by E. R. Frank
He shuts up and looks at me real even. I don’t even know what to think anymore. I don’t know where I want to be. What I want to do. “Last week you said there were options,” I say.
He nods. “We never ended our search for a foster family or foster group home, though the group homes continue to be over capacity, and families generally look for much younger children. Long-term treatment stopped being our first choice for you as of several months ago, though that’s fairly moot, since there are still no openings in long-term, anyway. However, we could probably apply for independent minor status at this point, which if you received it, would allow you to go anywhere and to do anything. It would also probably cut off public assistance payments for your relationship with us, here. You would still receive some assistance for rent subsidy, for food stamps, for medical care. You would receive much less for mental health care.”
I know what it is. It’s that I don’t know where all I want to go because I don’t want to go anywhere. Who could have figured that? Who would have bet I’d want to stay in some mental hospital? Want to be right in it, right where I am until—until I don’t even know.
“Why can’t I just stay here?”
“Why can’t you?”
This shit. Man. This shit is hard.
* * *
Brooklyn’s getting fat.
“You’re getting big, man,” I tell him.
“Yup,” he goes. He sits behind Dr. B.’s desk, in Dr. B.’s chair.
“Get out of there,” I tell him.
“Huh?” he goes.
“That’s Dr. B.’s,” I go. “Get out.”
“Shit,” Brooklyn goes, but he gets out. His Dr. Rich is some ancient lady. I mean, she is real ancient. She sits down in my chair, and it takes her so long, the session’s practically over before she’s done.
“So,” Dr. Rich goes, after everybody’s all arranged somewhere. Her voice is like a tape played way too many times. All watery and thin and low quality. “We thought it important you boys have the opportunity to say good-bye for now.”
“You leaving for real?” Brooklyn goes. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s checking out all those sand soldiers up on B.’s shelf.
“I told you, man,” I tell Brooklyn. He’s checking out the row of guys aiming rifles.
“Thought you was playing,” he goes.
“No, it’s the truth,” Dr. B. says. “America is leaving. He’ll be going to a transitional living home.”
“Whatever,” Brooklyn goes.
“The two of you can call and write,” Dr. Rich says. “You won’t lose track of each other again.” That old voice. All worn out.
“Whatever,” Brooklyn says. He stares at his knees.
“Is there anything you’d like to say, America?” Dr. Rich asks.
“Nah.”
“Brooklyn?” she goes. He puts his head up and puts it back down again. He starts aggravating some scab on the back of his hand.
“I can’t say it for you, Brooklyn,” she tells him.
I look at Dr. B. He looks at me. He doesn’t know what’s up with this, either.
“Whatever,” Brooklyn goes.
“You have something you want to say?” I ask him.
“Nah,” he goes. But we all know he’s lying.
* * *
It gets on my nerves. I think about it before I fall asleep, wondering what he had to say. Maybe he was going to tell me what happened to Lyle. Maybe he was going to say something about my mother. Maybe he was pissed at me for some shit. It gets on my nerves.
Dear Liza,
I’m on a bus. I’m moving to a house at 101 28th Street in Park Hill. I’ve done a lot of shit. I guess you know some of it somehow, because you found out where I was at. Soon as I’m all in the new place, maybe we could hook up. I got you sometimes in my head, you know?
America
We all have our own room. We share a bathroom, except for Phillip. He gets his own because he’s the social worker. Ben and Kevin go to school. Kevin buses tables in a diner some nights. Ben watches TV and writes in his notebook. That’s all he ever does. Phillip makes the weekly schedules and drives us where we need to go. Except Kevin rides his bike to work.
“I’m getting a car, soon as I save enough money,” he goes all the time.
I don’t even know how much a car costs. I don’t know anything.
* * *
I wish I knew what Brooklyn wanted to say.
* * *
“I’m not cleaning toilets,” Kevin goes. “Can’t function that.”
“America? Ben?” Phillip goes. “How do you want to negotiate this?”
“He’s cleaning toilets,” Ben goes. “We’re all cleaning toilets. We shift weeks. If he misses his week, me and America clean the toilets with his face.”
* * *
It’s this different kind of school. Everybody in it’s seen a lot of shit. It’s like one big school for special ed. Only I know better now. It’s not for if you’re stupid and bad. It’s more for if you’ve seen a lot of shit, and you did some bad things. Some of the younger ones, they don’t know that yet. You can tell by the way they walk around. All big and in your face like they’d rather turn up dead than be some kind of pussy. They’re real young, those ones.
* * *
“We’re running out of butter,” Kevin goes.
I haven’t cooked yet. They don’t even know I can. Dr. B. says it’s my choice to wait awhile if I want. I said I’d do the toilets if those guys would cook. I don’t know why. Me and Dr. B. are trying to figure it out.
“Put it on the list,” Ben goes. He’s got corn bits all over his chin. He’s always got something nasty going on. Too bad, because otherwise, he’s all right. “Put it on the list, man.”
“Can’t function that,” Kevin goes. “Somebody took the pen.”
We look at the fridge where the magnet pad and the hanging pen are supposed to be hooked up, but the string is all wrinkled and empty at the bottom. It’s just a little thing, but it gets me deep.
“What’s your damage?” Kevin goes.
“Step off,” I tell him.
* * *
We need more than butter and a new pen, so Phillip takes us to a mall and gives us our allowance. I find myself a tobacco store, and I buy my ass a lighter. It’s not gold, and it doesn’t have any naked ladies on it. It’s just red plastic. That’s all it is. I find myself a shoe store, and I buy up all the laces they’ve got, which is fifty-seven pairs. I put the lighter and the laces in a plastic grocery bag under my bed. I don’t tell anybody. Not even Dr. B.
Dear Liza,
You can come by if you want.
America
I still won’t cook, but food makes me think about Mrs. Harper. She used those wooden toothpicks. She would just sit them in her mouth after a meal and work them around from one side to the other. She’d be there, maybe with some scarf all wrapped around her head, or maybe not, but with that little sliver jerking up and down and squirming its way across, like a cigarette, or some kind of pet.
* * *
I’m into his bookcase, checking out those armies. Thing is, once I get past the third row on all those shelves, turns out it’s more than just soldiers. B.’s got everything. Little men and ladies and kids and houses and boats and furniture and baseball teams and farmhouses and cars and shit you didn’t even know they could make out of sand. They go rows and rows back behind each other. He’s got so many, I haven’t even seen what all he’s got.
“Liza’s coming by the house sometime,” I say.
I set up some of this new shit on his desk. I take these sand clowns and sand elephants and a sand ringmaster and a sand circus tent. I’m fixing up a scene.
“Is that right?”
“That’s right, man.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“How do you think?”
“You’re in a playful mood today.”
“Playful?” I go. I add a sand tiger and a sand motorcycl
e with a stuntman standing on the seat.
“Hmm.”
“It’s called a good mood, B.,” I go. “I can be in a good mood, man.”
“That’s true.”
“When’s Brooklyn getting out?” I find a couple of sand clowns. I put them all around the tiger.
“What do you mean?”
“When’s he through in J building? When’s he done here?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“He can move in with me and Ben and Kevin.” That makes me laugh. Brooklyn would rip those dudes to pieces.
“Hmm.” One of the sand clowns has a rubber hat. It comes off. It bounces pretty good.
“Just got to get him clean for a while, and then, boom. He’s in.” I bounce the rubber hat, and it lands right in Dr. B.’s coffee.
“What?” I go.
“I’m waiting for you to fish it out,” he goes.
“Can’t function that, man,” I tell him. Then I check out the clock. “Time’s up, B.” I take off. “Later.”
Dear Mrs. Harper,
They told me somebody can read this to you even though you can’t read it yourself too good. I’m seventeen now, if you weren’t real sure. I’m thinking maybe I could come see you. I’m thinking I could do that and tell you to your face I’m real sorry for all the trouble I caused you. I’m thinking a lot lately. Thought you might want to know.
America
That’s what I imagine I could write.
* * *
I’m not even sitting down before he’s talking, which is not cool right there, because I’m always the one who starts things off.
“America, I’ve got some news.”
He’s doing that leaning forward thing, that elbows-on-the-desk shit.
“What?” I go.
“Brooklyn eloped again, yesterday.”
“Huh?” I go, even though I heard him fine. Sometimes you do that. You say stuff just to fill in when you don’t want to do anything else.
“He ran away.”
“I know what ‘eloped’ means, man.” Sometimes I truly hate Dr. B.
“Dr. Rich contacted me last night, as soon as she heard. She thought you would want to know.”
“Why the fuck would I care?”
He looks at me real long and hard, and he opens his mouth, and then he closes it, and then he goes ahead and says it: “That’s pussy, and you know it, America.”
Damn. You spend a whole life wanting real bad for someone to find you. But then when they do, you wish they would just leave your ass alone.
* * *
It’s a lot of people and a lot of buildings and no grass and no phones and a lot of green, and I’m walking up and down the halls, looking, and I’m looking and looking and looking, and I can’t find him, and then there’s an elevator, and Brooklyn’s in the corner, smoking and crouched real low and smiling and going, What took you so long? I pop him on the head. Shut up, I go. You’re it.
Then I wake up.
* * *
The TV breaks, and Ben is pissed. “Man,” he goes. “What am I supposed to do now?” He’s got nastiness coming out of his nose. It’s always something with him.
“What about your journal, big guy?” Kevin goes.
“Man,” Ben goes.
“You could do some homework,” Phillip calls, from the kitchen. “Wouldn’t kill you, you know!”
“Thanks, Mom,” Ben mutters.
The doorbell rings. I didn’t even know we had a doorbell.
“You could get the door,” Phillip yells.
Ben doesn’t move. He’s sitting sideways on this big armchair. He’s got his legs all hanging over one of the arms. His fly is open. I’m never sitting on that chair again.
“Somebody get the door,” Phillip goes. “I’m cooking us dinner, here!”
“Get the door, America,” Kevin says. He’s at the desk, checking out the porn online.
The bell rings again.
“Can’t function that,” I tell Kevin. Ben hoots. “You get the damn door,” I tell Kevin.
“Or what?” he goes. He stops typing long enough to look at me.
“Or I’ll mess you up,” I go. He thought I was going to say I’d tell Phillip about the porn. I can tell because he starts closing out his windows.
“You will not mess me up, America,” he goes. “Jesus.”
I stand up from the couch real slow. It takes me a while to get all the way up, just like it took that Dr. Rich a while, only she was just old, and I’m big. I take my time and stare hard at Kevin.
He gets the door.
“America,” he calls. “It’s for you.”
When I get there, he’s grinning, and when he passes by me on the way back to porn, he grabs his dick. I’m so surprised to see her, I hardly even notice, and I don’t even try to pop him.
“Are you people deaf or something?” Liza goes. “I rang, like, a million times.”
* * *
We walk around the block. It’s a lot of wooden houses with porches and shutters and fences—the wood kind, not the metal kind—and trees with bunches of leaves and a smooth street you walk in the middle of because there’s never any cars. She’s not skinny anymore. She’s real round. Her hair’s long, and her face is all clear and red in the cheeks—not makeup red, but the natural type that comes out from inside all-white people when they’re worked up, or some shit. She’s not hot the way Wick and Marshall would think. She’s not hot like Shiri. But she’s real beautiful.
“You’re huge,” she tells me. “Look at your hands!” She grabs one and holds it up. “It’s as big as my whole face!” Hers is round and warm, and her fingers grab my knuckles, and I get the water in my eyes. “You know what they say about guys with big hands, right?” she goes, and then she laughs, and we walk around and around and around until it gets dark, and we can hear Phillip yelling, “Ten minutes to curfew!”
* * *
I thought she’d ask me what happened. I thought she’d say, What did you do, anyway? I thought she’d say, You’re a shit for leaving like that. Did you start that fire? You did, didn’t you? I thought she’d have her hands on her skinny hips, and she’d go, You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you asshole.
But her hips aren’t skinny, and she doesn’t do any of that. She just tells me her mom says hey, and they found me because they always kept good track of Mrs. Harper and Mrs. Harper wasn’t about to let me stay lost again, and sometimes Liza had these dreams where I was her father. That’s all she says.
* * *
Sometimes at night I wonder about all the people. Like, what happened to Lyle? Is he someplace with the Wheets, or is he dead, or what? Why did Brooklyn elope, anyway? He could be using somewhere on some street with people who beat you down for nothing. He could be anywhere, and I wish I knew what he had to say. And Ty. He was cool. He was real cool. Is he in some jail somewhere, or dealing on the inside, or what? And where’s Marshall and Ernie and Shiri, and all them? Sometimes I get to thinking about Mrs. Harper, and I get to wondering, is she in some bed somewhere, all covered up with old-people blankets and watching Home Shopping, or eating cottage cheese? And are they treating her good, and when she dies, is she going to be up there in Heaven looking down at me hard and then turning her back?
* * *
Sometimes at night I pull out my red plastic lighter and my fifty-seven pairs of laces, and I look at them.
* * *
We can’t figure out the cooking thing.
“I just don’t want to,” I go. I’ve got a sand kitchen all set up with a fridge and an oven and a microwave and a dishwasher and these sand stools all lined up behind a sand kitchen counter.
“What would it be like to cook there?” Dr. B. goes.
“Boring,” I go. He doesn’t even touch that one. That shit is old, and we both know it. He just stares at me with his look. “Okay,” I go. “We have the fire alarm the same place as it was at Mrs. Harper’s.”
“Where’s that?” he g
oes.
“Over the doorway of the kitchen.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’s the fire alarm?”
I look for the sand one. “You’re the expert,” I go. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, neither do I.”
“I wonder what made you think of it?”
“Me too.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm.”
“Very funny, America.”
* * *
I think about it. Something about cooking. Something about the fire alarm. I picture me waving a dishcloth at it, yelling how it’s nothing, just something overcooked, or a dirty burner, or some shit. When I picture it, it’s at Mrs. Harper’s, though. It’s not where I am now. When I picture it, Browning’s somewhere in the house, just waiting for night, and Mrs. Harper’s somewhere in the house, too, thinking how I always mess things up. When I picture it, there’s the smell of things burning, and I remember the first naked lady lighter and the way his bed looked, on fire, when I walked out.
* * *
We have to sign up for spring chores. Cleaning the gutters. Fixing up the garden. Mowing the lawn. Trimming the hedges. I don’t care, so Ben and Kevin pick, and I take what’s left. Fixing up the garden. Phillip has to teach me. We use shovels and spiky ended poles to turn over all the dirt in the flower part and all the dirt in the vegetable part. Phillip says dirt should be called soil. He says part should be called bed. It’s hard work. Your heart beats, and you sweat like a motherfucker. We work on the soil in the beds three days in a row before it’s done. I’m sore in places I didn’t know I had. I get black all in my fingernails. I don’t mind it too bad. I like the way you can do that kind of work, and you can fly away while you do it without even trying. Phillip says he flies away, too. Digs and turns that soil for a whole part of a morning, and doesn’t even know a second’s gone by. Phillip says the same thing happens to plenty of people when they’re driving a lot of hours at a time. It’s just something people do.
* * *
Liza shows up before it gets dark on Sunday. Kevin grabs his crotch, and I pop him hard. He cries for real over that, and Phillip tells him he had it coming. Kevin says he’s going to sue because there’s supposed to be zero tolerance for violence. Phillip says the same goes for sexual harassment. Kevin says two wrongs don’t make a right. Phillip ignores him.