America

by E. R. Frank

  “Huh?” I say.

  “What’s it like being in therapy?” April asks. I watch myself shrug. “Mr. Patterson mentioned that you’re not much of a talker.” I shrug again. “That’s fine,” April says. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it.” The plant is all green leaves. They’re stiff and look like plastic. “What if I tell you a little about myself?” April says. Then she does.

  She’s a student, and she’ll be leaving in June. She sees therapy as a journey that is to be taken together. Therapy is all about discovery. It can be painful and it can be joyful, but it is always useful. She will follow my lead.

  * * *

  Fish and me don’t play baseball. They try to get us to, but we won’t.

  “I don’t want to,” Fish says.

  “Come on,” Tom answers. “Both of you. We need two more.”

  “It’s free time,” Fish says. “Free time means I can do what I want. Right, America?”

  “Right,” I watch myself tell him.

  “It’ll be fun,” Tom says.

  “Hurry up!” Wick yells.

  “Forget them,” Marshall goes. “Let’s play, already.”

  Fish and me sit behind the fence, behind home plate.

  “Batter, batter, batter, batter,” Fish says.

  “Nobody’s up, man,” I see myself say. They’re still flipping to see who bats first.

  “I like it when the ball pops,” Fish says, putting his head on my shoulder. He means he likes the sound when the bat hits the ball.

  “Wipe your chin,” I hear myself tell him.

  * * *

  “Sometimes it’s difficult to talk with someone you don’t know yet, because it’s difficult to know if you can trust them.” April has three pairs of glasses. These have green rims around the eye part, and pink around the head and ear part. “And sometimes it’s difficult to trust someone who is of a different ethnicity.” I watch myself dig in my back pocket and pull out a black pair of laces and a white pair. I watch myself lean down and get a zebra going on my left foot. “For example,” April says. “I’m white. And you’re not.” I finish my left foot and start on my right. “You’re Hispanic. And so that makes us different.” I see myself take out the old brown laces and tie them together. I watch myself make a loop out of them. “Difference makes it hard to trust, and lack of trust makes it hard to talk,” April says. “Don’t you think?”

  I watch myself slide the old brown laces over my hands, keeping my wrists facing each other, like the girls do in class. The girls know how to make a ladder and a teacup with string and their fingers. I watch myself trying to figure out how they do it, but I can’t.

  * * *

  Fish goes to the dances, but he never asks anyone to dance. He used to jump up and down all by himself, but now me and him lean against the wall and watch.

  “Shiri is hot,” Fish tells me. He doesn’t know what it means. “You’re hot, too,” he tells me.

  Shiri comes over. “Hey, Fish,” she says. “Want to dance?” Then she cracks up.

  “Nah,” Fish says. “I don’t want to.”

  “What about you, Shoelace?” Shiri says.

  “His name’s not Shoelace,” Fish tells her. He pats my hand. “It’s America.”

  * * *

  They use tablecloths on Sundays. Fish and me and Ernie watch the visitors. Wick’s grandfather brings his own salt and pepper shakers. Wick watches his points when his grandfather visits. Marshall sits with Wick and his grandfather on the Sundays his mother doesn’t show up, which is a lot of Sundays. She wears big earrings and a lot of bracelets that clang and sound sort of like Wick’s silver balls. Marshall gets quiet when his mother’s around. Ernie’s mom visits once. She brings him a care package of homemade chocolate-chip cookies, which Ernie throws out, and a bunch of candy bars, which he shares with the rest of us.

  “Those cookies looked good, man,” Marshall says.

  “Yeah, but you know my mom,” Ernie says.

  “Does Shoelace know?” Marshall asks.

  “No,” Ernie says.

  “His mom puts weird shit in her baking,” Wick says. “Capers and Ex-Lax and shit.”

  “What’s capers?” Fish says.

  “They’re salty,” Ernie says.

  “Your mom’s a freak,” Wick says.

  “Yeah,” Ernie says.

  “She only visits when it’s her visiting day,” Marshall tells me. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Shoelace doesn’t give a shit,” Wick says. “He couldn’t care less.”

  * * *

  “So next week will be my last week,” April says. She’s been telling me that forever. “How do you feel about our work together?” I watch myself stare at the plastic-looking plant. Some of the leaves are off. They’re lying on the floor, and now they’re brown. “That’s all right,” April says. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” She crosses her legs. “Maybe I’ll share with you some of my feelings about our work together.”

  She tells me how much I’ve meant to her. She tells me she’s learned so much from me. She tells me the journey will continue even though she won’t be here to participate anymore. She’ll be here in spirit, she says, just not in body. She tells me that she appreciates my spending time with her so many afternoons. She tells me she’ll miss me. She pulls out a tissue and wipes her eyes underneath her glasses. Round and gold colored.

  * * *

  Fish never had any visitors, but he’s leaving. Tom has a party for him during evening free time. There’s a cake. Tom asks me to light the candles. He hands me a Bic. I watch myself watching the flame. The blue and the orange. And the black line where they meet.

  Wick gets loud. “Who’s taking him?” he asks. He’s kicking at his silver balls. They’re dinging and clunking all over the floor. They’re loud.

  “You’ll have to ask Fish that,” Tom answers.

  “Who’s taking you, Fish Head?” Wick asks. He kicks those balls everywhere.

  “Don’t yell at him,” I watch myself warn.

  “Don’t yell at me,” Fish says.

  “Watch it,” Tom says to Wick.

  “Who the fuck is taking you?” Wick goes.

  “These people,” Fish says. “I’m allowed.”

  “Somebody wanted him?” Wick goes to Tom. “Who wants a retard?”

  “That’s enough,” Tom says.

  Fish holds out a napkin with cake on it to Wick. Wick knocks Fish’s hand away hard. Fish knocks Wick in the head. “You’re ruining my party!” he cries.

  “Outside. Now,” Tom says to Wick. They go outside. Fish keeps yelling, “He ruined my party!”

  “Shut up, Fish,” I watch myself tell him.

  “He ruined my party,” Fish goes, and he picks up my hand.

  Then I’m not watching me anymore, but I’m in me, eating a piece of cake and tasting it and feeling Fish hold my hand and telling Fish okay but shut up.

  I’m in me, and I don’t want Fish to go, and it hurts.

  * * *

  “I hear you had some trouble this week,” April tells me. She’s wearing the glasses that look like somebody splattered different-color paint all over the frames. Red, yellow, purple, white. Ugly as sin.

  “Whatever,” I tell her.

  “You didn’t earn your usual points,” April says. “You got into a fight.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  “Maybe you’re having some feelings about our work ending,” she says.

  “I don’t give two shits about our work ending,” I tell her. I pick up my chair, pull it across the room, and turn it to the window. Then I sit down hard.

  “Seems like you’re pretty mad,” April says, from behind me. I look out at the field. “But we still have to say good-bye,” April says.

  “So. Good-bye,” I tell her. “Now will you shut the fuck up?”

  Now

  “BROOKLYN,” I GO.

  “Meat or fish?” he goes.

  “Brooklyn,
” I go.

  “Meat or fish?” he goes.

  “Brooklyn.”

  He dumps a piece of fish on my tray.

  * * *

  B.’s not coming back. What kind of asshole comes back to a place like Ridgeway, anyway? I walk up and down the main hall during our session time, and I watch the trees out the windows, all looking like skeletons, and I’m real sick of it. I walk up and down and I’m real sick of what’s in my head. I’m sick of that shit locked up, banging all over my insides trying to get out every damn minute. I’m real sick of looking at it in there, like some damn thing I’m supposed to let run my sorry ass ragged. I’m real sick of it, because it’s too goddamn heavy, and it makes me tired.

  * * *

  Ping. Pong. He’s not coming back. Fuck him, anyway.

  * * *

  I throw my pillow on the floor. I put my arms straight down my sides. I wake up and my shoulder hurts, but I don’t give a shit. I stay like that and don’t sleep the whole rest of the night.

  * * *

  He’s all dark, like he’s been in the sun somewhere. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming in today,” he goes.

  “I was busy.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Plus, I forgot.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I did, man. Don’t ‘hmm’ me.”

  “Okay.”

  “What?”

  “What’s what?”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “How am I looking at you?”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “Maybe what you’re picking up on is my wondering what it was like for you to have a two-week break in our sessions.”

  “I didn’t give a fuck.”

  “Sometimes a therapist’s comings and goings bring up feelings for people.”

  “Well, I’m not people, man. I’m me.”

  “It’s just something to think about.”

  “What have I told you about me and thinking, doc?”

  * * *

  I look out the windows of this main hall and I think. Here’s what I think. I want that shit out, and plus, he came back.

  * * *

  I watch Brooklyn from the back of the line, and it’s near to being like War. The longer I watch him, the more I float, the more lazy I get with those cracks, the more those flashes slide through. Those gray and black squares and the air shaft. Clark Poignant’s voice and Liza’s bubbles. Mrs. Harper’s angels. And Browning’s sweet-smelling cigarettes.

  I want that shit out.

  * * *

  I want it out.

  * * *

  I stand in the hall and look out the big windows at the trees. All naked and scrawny. Not good for climbing. Not strong with thick leaves and fat branches you can swing up on and climb into and disappear. Not like that tree back at Applegate, in the middle of that field. No good for a hanging.

  * * *

  “You haven’t said a word to me in three sessions.”

  “So?”

  “I’m interested in what’s going on inside of you.”

  “So?”

  “I can’t help but wonder if my going away affected you somehow.”

  “So?”

  “I can sit here with you in silence for as long as you need, America.”

  “So?”

  “Being quiet is fine with me. I just wanted to check in for a minute, to see if us being quiet is okay with you.”

  “Yup.”

  * * *

  Hide-and-seek and the smell of paint and Mrs. Harper’s walker and washing out my mouth with soap and sensational celebrity weddings.

  I want it out.

  * * *

  He left, but he came back.

  I want it out.

  * * *

  Slim Jims and elevators and flash cards and the 7-Eleven and Home Shopping and baseball and reading at night.

  * * *

  It’s hard to know how to begin. It’s real hard.

  “You know what a cool down room is?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Some hut behind the cottages. At Applegate.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s got this soft floor. Soft walls. No chairs. They lock you in there when you mess with people. One window. You can look out at some field.”

  “You spent time in that cool down room.”

  “There’s this tree out there. Has a bird nest.”

  He’s quiet. I’m quiet. I want this shit out.

  “When I’m in there, I see these people. Fish and Ty and Brooklyn and Mrs. Harper and Liza. Mostly Mrs. Harper.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I hate the cool down room.”

  “You hate it a lot.”

  “Yeah.”

  It’s hard to know how to keep going. But he came back.

  “Tom was always warning me about not earning points. I was always saying, fuck points. Tom was always warning me about language. I was always saying, fuck language. I was always using their towels and their toothbrushes, and I’d fight Wick all the time, and then I was always back in the cool down room, watching that tree. The one with the nest. That was a big tree. Looked like you could climb it, easy. Hide away up there behind those leaves.”

  He’s quiet. I’m quiet.

  “You want to play War?” I go.

  “Do you?”

  “Nah,” I go.

  We’re quiet.

  “I had these dreams. Marshall was always going, Wake up, wake up, man. Tom would be there, make Ernie turn on the light. Ernie would be all worried. You okay? he’d always be asking. It would be me, in the park, watching the skaters. Mrs. Harper and Liza and Brooklyn and Ty. They’d all be skating and laughing. There’d be this music, and I was watching. I was on fire. I was burning up on fire, watching them skate. Nobody saw me, even though I was screaming. That was the dream.”

  He’s leaning forward on his elbows. Listening. Listening real close. It helps you keep going.

  “There was this one therapist. Thought he was some shit. Had a ponytail. Had all these tennis balls all around the room. Tried to play catch with me over his desk. Catch, he’d say, and I’d have to catch the damn thing so it wouldn’t hit me right in the face. I’d tell him, Fuck you. He wasn’t allowed to send me to the cool down room unless I got physical. That’s what Ernie told me. Ernie used to tell me everything. So I’d say, Fuck you, and Tennis Ball would say, Who pissed you off? Somebody pissed you off, right? A while back. When you were a little kid? And I wouldn’t answer him, and he’d say, Was it the old lady? and I’d leave and go mess with somebody and get sent to the cool down and watch the tree.”

  “You hated the cool down room.”

  “Yup.”

  “You liked watching the tree.”

  “Yup.”

  We’re quiet. He’s still leaning forward. Looking at me. Seeing me.

  “Ernie used to bug me under that tree. He’d just sit down, all the time asking, What’s going on? He’d be all worried about how I wasn’t getting any points. No tickets. He was always wanting me to get to go to dances and take the trips and shit. I’d tell him to step off or I’d pop him a good one. He never cared. He’d ask me to do his shoes. He liked the backward braid I used to do. He’d bring me new shoelaces. He knew I liked fresh ones. I’d tell him, Leave me alone after this time, or I’ll mess you up good. Then I’d do up his shoes real nice. He’d say, Tennis Ball’s going to kick you out if you don’t start getting points. If you don’t start getting points and staying out of cool down, he’s going to send you away. I’d smack him upside his head, but he’d always find me out there by that tree, anyway.”

  “He would come looking for you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That meant something to you.”

  “Tennis Ball is such a dick. He says, Maybe it was your uncle. I break his phone and lamp and kick in his window, and then I get all his stupid tennis balls, every single goddamn one, and nail that shit right at his face, and they drag me off to cool down.
”

  “He made you angry.”

  “He pisses me off, man.”

  “He really pisses you off.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  It’s quiet. He’s quiet. I’m quiet. I’m real tired. I get up out of my chair and lie down on the floor.

  “America?” Dr. B. goes.

  “Just going to sleep a minute,” I tell him.

  “All right.”

  Then

  “GET SHOELACE TO do it,” Wick tells Marshall alter lights out.

  “My name is America, bitch,” I tell Wick.

  Marshall wants a brand. He wants an oval, like the tattoos over his eyebrows, only bigger. He wants one on each of his shoulders.

  “Well, I’m not doing it,” Wick goes. “I’m not doing anything to mess with my points, man. I’m getting tickets, and I’m going to Great Adventure, and I’m doing Shiri, so help me God, and I’m not missing that for your goddamn circles.”

  “Ovals,” Ernie goes.

  “Shut up,” Wick and Marshall say.

  “You have to use a lighter,” Marshall tells me. “I’ll buy you a gold one.”

  “You’re asking me?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, I’m asking you,” Marshall says.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  * * *

  We do it while everyone is at Great Adventure. We do it in the cool down room. I hate the cool down room.

  Marshall brings a lighter, rubbing alcohol, and a paper clip. The lighter is gold, just like he said. It has 24K stamped on the bottom. I watch the flame while he gets the paper clip ready. He unbends it until it’s just a straight wire, then he pushes it into the shape of an oval, with a little tailpiece sticking out, for the handle. He takes his shirt off. He tilts the rubbing alcohol onto a balled-up part of the shirt and rubs his left shoulder with it.

  “You’re crazy,” I tell him.

  “Look who’s talking,” he tells me. His eyes are shiny.

  “What’d you take?” I go.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Wick got it for me at the mall.” He smiles some dopey smile. “From that man in the tie store.”

  “You’re stoned,” I tell him.

  “I know,” he says. “It was just this little pill.” He hands me the paper clip, and I take it by the handle. Then I hold the oval part in the flame, the way he’s told me to. Marshall leans against the wall under the white window bars. I watch the flame. The yellow, and the blue. And the black line between.