by Chris Rush
One day, in bright sun, Owen looked over at my body. I blushed. “So what happened to you?” He gestured toward my legs, where the scars from my accident were still quite visible.
“Nothing,” I said.
He was leaning close, as if to better inspect the damage.
I was terribly embarrassed. I broke away and walked back toward our clothes.
“Wait up,” he said. “Are you mad at me?”
* * *
DURING MY STAY at the Spoons’, I never masturbated. I’d made a deal with God: I won’t come until I come with Owen. I was a superstitious and determined child.
One Saturday, while Owen did his chores, I painted a very colorful portrait of Jesus, with art supplies I bought with Mrs. Spoon. Using poster board and Day-Glo paint, I attempted to channel the spirit of love into physical form.
Jesus’s goatee was an unexpected moment of inspiration. He looked a lot like me, mixed with the Devil. In psychedelic text behind the figure wavered the words I Love You Owen. The O in Owen formed a halo. I felt confident that, to any innocent bystander, the picture would indicate that it was Jesus professing his love to Owen, and not me—but I hoped a clever elf might be able to decipher the truth.
When I presented the painting, Owen looked at it for a while, nodding, and I feared the worst. He offered a noncommittal “Nice”—but later I saw my lewd messiah hanging on the wall beside Owen’s bunk.
* * *
EACH NIGHT AFTER DINNER, the Spoon family gathered in front of the television set. At first, I tried to join them, but watching The Ghost and Mrs. Muir made me uncomfortable. I could never manage to laugh at the right moments. TV had not been allowed in my sister’s house—or at Lu and Jingle’s. Now I understood the wisdom of my hippie elders. Jingle always said, “Television is toxic.”
I decided to stay in my bunk and read Dune.
There is no escape—we pay for the violence of our ancestors.
When I read that sentence to Owen, he said, “And what are the crimes of your ancestors?”
I told him I was still researching this question.
* * *
I SNUCK A CALL to Donna—not collect. Vinnie’s mother answered the phone. She sounded like a truck driver. She screamed: Donnahhh!
When my sister came on the line, she sounded exhausted. She said she’d been meaning to call me, but that things were hectic at Vinnie’s parents’. “We eat constantly.”
“How’s the baby?”
“She’s great. Of course, Mom hates the name. She said Jelissa sounds black. So how are you?”
I told her I missed her, then admitted to feeling a little sad and weird.
“Go see Dr. Kelly,” my sister suggested. “Get a spinal adjustment. It always makes me feel better.”
So Lily drove me to the chiropractor. She stayed in the car, listening to the radio.
Dr. Kelly was a weight lifter, tall and handsome, glowing with good health. He always wore a white jumpsuit and white alligator shoes, his hair a perfect pompadour. He smelled good. I liked it when he touched me. I trusted him.
After my adjustment, I reminded him I was a vegetarian like my sister.
When I asked him what else I should do to stay healthy, he said, “Perhaps you’re ready for a cleanse.”
He handed me a pamphlet describing a system of fasting, herbs, and colon therapy that was the apex of his clinic’s healing program. “The colon,” he said, “is where true health begins.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, and I advise all my clients to participate. Supplies can be purchased at the front desk.”
I was flattered by his interest in my colon. It felt so adult to even have a colon. I decided to follow Dr. Kelly’s advice. I bought his herbs and an enema bag. The doctor had kindly explained to me how to use the contraption, cautioning me to fight the urge—hold the nourishing fluid as long as you can.
The next weekend, I started a two-day fast. I hung around the bedroom reading, trying to forget how hungry I was. The apple juice and slimy herbs I took every few hours were of little solace.
Owen didn’t have much to say. When he went in for dinner, I waited in the bunkhouse. It was unfortunate that we had no bathroom out there. At eight o’clock, I had to go into the house to do a very special job.
Unfortunately, Owen had explained the Kelly Cleanse to his mom and dad. As I discreetly carried my equipment to the bathroom, the Spoons stared at me in stunned silence. Even the girls looked grave.
Taking an enema is a primitive process, something the pioneers might have done in a forest or a large field. On the pink tile floor, I lay back and surrendered to the contents of the bag, not understanding why I had an erection.
Owen’s youngest sister, Billie, knocked on the door.
“Are you done yet? I need my things!”
Above me on the curtain rod were various bras and panties. Below the unmentionables, I was aroused, confused. Faintly, I replied: Soon, Billie, soon.
* * *
OWEN ASKED ME only one question. “Does it hurt?”
And then he admitted, “Those enemas really upset my dad. I tried to defend you but my dad thinks something’s wrong with you. I know there’s not.” He paused. “But why do you do stuff like that?”
I tried to explain that fasting was in the Bible and that Dr. Kelly was a well-known health expert.
“Chris, that guy’s not even a real doctor. My dad says he’s a quack. Why do you listen to crazy people?”
Owen was staring into my eyes.
“Don’t be crazy, Chris—okay?”
And then he said: “Or just pretend you’re normal.”
I noticed the Day-Glo Jesus was no longer on the wall.
* * *
THE SPOON THANKSGIVING was traditionally held in Silver City, with the Lieutenant’s parents. I was pointedly not invited.
Mrs. Spoon explained, “There’ll be no food for vegetarians.”
She knew this wasn’t much of a reason. She put her hand on my arm. “It’s not my decision. My husband has rather rigid ideas.”
I told her I understood. “My dad is the same way.”
“Your mother, too, I suppose.”
I knew Mrs. Spoon sometimes talked to my mother on the phone.
“It sounds like she’s going through a lot. I wonder if maybe she needs you at home.”
Was that a joke? “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I left you a casserole, dear. Eat all you want.”
* * *
ON THE PHONE, a week later, Mother was sour. “The Spoon family doesn’t want you anymore. They think you may have medical problems.”
“Medical problems?”
“Or worse.”
“All I did was a fast! I’m fine.”
The line was silent. I knew my fate was sealed.
“I bought your ticket,” my mother said. “You’ll be home for Christmas.”
“What about Dad,” I said.
“What about him?”
Did she not remember? “Well, for starters, he doesn’t like me.”
“He doesn’t have to like you, Chris—he’s your father.”
* * *
MRS. SPOON told me to call her Lily.
Now that I was leaving, everyone seemed more relaxed.
Owen, blessedly, seemed heartbroken.
I was—I’m not sure—numb, I think.
Sitting on the couch in the living room one afternoon, Lily seemed tired, her teased hair so thin it looked like an X-ray. Her wrecked fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass, she asked if she could make me anything special. She knew how sad Owen was about my leaving. I knew she’d begged the Lieutenant to let me stay.
Lily declared my final week a holiday. Owen and I would not have to go to school. The Lieutenant was away, flying his twin prop somewhere over Oregon.
In the camper, Lily drove us to places I’d only dreamed of visiting. In Madera Canyon, she set up her lawn chair and drank Coors while Owen and I
hiked up into the snowy pines. When we returned to the camper, there were piles of food, including the famous Lily Dip—avocado with Tabasco, scallions, and lots of lime.
We ate and laughed. Lily smoked her cigarettes and watched the sunset with us. As the light dipped beneath the last cloud, we were quiet. I looked over at Owen and his mom. Both had the same unguarded eyes, the same shade of candy blue.
* * *
THE LAST FEW DAYS, Owen would not let me out of his sight. He gushed about a plan to reunite the next summer, in Idaho. I tried to act excited, but I was growing more and more worried about going back to New Jersey.
“Take pictures of me,” Owen said, handing me his camera.
I took a whole roll. There’s one I still have: Owen lying on the bottom bunk, smoking a joint—no shirt, bare feet, the top button of his jeans undone. He’s surrounded by piles of cash, maybe the proceeds of some last-minute pot deal—I can’t recall. Owen’s smiling, posing like a centerfold.
I think he knows what’s next.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, in the same bedroom, conversation draws down to the inevitable. There’s no time for anything but the truth. I tell him I love him.
He blushes but doesn’t protest. He says, “Let’s drop acid.”
We walk into the freezing desert, without jackets, until we’re shivering. The stars shudder and jump. As we head back toward the house, Owen suggests we go to the camper. “It’ll be cozy.”
Inside, he turns on the stove. We climb onto the big bed and wait for the heat to collect, to enter us. Hallucinations flash in the dark. I imagine our fathers sneaking around the yard like devils. Owen can’t see them—he’s taking off his clothes.
I can’t stop shaking, but I manage to get my clothes off, too.
Use your fingertips like a blind person. That’s what Vinnie told me—a lesson in how to touch a girl.
I put my fingers on Owen’s thigh. He’s breathing funny. I touch his hand. He’s panting now. I grab his dick. Leaning in, I kiss him.
He stops me. “No, not on the lips.”
All night we kiss—kiss everywhere but on the lips. There are other, better places.
Things pour in and out of me—transfusions. I’m greedy, taking more and more, saving it up like medicine for when I go back to the sickness of New Jersey.
Owen moans. Then a similar sound rises from me.
“He’d kill me,” Owen says at one point. He’s laughing.
“I know,” I say.
Kill is not a metaphor.
Neither is kiss.
Owen says, “I love you.”
I surrender. Fall from the cliff.
PART IV
SPACESHIPS
23.
Mom in Mud
MY BROTHERS AND I are in the den, watching TV. Mom and Dad, too. Walter Cronkite is calmly describing the situation in Indochina. On a screen behind his head, flames devour Saigon.
My family is eating ice cream. We each have our own bowl and our own TV tray—silver spoons clinking against ceramic. No one talks.
In Saigon, there are explosions.
But here, in the house, the war proceeds in silence.
Walter Cronkite reports on the peace talks. I, too, want peace.
I want love, laughter, conversation. But no one even asks me about the past seven months. No one says anything.
Between my parents, there is something new, some odd electricity in their silence. My younger brothers keep their eyes on the television. Michael and Steve are tall now, their long legs sprawled in front of them. They don’t look happy. My little brother Danny is in first grade, an adorable brat, dripping ice cream onto my mother’s shoes. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Later, after everyone’s in bed, she tells me, “Dad’s going to AA.”
I say, “So he’s better?”
She says, “Who knows? He won’t talk about it.”
She’s finally noticed the ice cream on her shoes. She starts to clean them. When I see her an hour later, she’s still fussing.
* * *
ALL I REMEMBER of that Christmas was that Donna and Vinnie didn’t come.
Sometime after the holidays, I called my sister to tell her that things felt really weird at home.
“What’s new?” she said.
When I suggested moving out, she chided, “Chris, you’re sixteen, just play along. Let Mom and Dad take care of you for once.”
I told Donna I needed product.
“Just for you or to sell?”
“Both,” I said. “I need to make some money so I can visit Idaho.”
“What’s in Idaho?”
“Owen.”
I wanted to tell her more, but Jelissa was crying.
I said, “You have to go. It’s okay.”
But she’d already hung up.
* * *
I WAS SLEEPING in my sister’s old room now. Her ruffled curtains and pink canopy bed were a little embarrassing, but they made me remember a time when Donna was all mine. Her cheerleading jacket was still in the closet, her Barbizon outfits and high heels.
I remembered how shocked I’d been to see Donna smoke a cigarette by those ruffled curtains. Now I got stoned out of my mind in that room like it was nothing at all. Sitting at her faux French writing desk, I wrote long letters to Owen—and drew lots of silly elves. Naked ones, with red hair.
* * *
SOMEONE WAS SHOUTING.
Climbing out of my sketchbook, I opened the door. I saw my mother being dragged down the hall.
My sister Kathy yelled, “Help me, for God’s sake!”
Dark streaks on the carpet. Not blood but muck. Mom was heavy, waterlogged, delirious. Her navy suit covered in mud. Her face, too. I smelled seaweed and sewage. Leaves decorated her hair.
My sister and I each took an arm and got Mom on her bed. Her shoeless feet were Easter-egg blue.
Kathy looked at me and huffed, “Your mother tried to kill herself!”
“What?”
“She jumped off the dock down by the park!”
Mom moaned. Her eyes fluttered—then shut.
Kathy told me to rub Mom’s feet. “Don’t worry—she’s not going to die. She just took a few pills.”
As I rubbed my mother’s icy toes, Kathy elaborated. “It was that dock where we used to feed the ducks. Luckily, the river’s not that deep there. And the tide was out. She sorta got stuck in the mud. Of course it was freezing. The guy from the gas station helped me fish her out. Dad just stood there.”
“Dad was there?”
Kathy sighed. “Help me pull off this mess.”
The Chanel was ruined. Kathy balled it up and threw it in the bathroom.
My mother’s underwear was muddy, too.
Kathy said, “Why don’t you wait outside, Chris, while I delouse her.”
* * *
LATER, IN THE KITCHEN, Kathy poured herself a Coke and explained the situation further. “So she called Dad at the jobsite and when he wasn’t there, she went on one of her bar hunts and found him drinking at the Travelodge.”
“I thought Dad was in AA.”
“Yeah, right,” Kathy said. “Assholes Anonymous. Anyway, when Mom saw him sloshed, with his face in some woman’s tits, she flipped. She took a handful of Sominex she had in her purse and started running up and down Main Street, screaming. Dad called me and when Mom saw my car she started running toward the dock.”
“Shouldn’t we take her to a hospital?”
“Nobody dies from five Sominex. She does this shit to get even with Dad.”
“Where is he?”
“Probably with Dolores.”
“Dolores? The housekeeper?”
“He’s always cheating. It drives Mom crazy. You know, she’s pulled stuff like this before. The first time, you were away at school. It was bad—we had to get her stomach pumped. She was in the hospital for a week.”
I felt ill.
“Second time was the summer you had that car acc
ident thing. This one, though, it was a real performance.”
When I asked Kathy if I should check on Mom, she said, “There’s nothing you can do. She’s gonna sleep. Listen—I have to go. Order a pizza if you get hungry.”
* * *
WHEN MY BROTHERS came in from practice, I said Mom was sick in bed. Steven’s eyes asked for more information, but I didn’t offer any. We had our pizza.
Later, I went in to check on her. She was breathing, a shadow under the covers.
On her bureau there were no pictures of her children—only of my father.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Mom was quiet, sipping her coffee—black, two saccharins. She had a few scrapes on her face and legs. She was in her bathrobe—her hair springing from her head in various directions like a busted clock.
She made no breakfast for my brothers. She stared out the window, far away.
Dad still hadn’t come home. When Michael and Steven and Danny went off to school, I stayed home. Just in case.
Dad crept back a few days later. There was no scene. Dolores was sacked—but a few weeks later I caught my father dry-humping her replacement against the washing machine. The new woman had fat ankles and red Keds. When Dad saw me in the doorway, he curled his lips into something like a smile, as if to say, All this can be yours.
* * *
STRANGELY, MOM DIDN’T seem angry at all now. It was as if nothing had happened. The house went back to its routine of clean sheets, nutritious meals, and televised entertainment (all five sets on the same channel so Mom could watch her soaps as she moved from room to room).
Church, bridge games, and dinner parties—Mom managed them better than ever, with a kind of robotic precision. Every movement of hers seemed to scream: I’m absolutely fine!