Bones are Made to be Broken

by Anderson, Paul Michael

  Alan-2 was gone, banished back to the AD in the destroyed outpost. It would take another manual override to reconnect the two Drives.

  And, Alan knew, the team didn’t know the codes.

  “I win, you son of a bitch,” he said, with a mouth that felt light years away. The words echoed him into darkness deeper than the nothing-space.

  (i win)

  (i win)

  (i win.)

  In the end, the team got some great data.

  Bones are Made

  to be Broken

  “Keep it to yourself,

  The sharpest pangs of perfect hell.

  Try to get it out,

  Everything that hurts will one day fade away.”

  – Justin Courtney Pierre

  1

  Pressure

  She got as far as filling her name out—Karen Ann Dempsey—before her vision blurred.

  She squeezed her wet eyes closed. Her throat narrowed to a phlegmy straw.

  (c’mon not here not now)

  (but isn’t this giving up? isn’t this giving up on trying?)

  She took a deep breath, forcing air down her throat, expanding the straw, pushing against the stones leveled against her chest. She squeezed the temp agency’s pen.

  (what if kevin sees?)

  She blinked and looked down at the forms. The words were black caterpillars. She blinked again and they resolved into words.

  (took me a half hour to do my makeup and i can’t have it smearing—)

  She glanced up. Kevin sat across from her, his blue canvas toy-bag like a resting dog beside him. His mouth moved silently as he read Detective Comics.

  She glanced around the waiting room. Fluorescent panel lights buzzed. A CNN talking head on the television in the corner explained that Operation Desert Storm hadn’t pulled the country out of its slump like economists had hoped; 1991 was a repeat of 1990. The dozen people scattered around focused on their forms, none of them dressed as nicely as she was.

  (but hey they didn’t bring their kid did they?)

  She looked back down at her forms.

  (isn’t this just admitting defeat? isn’t this—)

  She got to work. The voice snapped at the edge of her thoughts as she filled in her address—

  (at least until the unemployment runs out)

  —her work history—

  (how skilled can you be when you only started working a real job when you were twenty-nine? and haven’t worked in almost a year?)

  At the bottom of the second page,

  Are you seeking employment as part of receiving state financial assistance? (Check Yes or No),

  it read. Her pen hesitated—

  (not yet but we’re one step closer aren’t we?)

  —then circled No. She tensed, as if expecting an alarm to sound.

  (it’s not a lie that’s why i’m here to NOT be on public assistance)

  (you’re here because you couldn’t find a job you need help because you’re a failure)

  Karen capped her pen hard enough to drive the point through the flimsy plastic tip. A glassy pain shot down the backs of her hands. “Damn,” she muttered and slid the pen in the space bet-ween the clip and the back. She looked up. “Kev?”

  He blinked at her. It was the fluorescents that made his face pale, right?

  Karen held up the clipboard. “I have to go turn this in, but then we’re outta here, okay?”

  He nodded, his pale face serious. He reminded Karen of a college student mid-cram instead of an eight-year-old reading a Batman comic. “Okay, Mum.”

  She stood, ignoring the ache in the small of her back. “Five minutes.” She paused. “You’ve been excellent, kiddo.”

  He grinned, banishing the too-serious expression. His feet kicked under his chair, the tips of his sneakers scuffing the industrial carpet.

  (what is he doing here? this is no place for a boy downtown is no place for a boy)

  Something in Karen’s heart pulled, and she turned away, approaching the reception window. Behind the counter, a large black woman filled the desk. She looked up from her computer as Karen approached. “All done?” she asked, her smile more genuine than the apathetic waiting room encouraged.

  “Mm-hmm,” Karen said, handing the clipboard over. Behind her was the ding of someone else coming into the office.

  The woman scanned Karen’s forms. “We look good, here.” She set the clipboard down and squinted at her computer screen. “Labor Day’s thrown me all off schedule,” she said. “At least it’s Friday, though, right?”

  Karen didn’t have a response to that. Behind her, someone coughed—a lonely, empty sound.

  “But,” the woman said, “I think I can squeeze you in for the initial interview … next Wednesday, at eleven?”

  (kevin will be back in school thank god)

  “That’s fine,” she said. Her hands wanted to fidget; she folded them on the counter like a child.

  The woman smiled again. “Wonderful.” She pulled a reminder card from the stack beside her, filled it in, and offered it to Karen. “We’ll see you, then?”

  Karen smiled. It was plastic and pushed the muscles of her face all wrong and she made sure to widen it. “Okay. Thank you.”

  She reached for the card, grasped it, but the woman didn’t let go. Her eyes had dropped to Karen’s hand.

  Karen looked down and her heart paused in her chest. Everything inside and outside her head turned down to the muted roar you heard when your ears were underwater.

  The cuff of her blazer had pulled at the sleeve of her blouse, revealing a few inches of her forearm. The ends of vertical scabs poked out from under the fabric, too neat to be anything but deliberate.

  Karen swallowed and tried to jerk the card from the woman’s hand. The woman tugged back. Karen’s hand throbbed again when she lost contact.

  The woman flipped the card over to the blank side and scribbled something. When she finished, she held it up, elbow planted on the desk.

  “I don’t do this for everyone,” she said, and her voice was a slow dirge underwater. “Or anyone, really. But this might help.” She glanced down meaningfully.

  Karen followed her gaze. The sleeve of the woman’s dress had fallen down to her elbow, revealing three jagged scars along the forearm. They stood out like albino worms.

  She looked back at the woman and the woman nodded, handing the card over. Karen took it with numb fingers.

  YOU ARE NOT ALONE,

  the back read. Beneath this,

  ST. JUDE’S MINISTRIES

  FRIDAYS – 9PM (DOCTOR DARREN),

  followed by an address.

  “Thank you,” she said, just to say something.

  “And we’ll see you Wednesday,” the woman said, her tone light and airy once more.

  Karen turned back to Kevin, her head filled with the static of a television tuned to a dead station. “C’mon, champ.”

  Walking back to the parking garage, the streets of downtown Hathaway packed with white collars, the card in her blazer pocket weighed her down. She kept tugging at the sleeve of her blazer, making sure it touched her wrist at all times.

  Home was a brick house converted into two apartments on a hill in the Oakdale neighborhood. As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, Karen heard the beep of a message being left on the answering machine.

  She put a hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Double-time it, kiddo,” she said. They reached the top and Karen unlocked the door, breezing through the living room and into the kitchen. Her heart had restarted since the temp agency and now it raced, as if making up for lost time, when she saw the blinking green light of the answering machine on the counter.

  (let it be an interview let it be an interview let me be able to cancel that damn appointment)

  She pressed PLAY and the tape whirred inside the machine.

  “Mizz Dempsey?” a man’s voice said, slurring the honorific, and Karen’s heart slowed. Only two types of people could turn simple stateme
nts into questions: teenage girls and attorneys. She’d had enough experience with attorneys over the past four years.

  “This is Alan Ladd of Mamatas, Braunbeck, and Morgan?” the voice continued. “I’ve been hired by your ex-husband, Mr. Nick Dempsey, about an issue of custody with your son? I had a few questions and if you could return my call that would really help?”

  The voice rattled off his number.

  Karen didn’t bother to memorize it.

  (that son of a bitch he promised that son of a bitch he promised)

  The machine clicked. Karen stared at it without seeing. Muscles tightened—building ache in her hands and climbing her arms, spreading across her shoulders before going up her neck to throb in the back of her skull.

  (that son of a bitch he PROMISED that son of a bitch)

  (of course he calls now of course)

  (failure at working failure at marriage failure at—)

  “Mum?”

  Karen jerked, sending a lightning bolt up her back, bursting like thunder in her head. She winced.

  She forced herself to turn. Kevin stood in the doorway. “You okay, Mum?”

  “Of course, kiddo,” she said. Her voiced sounded normal.

  “Was that Dad’s lawyer?” he asked.

  “Do you know something about this?” she asked, keeping her voice even. Something twitched in her neck and she swallowed.

  (that son of a bitch PROMISED)

  Kevin shrugged. “I heard him and Moira talking about it last weekend.”

  “They talked about this in front of you?”

  Kevin winced and Karen’s skull throbbed once more. “Not really, but they weren’t trying to, y’know, hide it?” He looked up at her and Karen resisted taking a step back. His eyes were glassy, wet with tears threatening to spill. His lips thinned to a small white stitch.

  (that’s something he gets from me)

  (that’s because he’s my SON—MY son)

  “Oh, kiddo,” she said and went to him. His lips thinned further, almost disappearing into his face.

  She pulled him in and he allowed it, face burying into her stomach. He shivered some more, as if to keep the emotions in.

  “Take it easy, Kevin,” she said. “Just take it easy.” She couldn’t even hear herself; her pulse roared in her ears.

  (THAT SON OF A BITCH)

  Kevin turned his face so the side of his head rested against her stomach. “I’m not going anywhere, am I, Mum? I like it here, I like it with you. I like school. I—” His speech sped up, becoming thicker.

  She crouched down, her knees popping, and pulled him into a real hug. “Shhhh, Kevin. Shhh.”

  “That’s what I told Dad,” Kevin said and his voice sounded close to breaking. “I told both Dad and Moira and Moira wanted me to call her ‘Mom’ again—”

  Karen’s muscles tried tightening again. That had been the battle last year; Moira, Kevin’s step-mother, had gotten it into her head that Kevin should call her Mom and only a scorched-Earth phone call from Karen had stopped that.

  (not for long though they think—)

  Karen shut the voice out.

  “Easy, chief,” Karen said, rubbing his back. “There’s nothing to worry about. Your Dad and I just have to discuss a few things.” She said this through gritted teeth.

  She pulled Kevin away so she could look at him. Kevin watched his shoes. Two hectic spots colored his cheeks.

  “I don’t want you to worry about it,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice soft. “Your Dad loves you and I love you and even Moira loves you. You have your weekend with him this weekend and it’s going to be fine, right? You never worry when you’re at your Dad’s, right?”

  Kevin shook his head.

  “And you have fun, right?”

  A nod.

  “Then don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ll take care of this.” She pulled him in for another hug and he rested his head on her shoulder. She kissed the top of his scalp. “Go upstairs and get what toys you wanna take, okay?” A final squeeze. “And don’t worry about this.”

  She let him go and Kevin stepped away. He smiled at her, but it made Karen’s stomach flip over. It was a sad smile, a I-know-you’re-lying-but-thank-you-for-trying smile. “Okay, Mum.”

  She smiled back. It was as plastic and painful as the one at the temp agency. “Okay.”

  Kevin plodded to the steps across the kitchen, then went upstairs, where the attic had been converted into bedrooms.

  Karen stood, listening to the stairs creak under his slight weight. Her muscles bunched into a single knot. Her head filled with a hypertension buzz.

  (that son of a bitch do this to our son he promised he promised he PROMISED)

  And then it popped and her muscles loosened and this pain was worse than before. The other voice—it sounded, honestly, like her mother—swooped in.

  (failure at marriage failure at working and they think you’re a failure as a parent)

  “I’m not a failure,” she whispered, but her voice lacked any conviction.

  (call nick’s lawyer back and tell him that)

  A deep-seated itch dug into the arm that the temp agency receptionist had seen. She gripped it through the sleeve of her blazer, twisted the fabric against the skin until it burned.

  It made her feel better.

  Nick usually waited in the driver seat as Kevin climbed into the car, talking to Karen—if he had to—through the open passenger window.

  But, tonight, he leaned against the side of his Mitsubishi Eclipse, right under the streetlight, arms crossed. A perfect scene, as if the street had resolved itself to be just-so for him. He stood straight when they walked out of the house, opening the passenger door with exaggerated movements.

  “Your chariot awaits, partner,” he said to Kevin. “Slide on in. Gotta talk to your Mum a minute.”

  Kevin did, sliding his suitcase and toy-bag into the footwell, glancing at Karen as Nick closed the door.

  Nick leaned against the car again, arms re-crossing. “Did Alan call you?” he asked, the voice lower.

  “You mean the lawyer you said you weren’t going to get?” Karen asked. “Yeah, he called.” Her voice dropped. “You promised, Nick.”

  “Karie—”

  She jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t. You don’t get to call me that. Fucking pet names went out the fucking window the minute you started fucking your coworker, okay?”

  Nick looked away. Down the hill, 53rd Street spilled out into a T-intersection with Butler Street, the streaks of headlights heading for the nightlife of downtown.

  “You promised, Nick,” she said again. “We talked about this when I was laid off—”

  “A year ago,” Nick said, still watching the street.

  “Does that even matter? Am I still able to put a roof over his head, clothes on his back, food in his stomach?”

  He looked back at her. “For how long, though?”

  Her shoulders wanted to hunch—it was exactly what she’d been thinking. She wouldn’t allow herself to move. Nick would know. Of course he would.

  “I have unemployment coming in,” she said. “And you know that.”

  Nick straightened. “Again, for how long?”

  “Where was this when we divorced?” she asked. “I was neither college-educated nor employed but you didn’t raise much of a fuss, then. Remember? I mean, it was four years ago, a ridiculously long time, I know, but it wasn’t fucking eons.”

  Nick opened his mouth, closed it, then glanced at his car. Kevin watched them and Karen realized he’d probably seen her jab her finger at his father.

  “I’m just thinking about what’s best for Kevin,” Nick said, slowly, as if he spoke to a slow child.

  “And I don’t?”

  He hissed out a breath. “I’m just saying that—shit, Karen, you’re laid off and you only have an associate’s degree. In court-reporting, of all things—which you weren’t even doing. You’re a goddamn secretary, Karen. How many of those
are available in this kinda economy?”

  She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

  He shook his head. “How did the conversation go with Alan?”

  “We didn’t have one.”

  “Why?”

  “He left a message.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At a temp agency,” she said. “I don’t just wait around for a job to land in my oh-so uneducated lap. I have a son to raise.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “Never seemed to concern you before. Not while you were playing house with Moira.”

  He hissed out a breath again. “This is fucking pointless.”

  “Finally something we agree on.”

  He shook his head and reached into his back pocket. “We’ll talk when clearer heads prevail,” he said, and pulled out a folded check. “Here. September’s child’s support.”

  The urge to slap the check from his hand filled her head.

  (he planned this)

  Doubtful, but he knew how it would look.

  And she had a son to raise.

  She refused to look at him as she took his check, instead watching Kevin watch them. He felt his eyes on her, though.

  “Seven on Sunday?” Nick asked.

  She made herself smile at Kevin. “Isn’t it always?”

  A pause. Finally, Nick said, “Just think about it, Karen. I am his father. I can take care of him, too, you know. And it would be a lesser burden on you.”

  She still smiled at Kevin. “We’re doing fine, thanks.”

  Nick went around the front of the car. She waved at Kevin as Nick pulled away from the curb—faster than he should’ve.

  (he better not talk about this in front of kevin he better not)

  (and if he does you’ll do what?)

  She shuffled back up to the apartment. On the television, the ABC affiliate was on, playing through Step by Step. It was a laugh-tracked mumble-roar in her ears. Her head throbbed. Her shoulders ached.

  Her arm itched.

  She made her way around the loveseat, to the bathroom, flicking on the light over the medicine cabinet. It washed her in yellow, making her cheeks starker than they were, her eyes deeper in their sockets.