America

by E. R. Frank

  “Are they always like that?” Liza goes.

  “Yup,” I go.

  We’re sitting on this hammock thing, strung out between two trees in our little backyard. Liza is real beautiful.

  “My mom wants you to come over sometime.” Liza’s got a foot out over the edge, using the ground to swing us sideways.

  “Okay,” I go. “When?”

  Liza looks over the beds. “Aren’t there supposed to be flowers and stuff in there?” she goes. If you move just a little bit the wrong way, that hammock throws you all around like you’re in the middle of the ocean. It’s real hard to keep your balance.

  “We’re getting it ready,” I tell her. “You’ve got to do a lot of other stuff before you plant.” If you’re not extra careful, the whole damn thing will flip over and dump your ass underneath.

  “Oh,” she goes. “You’re getting ready for the shit part.”

  “The what?”

  “The shit.” She’s wiggling all over the place, and I’m fighting just to keep my head above water.

  “Huh?”

  “You put shit in the soil. It’s good for growing things.”

  “What?”

  “Seriously,” she goes. “They even sell it to people. In bags. I bet the next thing you do is spread shit all over everything.”

  I finally wiggle my own self real close to her. It’s all uneven and bouncing around. I move real slow because this hammock is stressing me out, bad. “Stop talking about shit,” I go.

  “Why?” she goes. I kiss her for a while, and she kisses back. It’s not a dream this time, and when I get my hands in her pants, there’s no dick, either.

  “Stop,” she goes.

  “What’s the matter?” I go.

  “I’ve been talking about it with my therapist,” she goes. She sits up fast, and that hammock doesn’t like it.

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve got something extra special, America,” she tells me. Her eyes are real soft. She’s real round and beautiful. “But sex isn’t even the thing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she goes. “What we’ve got is bigger than sex.”

  “Huh?” I go again.

  “God, America,” she goes. Then she hugs me way tight, and I feel real happy and real sad right at the very same time.

  Eighteen Years Old

  HE’S THERE, ALL on his elbows, and I’m not ready for any more damn news.

  “What?” I go.

  “We received a letter for you.” Dr. B. shoves some envelope across the desk. I check it out. America, it says, and it’s got the address of the hospital.

  “The hell?” I go.

  “I don’t know,” Dr. B. says. He sits back. “But you’re the only America we’re aware of. So it must be for you.”

  I check it out again. The writing is all sloppy. The envelope’s way wrinkled and kind of dirty. “I’m supposed to open it now?” I go.

  “You can open it whenever you want,” Dr. B. goes.

  I flip it over in my hand. It’s not from Liza, because that’s not her handwriting, for one, and for two, it’s not like she’s got to write to find me anymore. It could be from anybody. It could be from Ernie or Marshall or Wick. It could even be from Ty. I guess it could be from Mrs. Harper, too. Maybe it’s from her. Maybe that’s why the writing is all raggedy. Because she’s so old and shaky now.

  Dear America, it maybe says. Come and visit me anytime. I certainly do miss you. Mrs. Harper.

  “Who do you think it’s from?” Dr. B. goes.

  “I don’t know, man,” I say. “What am I, psychic?”

  Or could be she wrote:

  Dear America,

  Don’t you dare come visit me. I’m done with you, and I don’t need any more trouble. You behave now.

  Mrs. Harper

  “Who do you think?” Dr. B. asks.

  “Who do you think?” I ask him back.

  He puts his feet up on his desk and his hands on top of his head. The bottoms of his shoes are worn practically all the way through.

  “What would be important about who I think it’s from?” he goes.

  “Ah, man,” I tell him. He shrugs. Those messed-up shoes are getting to me. Maybe he doesn’t get paid enough. If he did, he could afford a decent pair. That’s what I’m thinking.

  “America?” he goes, and then I forget about the shoes.

  “Ah, man,” I go again. I tear the damn letter open.

  America,

  There was some shit I been thinking to say. It go like this. We shit. We brothers.

  Peace,

  Brooklyn

  I read it through a couple of times in my head, quiet, and then I read it loud to Dr. B. He slides his stupid shoes off the desk and leans in close to listen. My voice cracks on peace, but otherwise, I get it out okay.

  * * *

  Phillip lets me choose which vegetables. I plant corn, green peppers, two kinds of tomatoes, spinach, squash, and a couple of pumpkins.

  “What about carrots?” Phillip asks.

  “Fuck carrots,” I tell him, so we fuck carrots. Phillip doesn’t care. Now Ben and Kevin want a piece of the action. They see me out there all into it. They see me and Phillip figuring out when to Miracle-Gro and what to put where so the delicate plants don’t get fried in the sunny parts and the rest don’t get washed out in the muddy parts. They see how it’s important work. They see how it takes some special thinking and a strong back and big hands.

  “Step off,” I tell them. “You had your chance. This garden is mine.”

  Liza’s right about the shit. The actual shit. She’s not all the way right, because it’s not straight shit you spread out in the beds, but it’s shit mixed in with other things. Nasty to think that when these vegetables come up, that’s food coming up out of shit. But that’s the way it is.

  Phillip and them don’t know it, but as soon as this garden gets going, I’m taking over the cooking. Me and Dr. B. decided I could do it. We decided not to let the damn fire alarm or anything else ruin something I can do good, something I can make a job from someday, something I like. We decided if I feel like going up to Everest when I’m cooking, well, who cares: I can just go. Or else, I can say inside my head: Browning’s not here. That’s all history. This meal is for me and Kevin and Ben and Phillip. It’s new, and it’s not bad. There’s no bad in this kitchen. Dr. B. says that’s called positive self-talk, and I say, if it works, I couldn’t care less what all it’s called.

  * * *

  Sometimes at night, I wonder where Brooklyn was at when he wrote me that letter. I wonder what made the letter so raggedy. Was he drunk or high, or something, so his hand went weak? Or was he sick somewhere, real tired, and maybe scared? I used to think Brooklyn wasn’t ever scared of anything, but I know better now. You can act real smart and big on the outside, like those little kids at my school, but still be scared crazy on the inside. I wish me and Brooklyn had had a second to talk about real shit like that, because maybe if we did, he might not have run out, and maybe sometimes we’d still catch each other by that stupid fountain.

  * * *

  Liza’s helping me put these wire cages over the tomato plants and pull weeds. The knees of her jeans are wet and brown, and her hair’s on top of her head somehow, looking like a flower up there, all spreading out in the sun. I’m real careful to knock her to the side where she can’t smush any plants, but then I get her down under me, and she lets us for a while. I like the way she’s so round and soft and tastes like a leaf. I like how she lets me touch her all everywhere.

  “Get off,” she goes, after a minute.

  “Huh?” I go.

  “Get off!” she goes again, and the next thing I know, my ass is in the dirt. The soil. “I told you,” she goes, pulling on her hair and fixing it back up again. “I don’t think we should be fooling around.”

  “Why not?” I go. She is so pretty.

  “Because we’ll ruin things,” she goes.

 
“Huh?” I go. Then I crawl up closer to her and pull her back down. She lets me kiss her again for a minute, and then she pulls away.

  “Tell your doctor America says you’re way confused,” I tell her.

  “I will not,” she says. “My therapist is none of your goddamn business.”

  I kiss her again, and she lets me again. Then she pushes me away. My dick is going crazy.

  “You don’t even love me,” she goes. Then she heads for the hammock. I hate that hammock.

  “Huh?” I go, following her.

  “You never even put love in your letters.” She flops down so hard and quick, that hammock rocks before she’s even set up in there. She doesn’t make any space for me to get in, so I just stand over her, feeling foolish.

  “Well,” she goes. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “What do you want me to say?” I go. I’m thinking I sound like Dr. B.

  “I need to know if you love me, stupid,” she goes. She sticks her foot out over the side and steps it to the ground to keep herself going back and forth. Back and forth. Ping. Pong.

  Love. I don’t know shit about that. It never came up with Dr. B. We never used that word. Never once. I think I’m not supposed to know what all she’s talking about, but the real truth is, I do know. So I tell her, “Yeah.”

  “Yeah what!” she goes, all mad. I grab the side of the hammock with my big hands and make it stop so fast, she nearly falls right off it.

  “Yeah, I love you,” I tell her.

  * * *

  You don’t think about it. About that word, love. Not if you’re this not-black, not-white, not anything, little bit of everything, real big almost man. It’s way too pussy to even think about. But it gets on my nerves. Bad.

  “You seem restless today,” Dr. B. goes. I’m pulling sand statues off his shelves like a madman. I’m sick of those soldiers in the front rows. I’m sick of the circus behind them, and the hotel in the middle shelf, and the hockey team next to them, and the tennis players behind all that, and the ambulances and all this shit.

  “Whatever,” I go.

  “Is something on your mind?”

  I find some new rows behind the old ones. Rows I never saw before. Sand books and sand bookcases. Sand trees: a whole damn sand forest. “The hell is this?” I go.

  “Buffalo,” Dr. B. goes. “It’s a herd of buffalo.”

  “Man,” I go.

  “What’s on your mind, America?” Dr. B. goes.

  Right when he says that, I see them. Way in the back of the bottom shelf. All different sizes and shapes. They’re just sand color, and sand feel. They’re not smooth or painted, or bright. They’re with their chins in their hands, or sitting on their knees, or cross-legged, or floating on their backs with their wings open or closed, or half flying. They’re a whole army of angels. A whole damn army.

  “America?” Dr. B. goes.

  “You never told me you had these,” I tell him.

  “You sound angry,” he goes.

  “You should have told me,” I tell him.

  “I forgot about them,” he goes.

  “How could you forget about them?” I go.

  “I don’t know,” he goes.

  “Well, shit,” I go. “Shit.”

  Dear Mrs. Harper,

  They told me somebody can read this to you even though you can’t read it yourself too good. I’m eighteen 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

  No.

  Love, America

  That’s what I write.

  * * *

  I get to noticing smaller things. The ladybugs in the garden, for one. The way they seem like candy for a minute, if you didn’t know better. The way Liza’s hair is like red metal when the sun hits it, slanted. The way the new dude in the house closes his eyes when he talks to Kevin and Ben but keeps them open when he talks to Phillip and me. The way some teacher asks me to stick with this little guy his first day at school. The way this little guy keeps wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. The way this little guy says fuck off when I tell him I cried for damn near to a year once. The way he stands so close to me after that, I could step right on him and squash him to nothing.

  Dear America,

  Mrs. Harper was glad to receive your letter and is eager to see you. She is not well enough to write to you herself, but has asked that we make every effort to encourage a visit. Please contact us at the number on this letterhead at any time convenient for you so that we can arrange a reunion. Mrs. Harper sends her love.

  Sincerely,

  Riverside View

  There it is again. That love shit. Damn.

  * * *

  “What is it you want when you visit her?” Dr. B. says. I’m lining up those angels all on the edges of his desk.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him.

  “I think you do,” he says. There’s one sitting on its butt with its knees pulled up. The tip of its wing is busted.

  “Just want to see her,” I go. There’s another one with its legs hanging from the knee so it’s easy to set it on the edge of something. I put that one right in front of my face.

  “What would it be like to see her again?” Dr. B. picks up one I put near his phone.

  “Just want to see her,” I go.

  B. puts the angel back in the wrong place. “What would you say to her?”

  I put it back in the right place, and he watches me. “I don’t know.”

  “What would you want her to say to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It may bring up a lot of feelings, America,” he tells me.

  “Yup.” There’s twenty-three of them.

  “What’s it like now, just imagining seeing her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Their faces are the same, with the eyes all empty, but everything else is different. The way their arms and legs and wings are. All different.

  “Let’s take some time to explore this.”

  Sitting, standing, flying. “Yup.”

  “How does that sit with you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Harper sends her love.

  * * *

  This is one way it could go:

  I heard you told them I went missing a lot of hours before he got burned.

  Yes, I did.

  Why did you do that?

  Isn’t that what happened’

  No. I thought you knew I started that fire.

  I knew no such thing.

  I thought you did.

  I see.

  I killed him.

  I see.

  I’m real sorry.

  You’ll have to leave now.

  * * *

  Here’s another way it could go:

  I heard you told them I went missing a lot of hours before he got burned.

  I did.

  Why did you do that?

  That’s just what I had to do.

  I’m real sorry.

  I hope so.

  I wouldn’t ever do anything like that again.

  Glad to hear it.

  I missed you a real lot.

  Good lord, boy. I missed you, too.

  * * *

  Or, it could go like this:

  I heard you told them I went missing a lot of hours before he got burned.

  No. I never said that. I always wondered why they didn’t go after you.

  I’m real sorry.

  That was a sin, America. A very bad sin.

  I know, Mrs. Harper. I’m real, real sorry.

  That was my half-brother, you know. He took good care of me.

  I know it, Mrs. Harper.

  I can’t understand how you could have done such a thing.

 
; I’m real, real sorry.

  I don’t know if I can forgive you.

  I know.

  You’ll have to work it out with God.

  * * *

  B. tells me to think about it and talk about it some more before I go ahead and do anything, but she could be dying right this second, and if I wait too long, it could be too late. Besides, it could go any which way, and by the time I think of every little thing, we’ll all be dead. Dr. B. says it’s good to process things before you do them. “Process” means talk about it to prepare, like practicing for some school report, or something. Well, screw that. You can process all you want, but there’s nothing going to prepare you for the way this shit is really going down. I say, you just have to do it.

  * * *

  This official lady with a bald spot right at the top of her head looks real surprised to see me. “You’re Mrs. Harper’s son?” she goes.

  “Yup,” I go.

  “Please sign in,” she goes, and she shoves this book at me. There’s a space to write my name and a space to write the person I’m visiting and a space to put what time it is. There’s this other space for me to sign what time it is when I leave.

  “I was expecting someone a little older,” the bald lady says after I’m done with all that writing.

  Then she makes me follow her down this hall, and then down this other hall, and then down this elevator, and we land in some outside place. It’s real clean with big flat circles of green grass and flower beds and benches set up looking at each other. There’s all kinds of old people sitting in wheelchairs, and walking around real slow. There’s nurses everywhere. Right in the middle of the whole place is the biggest circle of flat grass, the size of the whole downstairs of my house. It’s all filled up with some statue of a fat man sitting on his fat ass, and circles of smooth rocks all around him, set up the way water ripples when you throw a stone in it. You wouldn’t think it would be much to look at, a fat man and rocks and all, but it’s real nice.

  Mrs. Harper is in this wheelchair. She’s got a blanket wrapped around her legs, and sure enough, a scarf over her head. She’s all shriveled and dry looking, like the last part of a flower before it just breaks off and blows away.