliner. “Do you like this picture of Chrissie Hynde?” he asked.

  “I guess,” Nick said.

  “You guess?” Parker said. “But she’s so beautiful and hot.” He frowned, trying to sound enthused. “Man, I’d like a piece of that.”

  “I like the Ramones better,” Nick said.

  Chapter twenty-one

  August 2009

  In the bathroom, Austin shaved his face as Parker brushed his teeth, spitting in the bathtub every so often. Tuesdays were busy.

  Both of them worked Tuesday mornings, Austin at TeleCollectCorpUnion and Parker at Phat Appetizers. It was easier to just share the bathroom. Nobody really cared.

  From what it sounded like, growing up, Parker lived wi
th all his siblings and a few cousins and family friends at any given time, so he was used to sharing small spaces with people.

  Austin didn’t mind the company. Talking to other people distracted him from Corey. He was glad he chose to rent a house with three other guys, instead of a studio by himself.

  “Did you always know you were gay?” he asked, for something to talk about.

  Parker leaned over and spat into the bathtub. “No,” he said. “I thought I was a mutant at first. Waited forever for Professor Charles Xavier to give me a call so I could go to mutant school, develop my powers and shit.” He grinned. “Never happened.”

  “Huh,” Austin said. He stepped back to inspect his chin in the mirror, checking for the stray bits of beard that always seemed to evade his razor. “How’d you meet Nick?”

  “Long time ago, I kicked a soccer ball and it landed on Nick’s science project. Bam.” Parker made a motion with his hands to illustrate the impact. “Big diagram of the constellations. Completely toast. I destroyed his entire world. He damn near killed me. I offered to help fix it, but he said no. Hated me for years.” He ran his toothbrush under the faucet, and bared his teeth at his reflection in the mirror. He added more toothpaste, then resumed brushing his teeth. “One day there was a field trip to Minneapolis, and we were forced to sit together on the bus. Had to. So crowded, you know. Nobody else to sit by. He didn’t say a word to me, just read his book.” He spat again. “Then some girl got the idea to sing on the bus. Mariah Carey. She was so bad, dude, oh my god.” He screwed up his face, remembering. “To drown her out we started talking to each other. I had a huge crush on him.”

  “But he was a guy?”

  “Yes,” Parker said. He spat his toothpaste into the bathtub, then grabbed a glass of cold water to half-heartedly rinse it out.

  “Was it weird?”

  “Not really,” Parker said. “Felt normal.”

  “Oh,” Austin said. He splashed his face with cold water and slapped on aftershave. It stung. “You think I’ll find someone?” he asked.

  “I dunno,” Parker said. He ran a hand through his hair and set it in a sloppy ponytail. “Get over your old girl first, maybe.”

  Austin nodded. He paused. “Do you guys, like… do it?”

  Parker undid his ponytail and looked at his reflection, absently brushing back a few strands of hair. It was as if he didn’t hear Austin at all.

  “Well?” Austin asked.

  Parker tied his hair back, a tighter ponytail this time. He scratched his eyebrow behind his glasses. “Sorry, man, that’s all you get. I gotta get to work.” He straightened the collar of his work shirt.

  Austin looked at him, then at himself. TeleCollectCorpUnion was pretty big on business casual. Polo shirts every day. The best part of his day was coming back home and changing into his flannel. “Yeah.”

  They left.

  Chapter twenty-two

  October 2003

  “Hey, Parsnips,” Margot said, dropping her backpack at the table.

  I was trying to read The Great Gatsby for class but it was too boring. All that bullshit symbolism the teacher kept drilling into our heads. This means this because the syllabus says so, and if you argue I’ll flunk you. I had to read all this shitty literature and then memorize everything for the exams. Symbolism was stupid. No idea how this helped me prepare for college. I learned how to read back in grade school.

  “Don’t call me Parsnips,” I said.

  “Whatcha reading?” she asked.

  She leaned over my shoulder, and I snapped the book shut.

  “Oh, Gatsby? I read that already.”

  “Good for you,” I said. My sister the genius.

  “Mom and Dad are sending me to library school when I’m older,” she bragged. “Isn’t that nice? They set up a bank account.”

  “Last week it was med school, now library school,” I grumbled. “Make up your mind.”

  She laughed. “Is someone jealous?”

  I ignored her and went back to my book.

  “Some of us non-musicians have to make career plans. It’s not all fat paychecks over here.”

  I gestured at the kitchen table, covered in unfinished homework. “Do you see anything here that looks like a fat paycheck?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just a fat asshole.” She pinched me, and I contemplated throwing The Great Gatsby at her. At least then it would be of some use.

  Chapter twenty-three

  March 2003

  It isn’t cheating to get a girl’s phone number on a date. I, Trevor Ericksen, do it all the time. To the untrained eye, I appear to be merely an abnormally handsome guitarist, but I moonlight as a phone number collector.

  My standards, of course, are high. Of course, I have no problem requesting the phone number of a homely woman once in a while. Not very often, mind you. But homely women have their strong points. They’re often intellectually gifted, nerdy, however you want to spin it. Not much to look at, but fun to talk to. Good practice for a date with a more attractive woman, in any case.

  My real focus is on the women with money. I like ambitious women. They can keep up with me, and what’s more, they put a fair amount of their finances into things like hair conditioner and teeth-whitening strips. Nylons. Bras that match their underwear. I don’t need much to be happy, but I know what I like.

  If you’d met this girl, you’d ask for her phone number too. Hanako. Even the name is alluring. It means “flower” in Japanese, which I know from reading a Japanese-English pocket dictionary earlier today.

  Cultural literacy is important.

  Hanako was a cute little thing, with a flat ass and strappy red stilettos. She probably gave great head, you could tell from her smile. Like she was intimately acquainted with some hilarious inside joke, and the poor rest of the world had no idea.

  Emmalee was boring anyway. Emmalee Thunder. Frumpy, frumpy woman. Only a girl, really. The whole time we ate lunch she just went on and on about some dumb TV show, and her pregnant mother – what do I care about your family? I’m trying to eat here.

  So I excused myself and got Hanako’s phone number.

  Personally, I feel it was within bounds.

  Then Nick got all bitchy with me. He was sitting around waiting for an interview at the same restaurant Emmalee and I were eating at. He saw everything. Of course, he was too well-mannered to say anything at the restaurant, but he definitely phoned me up afterwards and gave me a good loud piece of his mind.

  Nick thinks I’m trying to fuck with his precious sister. Saint Brooke, right? Queen of the damned? She can do no wrong, her and her chaste-ass angry girl feminist songwriter poetry bullshit.

  Right.

  Brooke’s a nutcase, plain and simple. She’s got her good points, obviously. I like her hair, and her face, and the rest of her. But her mind is crazy. It’s like she has all this anger. The rest of the world isn’t smart enough for her, and she’s always so disappointed. I wish she’d just grow up and learn to lower her standards a bit.

  If we weren’t in Deathskull Bombshell together I’d probably just say fuck it and dump her.

  We’re not dating, though, I mean.

  I think.

  Oh, whatever dating means, anyway. I don’t know what I mean. Maybe we’re dating and nobody told me about it. It would explain a lot of her behavior lately.

  I just mean she’s crazy. Brooke’s crazy and her brother’s a nosy brat.

  Chapter twenty-four

  September 2015

  Floating between sleep and almost-sleep, Nick’s heavy body sunk into the couch after a long day at work. Pillows everywhere. Lamp lit. He heard the front door open, then slam shut. The metallic triple-lock for security, two chains and a latch. A crunch of gravel meant someone drove away.

  He blinked his eyes at the shapes in his living room, trying to reassemble reality after his dream almost started. Yawning, he fumbled to put his glasses back on.

  Parker knelt next to him. “Hi,” he said
, kissing Nick. He missed his mouth, ending up on the chin.

  “You missed.” Nick grabbed his face.

  Kylie cleared her throat from the doorway, where she stood. “Seriously guys, get a room.”

  “My sister’s here,” Parker said, apologetic.

  Nick nodded, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Hey, Kylie,” he said, waving a hand at her.

  Kylie stood back, eyeing the tile floor, the dishes drying in the rack next to the sink, the magnets on the fridge shaped like comic book characters and beer logos. “Can I have a snack?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Nick said. “There’s rhubarb pie in the fridge if you want any, and we have milk…” He paused. “Or water, if you want. And tuna salad. You like tuna salad?”

  She shook her head. “I want vegan macaroni and crumbled feta cheese with parsley, and mint ice cream with an Italian soda. But it has to be strawberry.”

  “Dude. We don’t have any of that. If you want a snack, you’re gonna have to settle for what’s in the fridge,” Parker said.

  Kylie frowned. “I never settle.”

  “Okay then, go to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

  “Whatever,” Kylie said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Parker said. “C’mon, I’ll get you to your room.” He led her to the guest room and pulled out an air mattress, and a sleeping bag for extra cushion, and an old quilt with flowers on it. “Brush your teeth,” he said.

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” she said. Punk. She crawled into bed and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Parker flipped the lights, not wanting to argue. Kid got everything she wanted anyway. A little tooth decay would probably teach her something. He walked out to the living room, where Nick sat on the couch, barely awake.

  His eyelids fluttered. “How was the pow-wow?” he mumbled.

  Parker kissed his cheek. “It was alright. Fun seeing everyone, you know how it is. Dancing was cool.” He paused, eyeing the copy of The Art of Happiness next to the couch. “I thought you hated the Dalai Lama.”