by Gabriel Bump
“Six figures?” Grandma asked. “When did you start talking like that?”
“Really?” I asked. “They make that much money?”
“Yeah,” Janice said. “I met this guy at a party—”
“Claude,” Grandma said. “Fuck out of here now.”
Paul was in his room. He was sitting on his bed, out of breath.
“Did you do it?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Can’t leave anything to chance.”
He threw himself onto the carpet and started doing push-ups. He got to four and a half and collapsed.
“What did you do to him?” I asked.
“Me?” he asked. He stood up.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Me?” he asked again. He took a step toward me.
“You must’ve done something,” I said.
“Me?” he asked again. “Me do something?”
“Yeah,” I said. Our faces were almost touching.
“He took something from me,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“A man,” he said. “He took a man from me.”
“You don’t have a man,” I said.
“Correct,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“Janice and Grandma might kill each other,” I said.
“Your mom was the same way,” he said.
“How?” I asked.
“She wanted to kill Grandma,” he said. “Grandma is unkillable.”
He fell back down on the carpet and tried to do five more push-ups. He only made it to two. He rose to his knees.
“You know you’re not going to see her?” he asked.
“Mom?” I asked.
“Or dad,” he said.
“I don’t even know where they are,” I said.
“Just checking,” he said. “They don’t want to see you.”
“I know,” I said. “But they might.”
“No,” he said. “They won’t.”
He picked up his staff.
“You should probably get out,” he said. “It’s going to get dangerous.”
Janice ran past me and slammed her bedroom door.
Paul woke me after midnight. He was wearing all black and had an X painted over his face. He was holding his staff.
“Come on,” he said. “I need help.”
“I have school in the morning,” I said.
I rolled over. He rolled me back.
“Don’t make me use this.” He raised the staff over my head.
“Okay,” I said. “But I’m not changing.”
“Your loss,” he said.
We climbed into Grandma’s Cadillac. I was wearing boxers, flip-flops, and a Pippen jersey. Paul handed me the staff; I hugged it with my thighs.
We drove for ten minutes and pulled up in front of an apartment building. Paul turned off the car.
“Now,” Paul said, “we wait.”
“For what?” I asked.
“The prey,” he said.
“I should be asleep,” I said.
“You can sleep when you die,” he said. “This is important.”
Paul looked around.
“Never give up something without a fight,” Paul said.
“I know,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“You’ve told me that before,” I said.
“Have I?” Paul asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“Sounds like something I’d say.”
“I know,” I said.
“Raised you right,” Paul said.
We both sat in silence and considered whether or not that was true.
“Do you ever talk to my parents?” I asked.
“I used to,” he said. “When they first ran away.”
“What are they like?” I asked.
“They’re the same,” he said. He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on the deserted street. Whenever a car drove past, he ducked a little.
“I remember some things,” I said.
“Like what?” Paul asked.
“Like Dad fighting that man in the street,” I said.
Paul laughed.
“And Dad out in the lake when Jordan came back,” I said.
“That did it for your mom,” Paul said.
“What was Mom like?” I asked.
“Your mom wasn’t like a mom,” he said. “Your dad wasn’t like a dad.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“You were an accident,” he said. “They never wanted you.”
“I know that,” I said. “Besides that.”
“Duck,” he said. “You’re going to blow our cover.”
I ducked.
“But what did they like?” I asked.
“Your dad liked poetry and Mike Royko,” he said. “We all loved Mike Royko.”
“I know about Mike Royko,” I said.
We sat in silence and considered Mike Royko.
“Your mom liked thinking of better places,” Paul said.
“When was the last time you talked to them?” I asked. The staff felt heavy between my legs.
“After the riots,” he said. “They wanted to see if any of us died.”
“Are they together?” I asked. “Are they happy?”
“They don’t know what happiness is,” he said. “They’re not together.”
“What do they do now?” I asked.
“Your mom is married to a man that makes boats,” he said.
“Did she ask about me?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“What did you say?” I said.
“I said,” Paul said, “you’re fine without her.”
“Does she ask about my life?” I asked.
“No,” Paul said.
“Why?” I asked.
“She’s selfish,” Paul said.
Two adults on bicycles rode past, carried grocery bags on their handlebars, yelled about missing the bus.
“What does Dad do?” I asked.
“Duck lower,” he said. “Go-time approaches.”
“What does Dad do?” I asked again.
A gray truck crept past us.
“What?” he said. “Your dad is wandering, lost.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he followed someone to Missouri,” he said. “Don’t follow people to Missouri.”
The gray truck pulled into a spot up the block.
“It’s go-time,” Paul said. “Give me that.”
Charles Doyle stepped out of the truck. He stood under a streetlight. He grabbed his bag from the backseat. He was wearing a janitor outfit. He hobbled in our direction.
“Keep a lookout,” Paul said. His voice quivered.
He stepped out of the car with his staff. I rolled down my window. He jumped in front of the man and started wildly swinging. He held the staff out in front of his body. They advanced on each other.
“This is your last chance,” Paul said. His legs were unstable.
“Round two?” Charles Doyle asked.
Paul got close enough to try a move I saw him practice on Grandma’s mannequin. He jumped in the air, held the staff like a javelin, and tried to jab it into Charles Doyle’s neck. He called it the kill shot. It worked one out of ten times against the mannequin. Charles Doyle stepped to the side. Paul lunged past him. Charles Doyle yanked the staff out of Paul’s hands with ease. Paul turned around and sprinted back to the car. Charles Doyle was close behind.
“Start the car!” Paul yelled.
Lights turned on in the apartment building’s windows.
A deep voice yelled out from above, “Paul! Paul!? I never loved you!”
I started the car. Paul slid over the hood. Charles Doyle broke a headlight with the staff. Paul crawled into the driver’s seat, backed into the car behind us, set off the car’s alarm, and tore down the street. Charles Doyle threw the staff. It pierced the rear window like a javelin.
“Come back for more!” Charles Doyle y
elled.
Paul stopped the car, sniffled in the driver’s seat, needed a minute, rubbed the steering wheel. I tapped his shoulder, once, twice.
“Paul,” I said. “We gotta go.”
I saw Charles Doyle in the rearview mirror, arms extended at his sides. Under the streetlight, his confused face looked orange and sick.
Paul accelerated down the empty street. He ran one red light. I told him to slow down. He stopped at an intersection and cried in deep heaves. He couldn’t breathe, and snot shot from both nostrils. He sounded like a deflating mucus balloon. I rubbed his back, found a used and crusted tissue at my feet, offered it to him. He declined, wiped his fluids on his sleeve.
“I’m fine,” Paul said. “This is life. I’m fine.”
A car honked behind us. Paul drove home at a legal pace.
Janice was smoking on the porch when we pulled into the driveway. Paul tried to act smooth.
“Don’t tell Grandma,” he told us. He went inside. I stayed out with Janice.
“Can I go with you?” Janice asked. “To Missouri?”
I sat down next to her. I didn’t notice my hands shaking in the car. I couldn’t stop them.
“Paul almost got us killed,” I said.
“I have nothing here,” she said.
“What about the service industry?” I asked. “What about six figures? What about that guy?”
“He hasn’t called me back,” she said.
She put her head on my shoulder. She let her cigarette hang off her lips.
“What would you do there?” I asked.
“What will I do here?” she asked.
“I have to live in the dorms,” I said.
“I’ll live on the street,” she said. “I need to get out of Chicago before I end up like everybody else.”
“You’re not like everybody else,” I said.
“I’m cold,” she said.
It wasn’t cold. She kissed me on the cheek before she went up to her room.
The Cadillac looked worse in daylight. Grandma smashed plates in the kitchen. She cornered Paul. She called him names like clown and sorry boy. The staff was propped against the front door.
When I got home from school, Janice told me about Amsterdam, Missouri. She came into my room holding an unfolded map of America.
“It’s small,” she said. “I need small right now.”
“I have to live in Columbia,” I said.
“Is Columbia small?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“I need small,” she said.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked.
She stood and placed the map on my carpet, rubbed it smooth with her feet and hands, rubbed her chin, seemed to look for something hidden in the charted highways and rivers.
“The world feels too big,” she said.
“What if I stayed?” I asked.
“You have to leave,” Janice said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You’re not stupid,” Janice said.
“You’re not stupid either,” I said.
“I know,” Janice said.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want to live in Amsterdam with you,” Janice said.
“Why?” I asked.
She stepped on the Midwest and Northeast, stepped on my toes, apologized, backed up.
“I want to start a bakery and you can write your stories,” Janice said.
“You don’t know how to bake,” I said.
“I don’t want children,” Janice said.
“Me neither,” I said.
“I just want to matter.”
“You matter to me.”
“And you’re leaving.”
Paul called for me.
“Claude!” he yelled. “Come check this out!”
Grandma yelled back. “No yelling! Everyone’s on time-out!”
Janice followed me into Paul’s room.
“Okay,” he said. “So the staff was the problem.”
“We shouldn’t talk about this,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “We need something lighter, something more aerodynamic.”
“Like a knife,” Janice said.
“I’m not trying to kill him,” Paul said. “Just teach him a lesson. I’m too deadly with a knife.”
Paul removed a pair of nunchaku from his desk drawer.
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
“I’ve been saving them for a special occasion,” he said.
“He’s going to kill you,” I said.
“He is who will die,” Paul said.
Paul took a wide stance, held his weapon above his head, closed his eyes, remained like that, taking slow and deep breaths.
“He’s going to kill you,” Janice said.
“It’s too late to get in on the action, young lady,” Paul said. “Your ship has sailed.”
“Why do you care so much?” I asked.
“Because I have dignity,” Paul said.
“No, you don’t,” Janice said.
“I have homework,” I said.
Paul twirled the nunchaku, hit himself in the stomach. Janice left.
“You’re going to kill yourself,” I said.
“When someone wrongs you,” he said, “they must pay for wronging you.”
“It was just a man,” I said.
“A man is never just a man,” Paul said. “There are no small injustices in this world.”
“Fine,” I said. His eyes were tearing up.
“I need to practice,” he said. “Get out. I will let you know when it’s time.”
Grandma was standing in my room.
“You know Paul is going to get himself killed, right?” she asked.
She sat on my bed and patted the spot next to her. I sat down and she inched closer to me.
“You know I didn’t raise you like someone that follows their parents to Missouri,” she said, “and follows idiots into street fights and gets their Grandma’s Cadillac smashed up.”
“Janice wants to come with me,” I said.
“Are you guys fucking again?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Is that why she’s acting all crazy?” she asked.
“Why would that make her act crazy?” I asked.
“You’re the best person in this house,” she said. “That’s not saying much. But it’s saying something.”
“What’s it saying?” I asked.
“It’s saying enough,” she said. “This place is going to crumble without you.”
She pinched my ear.
“The world might end.”
She left.
“Give me those!” She yelled at Paul from down the hallway.
“This is an island of despair!” Paul yelled back.
“How much ass am I going to have to kick today?” Grandma sounded hollow. Like there was a part deep inside her that wasn’t working right.
That night I thought about my parents. I looked into my mirror and imagined which features were Mom’s, which were Dad’s, and which belonged to some ancestor I’d never know about. I wondered what Mom sounded like when she wanted to kill Grandma. Did her voice sound like a cartoon’s, like Janice’s, or was it deep and forceful in a way that made you believe she could do it? I wondered if she possessed qualities that made her seem capable of anything and whether I got those qualities from her. Or did Grandma lie to me about my promise just to make me feel better, to make herself feel better about raising another failure?
I wondered whether Mom looked back at Chicago as she drove south, or was she moving too fast? I imagined her playing music I wouldn’t recognize, windows down, throwing cigarette butts onto the prairie, burning fuel and rubber. I imagined her eyes forward, frozen on the road ahead.
Did she do things that made you love her no matter what, like Janice? Did she pull out her hair when she got nervous, or sneeze without covering her mouth and then apologize because her snot got everywhe
re, on everyone?
Dad I imagined in a motel, somewhere off an interstate, sweating in uncomfortable sleep, twisted in overused sheets. In my head, he sat on curbs, looked up, waited for cleansing rain, counted passing cars and buses. He was, in my head, always alone. I couldn’t tell if those were tears of sadness or freedom.
Should I dream about them more? Should I fall asleep?
I fell asleep.
Janice stood over my bed. It was still dark out. Her laptop screen illuminated her face. Her eyes were wild.
“There’s a Paris in Missouri.” She forced herself into bed next to me.
“What?” I said.
“It’s bigger than Amsterdam,” she said. “But it’s still small.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Fine,” she said. “There’s a Mexico.”
“Why don’t you just go to the real Mexico?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t be there,” she said. “And I don’t have a passport.”
She put her computer down and spooned against me. Her head was in my armpit. Her hair smelled like smoke. We slept like that.
Grandma woke us up.
“Sorry Boy is in the hospital.”
Paul had tried round three with Charles Doyle. This time he took his nunchaku. He thought if he exercised some control and precision Charles Doyle would live. Charles Doyle took the nunchaku from Paul. Paul tripped and fell on broken glass. His stomach got cut up. Charles Doyle drove him to the hospital in Grandma’s Cadillac. He didn’t want to get blood in his truck. We had to take a cab to the hospital.
Charles Doyle was at the hospital talking to the cops. He didn’t recognize me. He didn’t want to press charges. He thought Paul had learned his lesson.
“It’s sad,” Charles Doyle told the cops. “He thought he was dying. He said everything he loved was going to Missouri. I think he pissed himself.”
At graduation, Paul handled the video camera. An alumna—a painter—gave the commencement address. She said life was hard and gets harder. She thanked her friends and family. Without them, she said, she would’ve committed suicide by jumping off a medium-size apartment complex. “Go forth,” she said. “Make waves.” Grandma gave a standing ovation, cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered.
I tripped when they called my name, grabbed my diploma, put my sweating hand into the principal’s, and tripped off the stage.
Janice had a bouquet for me, wilted tulips. Paul’s crying ripped open his stiches. He bled through his suit. He forgot to turn on the camera.