by E. R. Frank
* * *
Liza’s away at sleepover camp for the last month of the summer, and school’s out. Browning starts the man kind of reading. It’s another secret. Browning sets a vodka and Coke on the table next to my bed before we get started.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“A special treat,” Browning says. He lights up a cigarette. “Sometimes a man likes a drink before bed.”
I take a sip. It tastes more like vodka than like Coke. “It’s strong,” I say.
“My point exactly,” Browning says. He squeezes in next to me and tosses a magazine in my lap. “No more kiddie reading,” he says. “We’re over that.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls the chain on the lamp next to my bed.
There’s pictures of naked ladies all over the magazine, and some naked men, too. I think of Brooklyn and his TV channels, and I start to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Browning asks.
“This is dirty,” I tell him.
“Now that’s a shame,” Browning says, inhaling. “It’s not dirty. Who said it was dirty?”
“Liza,” I tell him. “She showed me in the 7-Eleven.”
“Well, Liza’s got it all wrong,” Browning says. “These are just pictures of people. And bodies. Nothing wrong with the naked body. You were born naked, weren’t you?”
“I guess,” I say. I take another sip of my vodka Coke.
“No guessing about it,” Browning says. “Every single one of us was born naked. Liza included.”
“Yeah, but it’s sex,” I tell Browning.
“Nothing wrong with sex, either,” Browning says. “Sex is a beautiful thing. Now are you going to be a baby, or are you going to practice your reading?”
It’s a story about a man who meets a woman at a party. The woman is pretty, and she has sex with a man while the first man watches, and then the first man has sex with the woman, and he likes it. I keep laughing while I’m reading because the story and words are funny and nasty and embarrassing, like the taste of your own breath first thing in the morning. It makes me laugh so much, I spill a little of my vodka Coke on my last gulp of it, and that gets Browning aggravated.
“Read regular,” he tells me, crushing his cigarette on the side of my glass and smacking the side of my head. He hasn’t smacked my head in a long time, so I put my glass on the floor and try to read regular, but it’s hard. I can’t help laughing.
Finally Browning pulls the magazine out of my hand. “I give up,” he goes, all disappointed. “You’re just too young for this.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a big huff. “I was thinking you’re getting to be a man, but maybe you’re still just a kid.” He sounds like he thinks I’m trying to be mean to him.
“Don’t give up,” I tell him. “I’m not too young.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Nine years old. I guess you are.”
“No, I’m not,” I tell him.
“Maybe I’ll just try to tutor someone else,” Browning says. “Lots of kids in the park could use some help. But you. You’ve learned plenty. You don’t really need me anymore.”
“Yes, I do,” I tell him. “I won’t laugh. Come on, Browning, let me try one more time.”
He sighs again, and thumbs through the magazine pages for a minute. “All right,” he says. “If you really think you’re ready.”
* * *
I drink my vodka and Coke every night in bed with Browning, and I get careful not to laugh. All the stories are sex stories, and I learn a lot of new words. Some of them are funny, and some of them aren’t so funny and make me sweat. I’m always hot at night now, and I sleep real deep and long.
The problem is, during the day, I remember some of those stories, and it’s real hard to get them out of my head. It’s real hard not to picture what people do and how it feels, and it makes me get all warm, the way it is at night, reading the stories with Browning. Plus, it’s real hard not to think a lot about Liza and how her body feels when she squeezes me. I try not to think about it, but I can’t help it, and sometimes I touch myself the way the stories say people touch, and it feels just as good as in the stories, except sort of dirty, too, even though Browning says it isn’t. I wish Liza were here and not at camp, so I could ask her about it, except Browning says the reading is a secret for males only, and I better not tell Liza, and if I do, he’ll be so mad, he might never forgive me and he might never be able to speak to me again.
Plus, I wouldn’t really know how to talk to Liza about it, anyway.
Now
BROOKLYN’S BACK. WITH that white apron and those see-through gloves, like all the other servers. And that scar. I watch him from the end of the line and let the other guys go ahead of me. I don’t eat. I just keep my place at the end and watch him.
* * *
“You got another deck?”
“I do.”
“Where?”
“It’s somewhere in that basket.”
“This?”
“That’s it.”
“Is this one missing any cards?”
“I don’t think so. You can count them.”
“You count them, B.”
“Fifty-two.”
“Cool. Give them here. We’re going to play double-deck War.”
“Hmm. Same rules?”
“What do you think, doc?”
“Anything special happen if we get a war between the two of spades?”
“Good question. What do you think?”
“I think probably.”
“Well, you’re right. Whoever wins a war between the two of spades wins the whole game right there.”
“This is a switch from our last few sessions.”
“Count your cards.”
“You haven’t been interested in playing for a while.”
“Shut up with that, and throw down, man.”
* * *
Now sometimes when we’re playing, and I’m about to start floating with those flashes sliding through, I want to tell him some. Then I get scared. Then I get mad because I don’t know what all I’m so scared of. Then I get more mad because he already knows I’m scared. Then I feel like a pussy and I hate my sorry-ass self.
Then I still want to tell him.
* * *
He won. He got all the aces and the two of spades straight up from the deal. I never even had a chance. “Can I go now?” I ask.
“You know we’ve got ten minutes left.”
* * *
The truth of it is, those flashes happen everywhere. In the rec room watching Ping-Pong, in the cafeteria watching Brooklyn, in the main hall watching those skinny winter trees, in bed watching my feet, in session watching the cards. Your brain gets so damn weak some way, those flashes just keep coming, and you can’t stop them.
* * *
I get to thinking about my file again. America thought he was tough, but the truth is, America was a real punk for a long time. After a while, America got to be worse than a punk. Liza said they knew things about you, even if you didn’t tell them. America got to be a pervert, and after that, he turned into a murderer. I don’t know how they get to know things, but if Liza’s right, that shit could be right there in that file. Stay away from America.
* * *
We throw down and scoop up. Throw down and scoop up. It’s real quiet. I’m quiet. He’s quiet. I’m sick of the flashes. I’m sick of the quiet.
“You ever seen that IMAX on Everest?”
“The IMAX.”
“It’s high,” I tell him.
“Hmm.”
“It’s all this snow and ice way up high. Higher than any other place in the whole damn world.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s real beautiful.”
“Really.”
“It’s real peaceful.”
“Sounds like an important place.”
I’m quiet, and it’s boring.
“Our time’s up,” he tells me after a while. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“That’s where I go,” I tell him.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s where I went that time,” I say. “That time when I was here, but I wasn’t here.”
“Oh,” he says.
* * *
I’m scared shitless. I’m afraid to sleep because of the dreams, and I’m afraid to be awake because all these flashes keep squeezing through and I can’t stuff them back the way I used to. I’m afraid of never being able to get back up there to Everest, and I’m afraid that if I get back up there, I’ll never come down, and I’m afraid of Dr. B. because he sees me and he knows things and when they see you and know things they mess everything up, and I’m afraid I’ll be stuck in this place forever, and I’m afraid I won’t, and I’m the biggest sorriest-ass pussy there ever was, and I’m just plain old fucking afraid.
* * *
I skip sessions and walk up and down the main hall looking through the windows at the ice all coating everything, trying to figure out how to get over to J building. Here’s what one of the night nurses tells me. There’s a courtyard and an entrance hall and then a long hallway and then another courtyard and then the front of J building. But you can’t get far if you don’t have the right pants. We wear green, and J building wears white. Man, Brooklyn must be pissed.
* * *
“What’s been keeping you from coming to session?” Dr. B. asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“You’ve missed three in a row. A week and a half.”
“Whatever,” I say.
“What made you come back?” he goes.
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“Something made you leave for a while, and something made you come back.”
“Ah, man.” He makes me tired.
“Thank you for telling me about your place,” he says. “About Everest.” My heart starts beating fast. I forgot I told him that. “I get the feeling you haven’t shared that with anyone.”
“So?”
“So. It must be something very personal and very important to you.”
“Now I’m never getting out of here, right?” I go. “Because now you know I’m mental for real.”
“You seem to think you’re mental.”
“I go up there, man,” I tell him. “I’m there. I go there.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m right here,” I tell him. “What are you? Stupid? How can I be there and here at the same time, if I’m not out of my tree?”
“I believe we’ve discussed this before. It’s called dissociation. It’s a natural way to adapt to extremely difficult moments. Other people do it, too.”
“Yeah, well, do other people like it?” I ask.
“Some people are afraid it means there’s something wrong with their minds,” he tells me. “But besides that, people seem to like it sometimes, and other times, they don’t seem to.”
“Oh,” I go.
“How do you feel about it?”
I feel water filling up my eyes. The last time water came out, it didn’t stop for so damn long. I make it go back in. “Whatever,” I tell him.
And then we just sit there for a while.
Then
Dear Mrs. Harper,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I am writing to you today with some concern about America. Though he made significant progress in the previous two years, his social and academic performance at this time seems to be declining. According to his Individual Education Plan, which you may remember reviewing, we had hoped to mainstream America as he began sixth grade, next September. However, given his recent regression as the end of this school year approaches, we would now like to reevaluate.
I hope you will be able to make arrangements to meet with me so that we can discuss America further.
Thanks for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely, Mrs. Evans
I flick my lighter and burn the letter over the sink. The fire alarm goes off as the flame crawls near my hand. I drop the letter, yank on the faucet full force, and then wave a dish towel at the ceiling to make the alarm stop.
“America!” Mrs. Harper yells from upstairs.
“It’s burned toast!” I yell back. “Everything’s cool!”
Browning’s out again. I don’t see him all that much during the day anymore. He stopped coaching baseball just before last Halloween, saying he got a job. I thought I’d start getting an allowance, like he promised, only he never brings any money home.
“What kind of job does he have, anyway?” Liza asks me. She got her hair cut short over Christmas vacation, and it makes her eyes look bigger.
“I don’t know,” I tell her.
“How can you not know?” Liza asks.
“Shut up,” I say.
“You’re so crabby,” Liza says. She turns to Billy, which she does a lot more lately and which I hate. “Hey, Billy,” she says. “Isn’t America a pain in the ass?”
“Yeah,” Billy says. I smack the side of his head.
“America!” Mrs. Evans goes. I watch her write another letter at her desk, from my time-out corner.
“You didn’t have to hit him,” Liza whispers to me. I don’t answer her. She slides me a roll of Smarties, anyway.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
She sniffs. “I don’t even like Smarties,” she says, but I know she’s lying.
* * *
We don’t read stories too much anymore. Sometimes it starts out like that, but mostly Browning just begins by touching. At first, I believe him that it’s cool, because it feels real nice. He talks to me soft, and his voice gets low, and he pats me all light, the way a father would take care of his baby, and it feels good. He tells me how what we’re doing is a special secret, and how he wouldn’t get with just anybody this way, and how he’s helping me learn how to be a man, and how I’m such a good learner.
The nice part used to make me forget that it’s dirty but lately Browning’s stopped talking to me. Lately, he gets quiet and goes far away while it’s happening, and even though he looks at my face, he doesn’t see me. Then it still feels good in my body, but it feels bad everywhere else, especially when after it’s over, he starts snoring without getting into his own bed, and he’s real heavy and makes my arm or my leg fall asleep, and he doesn’t even say good night.
* * *
Mrs. Harper is quieter than she used to be, and so am I. If I don’t talk to her too much, I won’t wear her out. So I just empty the trash or dust the TV.
“Thank you, America,” she says a lot of times, and that makes me feel real ashamed.
Sometimes she’ll scoot to the side of her bed and tell me to sit down. “How are things going?” she’ll say.
“Fine,” I’ll say.
“You going to cook us dinner tonight?” she’ll ask.
“Okay,” I’ll say.
“What will you make?”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, anything,” she’ll say. “Maybe some green beans and mashed potatoes. Chicken.”
“You want garlic or sea salt tonight?” I’ll ask.
“Garlic.” She loves garlic. “You look tired,” she’ll say.
I never used to be tired.
“You want to watch TV with me before you start dinner?” she’ll ask.
But I’m afraid if Browning finds out, he’ll be mad, plus, what if he’s right about old ladies and boys, and I end up killing her, just by wearing her out?
Or what if I can’t help it, and I end up telling her about Browning and me, and she doesn’t believe it? Or what if she does believe it, and she wonders why I don’t make Browning stop, and then she figures out that my body even likes it, a little? What if she figures that out, and it makes her just keel over dead?
Dear Mrs. Harper,
I’m sorry to hear that you’re not feeling well, and I regret having to trouble you, but it is imperative that we talk. America continues to regress socially and
academically. He is fighting more with his peers, and is demonstrating a new difficulty following directions. He is also becoming increasingly oppositional toward me and the other teachers. It’s very important that we discuss these issues at least by telephone so that we can address America’s situation in the most constructive way possible.
Once again, thanks for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Mrs. Evans
Now he makes me touch him. And other stuff. I tell him I don’t want to, but he says you can’t start a secret like we have and then stop it. He thinks it’s important I learn about it with someone who cares. He’s all how I’m ungrateful and selfish to tell him to stop. He tells me he knows I like it, so I may as well stop pretending.
I don’t know too much else about it, though, because there’s this thing you can do. You can make yourself fly up past the ceiling. You can make yourself stay up there, high and far away from everything. You can go right to Mount Everest, where the clouds and the snow look so much the same, you don’t know where the clouds start or the snow ends. You can feel small and big and close and far all at the same time. You can feel dizzy and safe, both. You have to be careful not to look down and see what all’s going on, because that’s worse than anything and can make an avalanche crush you, but if you stay flying high looking up and out, you can freeze yourself and glide all the way through until the cold gets so cold, you just go numb all over, and it’s like you’re the last drip of an icicle that never got to drop but just froze instead. Every time you fly up high, past the ceiling all the way to Mount Everest, a little chip of yourself gets lost up there in all that cold, but you don’t much care because it’s better to lose a little piece of yourself than to let Browning find you and maybe make something dirty feel good.
* * *
Liza’s trying to kiss me.
“Get off,” I tell her.
“I hate you, America!” she says. We’re cutting class, in the utility room. I bang my head against the cinder-block wall. It hurts, which feels good.
“Stop it.” she goes. “Stop it!” I keep banging. My brain bounces. “Stop it!” Liza shouts.