All American Boy

by William J. Mann

  So she said yes. He’d promised to do little jobs for her around the house—fix the garage door, paint the ceilings—but he never did. He would just sit there holding belching contests with his friends around the dinner table, insisting that a good belch was a compliment to the chef. But Regina never found it complimentary. She would just open the window because the smell would get so bad.

  Then out would come the cases of beer and the loud, pounding music on the stereo. What was that band called? Leonard Skinner, Regina thinks. Something like that. It wasn’t the type of music she liked, but she tried to put up with it, because it would be nice to have voices in the house once again, young voices, laughing and carrying on. Maybe having Kyle wouldn’t be so bad, if it meant young people and laughter.

  But then Kyle had started taking money, and calling her names, and he bullied poor Luz so much that it made Regina cry. She’d sit up in her bed at night, listening to them having sex in the other room, Luz crying out—not in pleasure, Regina was certain, but in terrible, hideous, unbearable agony. Even getting up and flushing the toilet did no good. They just kept going at it, the bed squeaking, Luz crying, Kyle making horrible sounds like a dog.

  When was the last time you saw him, Mother? When was the last time you saw Kyle?

  It was the night Luz picked him up at the train station in Mayville. He came in there instead of the naval airport where she usually got him. And he wasn’t wearing his uniform when he came into the house. He tossed his duffel bag full of dirty clothes onto the couch, immediately dialing numbers on the phone and whispering angrily to whoever picked up on the other end.

  She can hear him now, the whispering that went on into the night.

  She turns, following the phone cord. It’s stretched down the hall into Kyle’s room, pulled under the crack in his door—the same way Walter used to pull it all those years ago, when he’d take the phone down there and talk for hours. How angry Walter would get if she knocked on his door. How very angry. How much anger there’s always been in this house.

  “—I don’t give a shit, Luz will do what I say—”

  Regina stops outside Kyle’s door. His words, whispered but fierce, come at her through the night. Luz. He’s talking about Luz.

  Sometimes, when Walter was in his room, Regina would quietly approach, pressing her ear against the door. It was naughty of her, she knew that, but she did it anyway. And what she heard was terrible. Terrible, awful things her son was saying. Dirty, sexual things. But she listened anyway. She listened and would remember them at night, lying beside her husband, snoring and smelling of whiskey. Her husband—that man she lived with for almost twenty years, who bellowed at her and cursed at her and breathed fire when he was angry, that man she never knew, never liked, and has never missed.

  She presses her ear up against the door the way she used to do.

  “She speaks Spanish, so she’ll be perfect,” Kyle is saying.

  A pause.

  “Fuck that, man. I’ll just tell her she has to come.”

  Another pause.

  “Look, fucker, that isn’t even your concern. I’ll handle Luz. You just get me the tickets. Two one-ways to Mexico, preferably nonstop.”

  Mexico?

  “As soon as you can, fucker! Tomorrow, the next day. I don’t have a lot of time. I’m supposed to be back on the ship in three days. They’ll come looking for me after that. Hold on a second, all right?”

  Regina gasps. Is he coming toward the door? Will he open it and find her here? What will he do? She starts to bolt but then she hears him strike a match. The pungent aroma of marijuana wafts through the door.

  “Stop worrying about Luz, you asshole. She’ll do what I tell her. If I tell her I need her to come along, she will.”

  Regina’s heart is thudding in her chest. She turns, heading back to her room, but she’s hurrying too fast. She steps on a creaking board, and it sings out into the night.

  “Hold on a minute,” she hears Kyle say.

  By the time he flings open his door she’s back inside her room, her door shut behind her. She leans up against it, breathing heavily. She never knew she could move so fast.

  What else, she thinks, might she be able to do?

  “What did you call me for?”

  Her son’s voice is cold, unforgiving.

  “Walter?”

  “Missy said you called. What’s going on?”

  “Oh. Walter.” She presses a hand to head. What was she thinking? Why had she called him?

  “I need to find a school for Jorge,” she says. “A special school.”

  “That’s not your responsibility, Mother. You need to call his father—”

  “No, no, no, it is my responsibility! It is!”

  She hears her son sigh on the other end of the line. “You called about the wood, Missy said. You wanted me to bring some wood in for you.”

  “Oh, yes, the wood, Walter. For the stove in the basement.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it tomorrow. On my way out of town.”

  “Oh, thank you, Walter. Thank you.”

  He’s a good boy, her son is. Always has been. She hangs up the phone, remembering how good he always was, how she would look down at him sleeping and think: You’re a good boy, Walter. You’re a very good boy.

  Regina didn’t know about boys, of course, but still, Walter was good, there was no doubt about that—and there were times, she had to admit, she truly enjoyed being with her son. Watching Match Game and eating goulash. Planting marigolds in the rock garden. Shopping at Grant’s, playing peekaboo between the ladies’ dress racks, giggling when the sales clerk placed a frilly hat on the boy’s head and he paraded around the store.

  And how Regina had loved listening to Walter read. He would do so well whenever one of his teachers or Father Carson would ask him to read a passage from the Bible up at the pulpit during Sunday Mass. Regina never liked going to Mass, but when Walter read it was worth it. It was like music listening to Walter read, it really was.

  He had gone on to become an actor. Yes, Regina had seen him. She’d catch him on a commercial or on the Lifetime channel late at night when she couldn’t sleep—like in that film where he frightened poor Susan Lucci so bad. Regina hoped maybe he’d turn out good in the end, not really be a psycho killer at all. Maybe he and Susan would even get married at the end, but no such luck. Still, it was fun to watch her son on television, remembering those years he’d walk around the backyard, talking to himself, acting out scenes.

  He had gone to the city, just as Regina had once, but Walter hadn’t come back the way she had, riding in Uncle Axel’s bumpy truck, leaving the tall buildings and flashing lights behind. Regina still remembers how she cried when they passed the sign on the south road that read ENTERING BROWN’S MILL. That was before they built the highway, and the only way into town from the city had been through the orchards. Regina was grateful for the darkness offered by the trees, so Rocky wouldn’t see her cry.

  “We had a dream we might become famous,” she had told Aunt Selma, who’d scoffed at her.

  “Please, Mother, help me,” Walter had said to her. “It’s my dream!”

  Dreams. What’s real and what are dreams? Maybe dreams are real. Maybe she really did go to the circus. Only she didn’t go during the day, and she didn’t go while Mama was still alive, but rather at night, while she slept, and Mama had come down from heaven and scooped her up and taken her to the circus, because she’d always wanted to take her when she was alive but had never had the chance, not until now.

  And so that’s how she killed Kyle. She’d always wanted to do it, always wanted to take the hoe or the shovel or the iron rake and smash it down into his head—into Robert’s head, into Papa’s. And so she had finally done it, brought that rake or shovel or hoe right down into Kyle’s head as he slept there on the couch, and thereby saved Luz from Mexico, from everything Kyle had planned for her, from the whole horrible life he was getting ready to force upon her.

  And th
en she’d mopped up the blood and made herself a cup of tea.

  “Hello?”

  Regina’s voice cut through the morning.

  “Is this the Brown’s Mill police department?”

  A pause.

  “Yes, this is Regina Day. May I speak with Officer Garafolo? Oh, yes, hello, how are you? I’m fine. No, no, it’s not anything like that. I want to report a missing person.”

  Another pause.

  “My nephew. Kyle Francis Day. He was in the navy. I think he’s gone AWOL.”

  She looks up as she settles the phone back into its cradle. Walter is coming down the hall from his room.

  “He’s gone?”

  “Yes. He’s gone. You can be sure of that.”

  Walter pulls out a chair and sits down with her at the table.

  “So can I be an actor, Mom? Is that okay?”

  “Of course it’s okay, Walter.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. Maybe you’ll become famous.”

  “Like you were.”

  She smiles a little sadly. “Almost. I was almost famous.” She starts to cry.

  “What is it, Mom? Why are you crying?”

  He reaches over and takes her hand.

  “Oh, Walter,” she says, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  On the other end of the phone she hears him take in a breath of air and hold it there: “Are you still seeing Doctor Fitzgerald?” he asks finally.

  “No, no, no, he died, Walter. Years ago.”

  “Then you need to find a new doctor, Mom. I can’t do anything for you.”

  She feels a surge of feeling in her chest, a desperate, silent scream. “Would you come home, Walter?” she asks all of a sudden. “Please? I don’t know what else to do.”

  There’s no answer.

  “Please, Walter. Please?”

  Still there’s silence.

  “Oh, Walter. I—I think I may be losing my mind.”

  The wind whips against the side of the house.

  The wood. She needs to fire up the woodstove. She can’t wait until tomorrow. She must do it tonight. She’ll do it herself, if she has to. Only then—only when the woodstove is blazing—will everything finally be okay.

  She braves the cold in her pink nightgown, heading down the back steps. There’s a large moon in the sky, offering a milky white light. The trees are bare, their limbs silhouetted against the sky. Assaulted by the wind, she makes her way across the lawn. Then, deep inside it, she hears a voice.

  “Mrs. Day! Mrs. Day!”

  Regina looks up and squints.

  “Luz!”

  The girl approaches from the other side of the fence that lines Regina’s backyard. Kyle’s car is behind her, parked in the driveway.

  “Mrs. Day, I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long,” she says.

  A frisky wind catches Luz’s black hair, blowing it around her lovely face.

  Regina grips the top of the fence, staring into the girl’s eyes. “Oh, Luz, I’m so happy to see you!”

  The girl starts to cry. “Oh, Mrs. Day,” she says. “I need to ask your forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness for what, dear?”

  “For what I did.” Luz’s tears fall against her cheeks in the moonlight.

  “What did you do?”

  “I took some money from you, Mrs. Day. I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry …”

  Regina just wraps her arms around herself.

  “Two hundred dollars.” Luz composes herself. “I spent it. But here—” She thrusts a fifty-dollar bill over the fence at Regina. “I’m going to pay you back! Every cent.”

  Regina looks at the money but doesn’t accept it. “Why did you take the money, Luz?”

  “I needed it.” She’s crying harder, not looking Regina in the eyes.

  “So you could go to the city and become a model. Isn’t that right?”

  The girl lifts her eyes to Regina’s. Mascara runs down her cheeks.

  “You keep that money,” Regina says. “Use it. It’s time, Luz. Time for you to go.”

  Luz says nothing at first. She just keeps standing there holding the money across the fence. Finally she withdraws her hand, crumbling the fifty back into her palm.

  “You can’t stay here in Brown’s Mill,” Regina tells her. “I know what’s that like, how a girl with dreams needs to get out of here. That’s why I did what I did. I did it for you, Luz. And as much as I will miss you, it would be selfish to want you to stay. You have to go.”

  The girl wipes her eyes. “You’re right. I can’t stay here. I’ve never been happy here. You know that.”

  “And in the city, you can be happy.”

  Luz starts to tear up again. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Mrs. Day …”

  “Of course you can. You’re going to be a famous model.”

  Luz just starts to cry harder. Regina reaches across the fence and rests her knotty, spotted hand on Luz’s shiny black hair.

  The girl looks into her eyes. “I had to come back and ask your forgiveness. I carried such guilt here, in my heart, for the last few days. I went to the priest, Mrs. Day, and told him of the horrible thing I had done to you. He said I must return the money, but I told him that I couldn’t, that I’d spent it. So he said that I had to tell you, and I had to pay you back.” Luz shudders with leftover tears. “And then I said the Act of Contrition with him.”

  Regina is still stroking the girl’s hair. “I remember the Act of Contrition from when I was a Catholic.” She smiles, a little wryly. “They would make you say it to show you were truly sorry for something.”

  The girl nods.

  “Then let’s say it together, Luz.”

  Luz looks at her. “Say it …?”

  “Yes,” Regina says. “Together. How does it begin again?”

  Luz hesitates a moment, then says, “My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee …”

  Regina joins in. “And I detest of all my sins—”

  Luz follows along.

  “—because of thine just punishments,” they both intone, “but most of all because I have offended thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love.”

  Again Luz falls silent.

  “I firmly resolve …,” Regina prompts.

  “… with the help of thy grace,” Luz says.

  “—to sin no more—”

  “—and to avoid the near occasion of sin.”

  “Amen,” Regina says.

  “Amen,” Luz echoes.

  “Now go, Luz.”

  The girl looks up at her. “But I’ve come for Jorge …”

  “No. Not Jorge. Not yet. It would be too much for the boy. He’s happy here. When you’re settled, then you can come for him.”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Day, I couldn’t possibly impose on you—”

  “He’s a good boy, Luz,” Regina says. “And you will be doing all sorts of new things now. Like all those beautiful girls I see on TV and the covers of magazines. You can do it, Luz. I know you can.”

  “I’ll send you money,” Luz promises.

  “No,” Regina says. “I don’t want it.”

  “But I must—”

  “All you must do is go.”

  Luz starts to cry again. “Oh, Mrs. Day, you are a saint. A saint on earth.”

  Regina just touches the girl’s face. How beautiful she is. How lovely.

  “As soon as I can I’ll come for Jorge,” Luz says, between tears. “I’m going back to the city, and I’m going to make everything right! Maybe I really will be a model!”

  They clasp hands in the moonlight.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Day,” Luz exclaims, turning to hurry back to Kyle’s car. “You won’t be disappointed in me! I promise!”

  Regina just beams.

  “I owe it all to you, Mrs. Day,” Luz calls, sliding in behind the wheel and starting the engine. “All to you!”

  The Trans Am roars into life. Its headlights momentarily blind Regina, who
turns her face and squints her eyes as she watches Luz back out of the driveway then turn the car’s wheels to screech off down the street.

  “Go, Luz, go,” Regina says softly.

  The wind seems to have died down. She no longer feels so cold.

  The wood can wait until tomorrow.

  23

  A GOOD BOY

  “Will you give this to Donald Kyrwinski, please?”

  The woman standing in front of him is holding a blue parka with synthetic fur around the edge of the hood.

  “It’s getting colder now,” she says. “He’s going to need it.”

  “He’s inside,” Wally says, accepting the coat. “Do you want me to get him?”

  “No,” the woman says, hurrying back down the steps into the night. She’s thin, blond, very fair and very frightened. “Just give him the coat, please. Thank you.”

  Closing the front door, Wally turns to see Dee standing behind him.

  “Yours, I take it.”

  The boy looks at the coat in Wally’s hands. “Like I’d wear such an ugly thing.”

  “Why didn’t you come out and see her?”

  “She didn’t want to see me.” Dee shrugs. “Just throw the coat on the rack.”

  Wally does, then follows Dee into the living room.

  “It says something that she came over with it,” he suggests.

  “Oh, yeah? What does it say?” Dee flops down into a chair and hits the remote, turning on the TV. It’s the Shopping Channel. Suzanne Somers, or somebody who looks likes her, is selling jewelry.

  Wally decides not to pursue the subject of the boy’s mother. What indeed did it say that she had brought over a winter coat for her son to wear, but chose not to see him?

  “I hear you’re heading back to the city in the morning,” Dee says.

  “You hear right.”

  “So you finally got over there to see Zandy and he was dead, huh?” Dee starts flicking through the channels with the remote control, a kaleidoscope of images, a cacophony of sound. “Talk about ironic.”

  Wally says nothing.

  “I thought you wanted me to go with you,” Dee says, settling on the Game Show Network. A rerun of an old Match Game episode. Brett Somers is hitting Charles Nelson Reilly over the head with her card.