Because

by Joshua Mensch

  Because the room is a letter

  addressed to you, in it he writes,

  You were always the most important

  and gives his regards

  to my parents and sisters,

  to my parrot, Max, who

  crapped his fair share on my shoulders;

  because the letter says

  All I’m taking with me is my wallet,

  a change of clothes,

  and a photo of you, but admits

  to nothing out of the ordinary

  beyond the simple fact

  that he had to leave

  his students stranded

  at a roadside motel

  outside Sydney, Nova Scotia,

  while his wallet, spare

  socks, and a photo of me raced

  south to Halifax

  International Airport in the van

  he abandoned seven

  hours later when he boarded

  a plane to Boston,

  and then another to Manila,

  though it would be

  unclear whether he had actually

  gotten on it or not,

  and right now that doesn’t

  matter anyway since

  there is only one APB out

  for a missing person,

  and everyone is worried for him;

  Forest Glen, 1994 – Fall

  Because the room is an abandoned

  cabin in a meadow

  surrounded by trees and a river

  whose rush sounds like traffic

  rising up from the deep ravine

  below us; because the

  cabin is abandoned and no one

  knows how long it will

  take to get ransacked; because

  my sisters and I want

  to take what books we can before

  the damp consumes them all;

  because it is fall, red and yellow

  leaves paving the path up

  to Don’s cabin one month later

  and we have no idea

  what we will find there —

  What if it’s been burned down?;

  because parents are angry now,

  vandals are everywhere

  and burning abandoned cabins

  is not an unusual form

  of entertainment around here;

  because the cabin is

  still standing when we get there

  with a padlock on the door,

  so I break in through the basement,

  and race upstairs to find

  what I am looking for before

  letting my sisters in

  through a window; because

  what I am looking for

  is no longer there, the closet

  and all its secret contents

  have been cleared; because I say,

  Don’s already been here

  and prove it by pointing to the

  empty shelf where Don

  kept nude photos of me and god

  knows who else, and say,

  Don kept money here; because my

  sisters are here for books,

  so we stuff as much as we can

  into our backpacks;

  because we know that whatever

  we leave won’t survive

  the winter, first one window

  will break then another,

  till the floor is covered

  in fallen leaves

  and snow, until the books

  and upholstery are rotten

  and the whole thing

  gets consigned to fire;

  North Grant, 1994 – Fall

  Because the room is the room

  in which you sit

  with your friend drinking

  stolen beer; because

  he is your neighbour, in a place

  that bores the shit

  out of both of you; because

  bored boys do things

  they shouldn’t;

  because you get along,

  but only after school when no

  one else can see you;

  because neither of you has a girl-

  friend but you are both

  horny and bored and you at least

  are curiously immune

  to things that normally would

  have repulsed you;

  because he is curious, too,

  and when you ask

  to see his thing, he pulls it out

  and wags it in your face,

  then asks to see yours, too;

  because his thing

  is bigger than your thing,

  curves to the left

  like a brown banana

  with a bulbous tip;

  because yours is paler, smaller

  but only by a year

  (or so you hope!); because he’s

  been with girls before,

  which makes you horribly insecure;

  because results are

  all that matter and his splooge

  is ridiculously huge;

  because the minute it’s over

  you are right back

  where you were, fucking

  bored, and somehow

  more desperate than before;

  1996

  Macken Road, 1996 – Winter

  Because the room is not a room

  but an entire country

  I know nothing about except

  that boys can be bought

  for cheap; because for years

  I have imagined Don

  in the Philippines, squatting

  on a dirt floor

  surrounded by dark-skinned boys

  smiling through

  unbrushed teeth at one of his

  wondrous stories,

  a story, perhaps, about a place

  where the water

  is so clean one can drink it

  straight from the spring,

  where it comes out almost sweet;

  because he is in a place

  where rain tastes sweet but only

  because of the pollution

  and for some reason I imagine him

  buying bracelets

  from tiny boys with naked asses

  and callused feet;

  because I saw it in a National

  Geographic, a hot place,

  wild with opportunities for sex,

  where for a few dollars

  parents can be bought,

  police officers can be bought,

  children can be brought to you;

  because I imagine men

  coming for Don in the night,

  gang men in dirty clothes

  out to rob an old pervert

  out of his element;

  because Don has no money,

  all his bank accounts

  are monitored and his credit cards

  have been blocked;

  because in my dreams he comes

  back — I am at the mall,

  or in my bed, unable to push him

  away, my arms oddly

  weak, unresponsive; because

  his beard burrows deep

  into my crotch, beard to beard,

  he jokes; because I am

  fully grown now, my body has

  finished devouring itself;

  because being weak scares me

  more than anything;

  because it isn’t his strength

  that scares me but

  his insistence and my inability

  to resist that

  which is no longer irresistible;

  1997

  The Landing, 1997 – Summer

  Because the room is a strip

  of land behind my house

  where a girl and I plan to have

  sex for the first time

  and she asks me

  if I’ve ever done it before,

  ever worn a condom before,

  and I have no idea

  what to
say so I say,

  No, you are the first

  then change my mind, say,

  No, well actually . . . ;

  because I don’t want her to think

  I’m a virgin, but

  now I’m caught in the weirdest

  kind of lie — a lie

  with two parts, both true:

  the I’ve-never-fucked-

  a-girl-so-I’m-technically-a-virgin

  part, and the I-fucked-

  an-old-man-up-the-ass-so-what-

  does-that-make-me-now

  part; because the story I remember

  is not the story I want

  to tell; because right now I only

  remember episodes

  and they all gross me out;

  because what’s interesting

  is not the plot, but what happens

  once the story is over,

  so I tell her about a woman

  I met in Mexico

  when I was fourteen, an entomologist

  with tanned breasts

  and hands like sandpaper, whose

  moans shook the grass

  walls of our hut at the far end

  of the beach, whose

  laughter broke with the waves

  and somewhere behind

  the tree-lined beach, church bells;

  who said cheers and got me

  drunk on red wine from a box;

  because this answer

  is real enough to reassure her

  that I am still pure

  but possibly a little warped,

  so she says, ok,

  I figured there was a little something

  there, and blows out

  the candle so we can start;

  1999

  Atlanta, 1999 – Summer

  Because the first adult you tell

  is your older sister,

  and the result is hilarious;

  because she acts like

  it’s something that happened to her,

  even though the only

  thing that happened was that

  you told her; because

  now her eyes are full of tears,

  so you try to hug her

  and she says, No, don’t, that’s not

  what I want, so you

  change the story, find another

  thread of truth,

  but the new version

  only confuses things further;

  because she says, Which one is it?

  You were his lover or you

  were abused?; because both things

  can’t be true;

  so she asks Why?,

  she asks, How?;

  because everything I say

  comes out wrong,

  and there’s no one true story

  I can tell that will make

  her go, Oh, ok, now I understand;

  because you’re only

  just now trying out the truth;

  because what’s true

  is the room you’ve shattered

  and must now piece

  back together, but the shards

  are many and, admit it,

  you don’t have patience for puzzles;

  because something

  incomprehensible just happened

  that actually happened

  a long time ago for you;

  because even you

  still have no clue, it would be easier

  to solve Pi than

  crack the code of the man

  who molested you;

  Main Street, 1999 – Summer

  Because the room is a jail cell

  in Contra Costa, California,

  where Don has been arrested

  and is now awaiting

  extradition four and a half years

  after he escaped, and

  no one blames him for being afraid

  of California prisons,

  but charges are pending and

  more are on the way;

  because within days

  Don is on a plane

  to Nova Scotia, in a transport van

  to my home town,

  the county seat, where he’ll

  await trial in a red-

  bricked jail behind a white-pillared

  courthouse two blocks

  from the Chinese restaurant

  on Main Street

  where my younger sister and I

  dare each other

  to throw pebbles at his window

  to see if he’ll look out,

  to see what he looks like now;

  New Jersey Turnpike, 1999 – Summer

  Because the room is any room

  you can find yourself

  alone in long enough to get

  yourself off; because

  the room is a truck stop on I-95

  in New York State

  with a grimy bathroom and dried

  piss on the seat;

  because the smell kills your

  inspiration and you

  try to get it done fast;

  because something

  boils inside you — you can’t stop —

  and you know

  that as soon as you walk out,

  the urge will come back;

  because the girl is fresh

  in your mind,

  when she leans down you see

  her breasts, soft,

  with a line below the shirt

  where her tan skin

  whitens and for a moment,

  a nipple appears;

  because when she looked up

  and caught you staring

  she smiled; because all of her

  gestures are purposeful

  now that she’s in your mind,

  where you keep her,

  and don’t let her go, not until

  you let go, which

  is taking forever; because now

  someone is knocking

  on the door, You alright in there?

  Still alive?

  so you give up, slide the lock,

  step outside,

  avoiding eye contact, squinting

  into the sudden

  brightness, and grope your way

  back to the car;

  Main Street, 1999 – Summer

  Because the room is a courtroom

  in Antigonish, Nova Scotia,

  where Don fires lawyer after lawyer

  to keep himself out of court;

  because the court grows impatient

  and orders the trial to start;

  because subpoenas are sent;

  because you are a recipient,

  a witness for the defence;

  because his wife loves him

  and spends day after day

  in a lawn chair in front

  of the laundromat staring up

  at the second floor

  of the brick lock-up behind

  the courthouse where

  he waits, third window from the left;

  because she knows

  you love him, too, and begs you

  to testify on his behalf;

  because he loves you; because

  he was your friend,

  the only one you had, remember?;

  because she won’t

  let you forget; because forgetting

  isn’t an option until

  it’s the only one you have left;

  Venice Pizza, 1999 – Summer

  Because the room is the bar

  where you confess

  to your father over a glass

  of single malt;

  because he has ordered a single

  malt for you; because

  he wants to know — or wants

  to know what it means

  to know, wants to analyse it,

  to take it apart,

  to make it acceptable;

  because he doesn’t know;

  because he thinks he needs
/>   to know more;

  because knowing and

  understanding

  are not the same thing;

  because facts are misleading;

  because knowledge is a balm,

  but only for a second;

  Macken Road, 1999 – Summer

  Because the room is the liquorice

  jar my mother foists

  at me every time I look sad;

  because everything

  that happens now is Don’s fault,

  and therefore her fault:

  if you can’t sleep, if you sleep

  too much, if you break up

  with a nice girl for no reason;

  because unlike my father

  my mother doesn’t ask questions;

  because the answer

  to each one is the same, the worst

  possible explanation;

  because my mother doesn’t seek

  forgiveness

  where absolution is unachievable;

  because the only thing

  left to achieve are facts,

  and I can’t watch her

  face them, I have no answers

  to make her feel better,

  and when I tell her

  it’s not her fault,

  that I don’t blame her

  (Don fooled everyone!),

  I realise the only answers she wants

  belong to questions

  only she can answer for herself;

  because I can’t help but

  remember the long silences

  of our drives to Cape Breton,

  to the petrol station where Don

  would pick me up, and how

  I never once thanked her for it,

  barely said a word,

  in fact, when all she wanted

  was to talk;

  III

  JERICHO

  Philadelphia, 2003 – Spring

  Because the room is a restaurant

  in Philadelphia

  where my older sister and I sit

  waiting for our order;

  because my sister is thinking

  about the children

  she might have someday, and

  wants to know

  if I will ever be a danger to them

  because of my experience;

  because she is completely

  unembarrassed

  by her bluntness, the presumption

  only an older sibling

  can pull off; because her question

  is not really a question

  but an assumption she expects

  me to refute (of course not!);

  because it never would have

  occurred to her

  had it not been for her friend

  (we were just talking and . . .);

  because years later, after she’s

  married, after her

  daughter is born, I’ll remember

  this conversation

  and wonder if this is why

  she didn’t let me know

  until after they had gone

  they’d spent the entire

  summer just a few hours’ drive

  from where I was living;

  because the world we live in