America

by E. R. Frank

  “You’re asking me how your file is organized?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Well, how are you picturing it?”

  “Would you stop with that, man? I swear to God.”

  “Stop with what?”

  “With that picturing shit. I’m not stupid. I know picturing’s the same as imagining.”

  “Hmm.”

  “So just answer my question.”

  “All right,” he goes. “Your file has a sort of story about you as well as blanks and squares.”

  “How’s the story set up?”

  “There’s a section about your medical history. Another section about your school history. There’s a section about your people and growing-up history. And other sections.”

  “How are you supposed to know if they got all those sections right about me, if I don’t even get to check it out my own self?”

  “You want to be sure what I read about you is accurate.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “One way I could know that is to have you tell me about your own self, your own self.”

  “Nice try, doc.”

  “I’m not trying anything, America.”

  * * *

  I’m flat straight without any pillow on my coffin bed. Here’s what I imagine. The growing-up section starts with me getting born. It goes like this: America got born to a crack addict who didn’t want him. Two days after that, America got with a rich white family, only they didn’t want him after he started turning his color. So in a couple of months quick, America got taken by the rich white family’s nanny.

  I’m flat straight without any pillow on my coffin bed and I decide imagining is right up there with thinking. Don’t like either one.

  * * *

  “You’re going to blackmail me, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to make me tell you all my private business before you let me see the file.”

  “Really.”

  “What else? You’re doing your job the way they tell you. Trying real hard to get me to give it up. So now you’re all, ‘America, you tell me your business, and I’ll show you the file.’ ”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m not telling you shit.”

  * * *

  “You dropped your pillow.” I didn’t used to see these other beds right next to mine. “Hey,” this new kid’s going. “I think you dropped your pillow.” Must have been weeks before I even got to noticing this room, much less any of these other guys in here with me. Thing is, they change over so many times, I never know who all is going to be in the next bed.

  “Here,” this new dude goes. He picks up my stupid pillow and drops it on my legs.

  * * *

  America is a boy who’s been a lot of places. I bet that’s what that file says somewhere. America is a boy who gets lost easy and is not worth the trouble of finding.

  * * *

  He’s all leaning forward on his elbows. “There’s an opening at a group home.” That’s how it works. You stay awhile one place, and then you go. “Medicaid’s been clear with us that stays on this unit are to be short-term only. You’ve been here more than six weeks. A time frame Medicaid does not consider to be short-term.”

  “Medicaid’s same as the state, right?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. It’s all the same. Medicaid. The state. They’re all the same damn thing.”

  “America, if you’re still unable to sign the safety contract, I’m not sure the group home will take you, regardless of Medicaid’s requirements.”

  “I guess you and Medicaid have a problem, then, doc.”

  “So you’re still thinking of killing yourself?”

  “I don’t think, man. I keep telling you.”

  * * *

  America’s nanny’s name was Mrs. Harper. Mrs. Harper was real good to America. Also Mrs. Harper’s half-brother, whose name was Browning, was real good to America. Also, Mrs. Harper’s man friend, Clark Poignant, was real real good to America. But then, America turned out to be bad and made people sick, so Mrs. Harper and the state sent America back to his mother. But then America’s mother had better things to do and left America with his two older brothers. Lyle was the oldest one, but Brooklyn was the baddest, so Brooklyn was in charge. That’s probably in there, too. Stupid-ass files.

  * * *

  I watch those guys play Ping-Pong, and I try not to think. Trouble is, the more you try not to think, the more you end up thinking.

  This is what I think. You can know who you’re mad at but still know you’re bad and ought to be dead. Partly because just knowing who you’re mad at doesn’t make you any less bad and partly because if you do get better the way they want, then the feelings are going to come crashing down on you like some kind of goddamn avalanche.

  * * *

  “If you let me read my file, I’ll sign your stupid safety contract, and you can get rid of me to that group home,” I go.

  “First of all, the safety contract doesn’t work that way.”

  “What way?”

  “The safety contract is not some sort of trading tool. It stands on its own. And second, what makes you believe I’m trying to get rid of you?”

  “Because that’s what you’re doing, man.”

  * * *

  I sleep in that room with all the dudes who show up and leave again. Some kid with an earring who used to be in cottage two back at Applegate shows up four beds over for a week and then disappears. I don’t care. I stand in that cafeteria line and eat their nastiness. I sit in group and don’t listen and watch Ping-Pong in the rec room. That’s all I do, besides try not to think.

  * * *

  He won’t show me the file, and I won’t sign the contract, and he won’t sign for me to leave, and some other kid gets my spot in the group home.

  “Looks like were stuck with each other, doc,” I go.

  “Stuck,” he goes.

  “S-T-U-C-K. Stuck,” I go. “Rhymes with fuck.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Should have let me read the file, man.”

  “What is it about the file that feels so important, America?”

  “Can you shut up with your stupid questions? Just bring it out, already.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Partly because I’m not comfortable showing it until we’ve talked further about what reading it might be like for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Reading your file could bring up feelings, America. It’s a complicated thing to read what other people write about you. I think it might feel too complicated for you to handle right now.”

  Those files probably only have the bad. America is a thief and a wrecker of property. America did not learn to read right until he was almost ten years old. America is a runaway. They only have all the messed-up stuff. They don’t have the smaller things. The parts that matter.

  “What is it about the file that feels so important to you, America?”

  A red ball lollipop. The UPS man who delivers the angels and picks them up again gives it to me. When I get to the fizz in the middle, Mrs. Harper smiles at my face and touches my chin and says, “Real meaning is in the smaller things.”

  “It’s mine, man.”

  That smell of mint leaves on Mrs. Harper’s hands, same as the Chap Stick she makes me smear on in the winter. A rusty streak in Clark Poignant’s silver hair. The way he always brings Mrs. Harper white tulips cut straight from his garden and teaches me to shake hands, real firm and solid. The sweet smell of Browning’s brown cigarettes.

  “It’s yours?” Dr. B. goes.

  “That’s right, man. My business is mine. I own that shit.”

  I hide under the paint table, and Mrs. Harper goes, “Where is America?” And I pop up, and she goes, “There he is!” And I scream because it’s real good to get found
. And she stands up from her stool and puts down her fresh-painted blue-and-gold angel real gentle and goes, “I see you, Mister. I see you over there.” And I scream because it’s real good to be seen. And she pulls off her smock and goes, “I’m going to get you, America! I’m going to get you!” And I’m banging out the screen door running real hard and laughing real hard, and she’s running right after me and laughing, too, and she’s going to snatch me up any minute and hold me real close and tickle, and I run harder, and then she catches me, and she’s going, “I got you! I got you!” and she’s got me right down between her warm self and the scratchy grass, and she’s wiggling her fingers up under my arms, and we’re laughing like crazy, and I’m screaming my head off.

  “My not letting you read your business makes you feel I’m taking away something that’s yours,” Dr. B. goes.

  “Huh?”

  I help Mrs. Harper screw the paint caps on and soak the brushes, and those angels stand and fly and kneel and sit on our built-in bookshelves waiting to dry off, get repacked, and sent back to the people who pay us for them. They cover every wall of Mrs. Harper’s workroom, the great big mess of them protecting the whole house, like a real pretty army.

  “Maybe you could just tell me more about your business being yours,” Dr. B. says.

  “I told you, doc. I’m not telling you anything.”

  * * *

  I lie flat out straight in my coffin bed, and it’s getting on my nerves. How Dr. B. gets things going in my head, making me see things I don’t hardly care to see. That’s the problem with talking to people. All that talking makes you get cracks in your brain, and then all these flashes start leaking right on through.

  * * *

  “You seem extra quiet today.” I’ve got my neck fixed on the back of my chair and my eyes all open on that round light.

  “I’m always quiet. Nothing extra about it.” I lean my head back more and check out those sand people on that bookshelf behind me, all upside down. They’re gray and little, the size of my fingers.

  “Maybe what I mean is that I’m noticing you’re not interested in playing any games today and you haven’t looked at me at all.”

  “Whatever.” They’ve got guns and drums and all that. Soldiers. A bunch of soldiers.

  “Maybe something’s happened that’s brought up some feelings.”

  “Nothing’s happened, man. I eat. I sleep. I piss. I go to group. I come here. Time up yet?”

  “Almost. Those are things that happen for you on the outside. Maybe something else has happened with you on the inside that’s brought up some feelings.”

  I’m sitting in a booster seat in the middle of Clark Poignant and Mrs. Harper and Browning, and it’s real calm. I’m filling in the coloring book page with crayons the waitress gave me.

  “Look,” Mrs. Harper goes. “It’s America.” She points her finger with the round, black ring to my page.

  Clark Poignant says, “That’s a map of where we live.”

  “That’s New York,” Mrs. Harper says. “That’s in America. We live in New York in America.”

  “I’m America,” I tell them.

  “Yup,” Browning goes, hanging his arm over my shoulder. “You’re America.”

  “America is the place where we live, and it’s also your name,” Mrs. Harper says.

  “I’m in America,” I say. “And America is me.” I like saying that. I like the sound of it and the beat of it and the way it makes Mrs. Harper and Clark Poignant and Browning smile. So I say it again. “I’m in America, and America is me.”

  “We’re done now, if you want to leave.” I sit up.

  “Huh?”

  “I said,” Dr. B. goes, “we’re done for today.”

  * * *

  You try not to think. You try not to imagine, but then those cracks pop up, and these flashes squeeze right through. At first, some of it’s not too bad, and you get stupid, maybe even wanting a little more, but then you pull yourself together, knowing what all is likely going to ooze out if you’re not careful. So you try to patch up this one crack real quick, but then some other one pops up faster than you can spit, and then you’ve got to rush your ass around trying to keep things shut tight. That’s the problem with being in one place too long. You’re at somewhere too long, and your brain gets weak. It’s enough to drive a person straight out of his own mind.

  * * *

  “So how long am I staying here, anyway, doc?” I go.

  “How long do you want to stay here?”

  “Who says I want to stay here?”

  “I’m just remembering the time you mentioned you weren’t planning to talk much because you believed talking meant you would leave soon.”

  “So?”

  “So I took that to mean that a part of you would like to stay here.”

  “Well, I don’t know what all you’re talking about now, man.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anyway, I don’t stay places long.”

  “What’s long?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What’s long?’ ”

  “I mean, how long is long. A week? A year?”

  Clark Poignant’s in his bed, even though it’s light outside, and he has his own nurse, even though his house isn’t a hospital.

  “Saturday will go by quicker than you think,” he tells me. “You’ll be back home before you know it. And then Monday you’ll start kindergarten.” He raises his arm to touch my shoulder, the way he always does, and I’m scared the tube in the back of his hand will slide out, making him bleed.

  “He’s just confused,” Mrs. Harper says when I hide behind her. A little rip in her voice makes me look up at her face and then grab her finger with the black, round ring on it. I rub the top of the ring, and she lets me, and it’s smooth and feels good.

  “Kindergarten,” Clark Poignant says. “Can you believe it?”

  “An unsupervised visit,” Mrs. Harper says back, with that rip again. “That’s what I can’t believe.”

  “Does he know how to call us?” Clark Poignant asks Mrs. Harper, and she says, “He’s got everybody’s number memorized,” and then I make them smile by saying all the numbers. It’s a lot to remember, but Mrs. Harper said a boy my age could do it, and I did. “Tell Clark about collect,” Mrs. Harper says, so I do, and he says when I get home to call him collect for practice.

  Back at Mrs. Harper’s, on the upstairs phone, I push zero, just like she showed me, and I give out Clark Poignant’s number, and the operator goes, “Who can I say is calling?”

  “America,” I say, and Mrs. Harper smiles at me from her rocking chair. I hold the phone out to her for a second, but Mrs. Harper waves it back at me, and then Clark Poignant’s voice is on the line, and he’s saying, “Good job. Good job.” I like the way his voice is real still and buzzes fast, like the way a bee’s body is real still and buzzes fast around a flower, both at the same time.

  “Long is long, man. Long is whenever they feel like deciding,” I go.

  “Who’s ‘they,’ America?”

  “The state,” I tell Dr. B. “Medicaid.”

  “The state and Medicaid?” Dr. B. goes.

  “Now you’re getting on my nerves, man.”

  Before my visit to my mother, Mrs. Harper’s going to paint something special with all her angels.

  “Can you sit still for half a second?” she goes. I don’t figure I can, but if I say no, she’ll think I’m being mouthy.

  “Do I have to go?” I say to Mrs. Harper.

  “You do,” she says. “But it’s only for Saturday, America. And then you’ll come right home, and Monday after that, you’ll start your kindergarten.”

  “If I act extra good, do I have to go?” I ask her.

  “Has nothing to do with how you act,” she says. “I keep telling you.”

  “What if she wants to abduct me?” I say.

  “Adopt you. Not abduct you,” Mrs. Harper says. “She doesn’t have to adopt you. You’re already hers. She’s your moth
er. I’m the one trying to adopt you.”

  “What about the papers?” I ask her.

  “What do you know about papers?” Mrs. Harper says, and I’m scared she’s going to look at me hard and turn her back, the way she does when I’ve made her mad, but she just pats her paintbrush over angel wings.

  “Browning said she could write her name on a paper and then the state would let her keep the paper and let you keep me and I wouldn’t have to visit her.”

  “She doesn’t want to write her name,” Mrs. Harper says.

  “How come?” I ask.

  Mrs. Harper looks real hard at her wet wings and then throws the angel down. It breaks into pieces. She never broke one before, ever, and especially not on purpose. “I don’t know,” she tells me. “I really don’t know.”

  “I’m getting on your nerves,” Dr. B. goes.

  “Can you stop repeating every other thing I say?” I go. “Damn.”

  “Unfortunately it’s a bad habit of mine, but I’ll try to stop.”

  “Why don’t you just try to be quiet?”

  “You’re pretty aggravated right now.”

  “I’m not aggravated. I’m pissed.”

  Browning’s gin root beer smells nasty. His bag of Tootsie Rolls is stuffed in my back pocket. It’s heavy, like it might just take my pants right down.

  “Don’t you have yourself together yet?” Mrs. Harper goes after dinner, and I wonder which part of him fell off: his head, or his arms, or his legs. Then I wonder if he has wings, so I go to check, but before I can see. Mrs. Harper sends us outside. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times,” she goes to Browning. “I’m not having liquor in this house.” So now Browning holds his gin root beer in one hand and throws me the Wiffle ball with the other.

  “Now listen,” Browning says, tossing me an easy one. “We’re buddies, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, hitting it straight to his chest. He drops his root-beer can and claps both hands around the ball quick, the way I catch fireflies.

  “So listen to me careful,” Browning says. “More careful than you ever listened before. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, waiting for the next pitch.

  “Because what I’m about to say is real different from what Mrs. Harper and Clark have been telling you. Okay?”