We'll Fly Away

by Bryan Bliss

  Not that Luke would be taking a bite of the breadstick. Still, he knew.

  Annie kind of smiled again as she said, “I’m going to pass. But thank you.”

  She glanced back at Luke before hurrying through the door of her apartment. When she was gone, Toby stood next to Luke—both of them staring at the empty parking lot. Everything about Toby was now muted.

  “I didn’t know she was going to drive me home,” Luke said.

  Toby looked at Annie’s apartment but didn’t say anything at first. When he spoke, he sounded tired.

  “But you knew she lived here.”

  Luke didn’t say anything, because he knew he was wrong. Toby had every reason to be angry with him. So he dropped his head and stared at the asphalt. Toby sighed and started walking toward the apartment.

  “I’m going to go get the boys.”

  8

  THE Olive Garden was just off the interstate, a few blocks away from every other restaurant in town. When they walked in, loud and presumably Italian music pumped through the speakers. The hostess, a smaller blond woman, reached toward the stacks of menus next to her and asked if the boys wanted crayons. They grabbed the menus and crayons from her hand, their eyes wild. No part of this experience would be taken for granted.

  Toby wasn’t going to take it for granted, either. Even if he was mad at Luke, as soon as he stepped inside, he was swept away by the reminder that they didn’t get to do things like this. And fine, he shouldn’t have taken the money from Jimmy. But they would deal with that later, just like they always did. So if Luke wanted to sit there and silently object, Toby would let him. He would eat and have fun and use every smile as a thorn, reminding Luke that he wasn’t the only one who was struggling to understand recent decisions.

  As soon as they sat down at the table, Toby waved the server toward them.

  “Salad and breadsticks,” he said. When the man tried to ask another question, Toby shook his head and repeated himself. “And four waters.”

  The man walked away, grumbling. Toby snapped his menu closed and put it on the table.

  “Tour of Italy. That’s the business, right there. You can’t go wrong with something called Tour of Italy.”

  Luke’s menu was sitting in front of him on the table. “I’m going to gain weight just breathing the air in here.”

  “Maybe if Annie were here, she’d be able to get you to eat,” Toby said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The waiter walked up and began arranging the salad bowl and breadsticks on the table, saving Toby from having to spell it out for Luke. He wasn’t angry, not really. It was more shock, a weird surprise that Luke would be bold enough to go behind his back on anything—but especially with a girl. Toby grabbed a breadstick and took a bite, trying to lose himself in the garlic and butter.

  The boys grabbed two breadsticks each, and the basket was empty. Luke gave the server a sympathetic look and said, “We’ll probably need lots of bread.”

  When he was gone, Toby said, “Why are you apologizing? That’s his job.”

  “We’re acting like a bunch of assholes.”

  “I’m being an asshole?” Toby laughed. The dart hit home, closing Luke’s mouth. Toby wouldn’t keep it up much longer; he just wanted Luke to acknowledge that he’d done something shitty. And so far, all he seemed concerned with was Jimmy’s money and how the waiter would feel when they left.

  He turned to the boys. “What if we could eat here every night?”

  They cheered and asked Luke if people actually ate at the Olive Garden every day.

  “No,” Luke said, which deflated their excitement.

  “But what if you could?” Toby said, not looking at Luke as he spoke. “What would you eat?”

  The boys began listing off every item on the menu, including the calamari, until Toby told them it was squid. Luke and Toby spent more time talking to the boys—telling them to sit down or not to throw ice—than talking to each other. And when the food arrived, it was like a miracle. Appearing from the back, steaming. Chicken fingers for Jack-Jack. A cheese pizza for Petey. And Toby’s Tour of Italy.

  As they ate, Toby caught Luke looking around the restaurant nervously. As if he was waiting for cops to come breaking through the windows. Every time Luke’s head twisted because of a falling plate, a shrill voice from the kitchen, it grated on Toby. All he had to do was relax, for one night. Forget everything and, even for a moment or two, take normal breaths. Act like the sky wasn’t crashing around them.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself,” Toby said, holding up a steaming forkful of lasagna. “Because this? This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Like—”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Luke said, holding up his hand.

  “Just take a bite. See what I’m saying.” Toby held the lasagna toward him.

  “Stop,” Luke said. Forceful enough that the boys stopped chattering and looked at the two of them. Toby put the fork back down on the plate and asked the boys, “Who wants dessert?”

  The twins were near catatonic when the server finally brought the check, pausing momentarily as if he had just realized they were a table full of kids. They couldn’t possibly afford everything they’d ordered.

  Toby took the check and looked at it, whistling long and slow.

  “Tour of Italy comes at a price, I guess.” He peeled off a few twenties and stuffed them into the black puffy folder that held the check. Luke was staring at him, the money.

  “Jesus, calm down,” Toby finally said. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “Why did he give it to you, though? That’s all I want to know.”

  “Because he was drunk? Because one of his loser friends finally paid him back? Hell, I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

  Luke told the boys to get their jackets on, standing up like the conversation was over. This was his regular move, a kind of holier-than-thou decision process that drove Toby nuts.

  “I just think it’s weird,” Luke said. “That’s all.”

  “Yeah? You want to know what I think is weird?” Toby was being loud now. The boys were watching, but he didn’t care. He was already wound too tight. “That you would go out with Annie like that. All you had to do was say something. You know I wouldn’t have said a damn thing. You know that. And yet?”

  Luke’s body slumped, and even though Toby knew he’d won, he still stormed out of the restaurant, already in the car with the engine running when Luke and the twins came outside.

  The drive back to the apartment was quiet. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, the boys were asleep. Toby helped Luke carry them up the long stairs. Once they were on the mattress, Toby turned around and started for the front door. Luke stopped him.

  “Hey, wait a second.” Luke closed the bedroom door. “I wasn’t trying to make you mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” Toby said.

  Luke rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

  “I’m not,” Toby said.

  And he wasn’t, not really. Luke should’ve told him about Annie, but it wasn’t like they were getting married. If anything, Toby was annoyed that Luke couldn’t get past the money. He wanted Luke to trust that Toby would see the line way before it got crossed. But he couldn’t, and that was the story of Luke’s damn life. And it burned Toby up.

  “Are you spending the night?” Luke asked.

  Toby had never been stubborn, not when it came to things he really wanted. He could be tempted into second-guessing just about any decision he made. Of course Luke knew this. But maybe this was his way of apologizing. Sweeping it under the rug and pretending it had never happened. A convenient absolution.

  Before he could say a word, Luke said, “And I know. You get the couch.”

  Toby was asleep when the knock came, two times like a shotgun. Luke was already up and looking through the blinds when Toby stood up. He didn’t even need to ask who it was. Luke’s hands were already fists. Toby touched him
on the shoulder and shook his head, opening the door.

  Jimmy stumbled into the living room, the boozy sweat filling the room like cheap cologne. He took a drink from his beer and tossed the can behind him, onto the landing. The tinny clatter made Jimmy laugh. He raised a finger to his lips and pretended to tiptoe the rest of the way into the apartment, dissolving into even louder laughter a few seconds later.

  “Where you been, boy?” he said to Toby. It sounded almost jovial, as if they’d been playing hide and seek. But tone didn’t mean a damn thing, and Toby knew it. “I need you to get me to the Deuce. Pronto.”

  “It’s like four o’clock in the morning,” Toby said. “The Deuce is closed.”

  “Well, if I come around,” Jimmy said, “they open that door. So let’s go!”

  “How did you even get here?” Toby said, looking into the parking lot. “And where’s the truck?”

  “The truck is . . . indisposed,” Jimmy said, chuckling to himself. “In. Disposed.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?” Toby didn’t like that his voice broke with frustration, but he was tired and confused. And he wanted Jimmy to get the hell out of there.

  Jimmy reached for Toby’s arm.

  “Let’s go. Time to roll.”

  Toby stepped back, even though he knew it was a mistake. “I want to go back to sleep.”

  When Toby was a kid, he’d seen two cats get into a fight. They were a whirling mess of claws and spit and teeth. Jimmy took a broom handle and smacked one of the cats hard, skidding it halfway across the yard. The thing yowled as it ran under the car, a sound Toby couldn’t get out of his head for weeks.

  He waited for something just as fast and vicious. He’d take it without flinching if it meant Jimmy would leave. Instead, Jimmy grabbed his wrist and yanked him toward the door. Toby half expected Luke to jump toward them, but he stood there, a strange “I told you so” expression on his face.

  Toby shook free of Jimmy’s grip once they were outside. Jimmy lit another cigarette and began wobbling down the stairs. For a second, Toby reached out his hands. Pushed the air. He imagined his father’s temple hitting the side of the concrete steps. The life going out of his eyes. Nobody would say a thing.

  Toby wasn’t sure if it was fear or the stupid baked-in love kids have for their parents that stopped him, but they both got to the bottom of the steps, and neither one of them spoke. His dad dropped some ash on his shirt and cussed.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said.

  Toby couldn’t help himself. “The Deuce is closed.”

  Jimmy stopped and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. He seemed completely sober as he stared at Toby. Jimmy’s anger didn’t go away, not like most people. He held on to it for weeks, months—longer. A beating could come for things Toby barely remembered doing.

  “Sometimes you’re too smart for your own damn good.”

  “It’s just . . .” Jimmy cocked his head as Toby spoke. All Toby wanted to do was get him home, so he held up his hands like he was pacifying one of the twins. “Never mind. You’re right.”

  They weren’t a mile from Luke’s apartment when Jimmy fell asleep. Toby drove slowly, like he was trying to keep a baby from waking up. When he came to the intersection that would take them to The Deuce, he sat there for a long time. There was no reason to go. The bar had been closed for hours and the only thing waiting for Jimmy would be trouble. What kind, Toby didn’t know. And he didn’t want to find out.

  He turned toward their trailer. Toby could only hope that, when Jimmy woke up in the morning, the booze would cast a dark shadow over this part of the night. Still, he took the long way home. The moon lit the trees and the empty buildings as he drove through downtown. The entire time, Jimmy was slumped against the window—out. But as soon as the tires hit the gravel road, his dad jumped.

  “What the—” He grabbed the seat belt. “How . . . why am I in this car?”

  “You told me to take you home,” Toby lied.

  “What?” Jimmy shook his head, still trying to get his bearings. “No, I wanted to go to the Deuce, goddammit. What time is it?”

  Toby looked at the clock. It was almost five.

  “You told me to—”

  Jimmy’s punch only grazed Toby’s cheek, the seat belt holding him back. He scrabbled to get it off as Toby threw himself out of the car. Toby ran for the front door, but Jimmy grabbed him just before he got to the cinder-block steps and tossed him to the ground. Toby instinctively shielded his face with his arms.

  “All you do is talk. And now I fucking missed it,” Jimmy said, standing over him. He was trying to take off his worn leather belt but fumbled with the buckle. Toby spun onto his stomach and tried to crawl away. He only got a few feet before Jimmy tackled him. Toby couldn’t help himself, he started crying.

  “Just take the car and go!”

  But Jimmy was blinded. By whiskey or anger, Toby didn’t know. The belt caught him on the back of the neck. Then his shoulders. Then his neck again. As Jimmy raised it once more, his weight shifted and Toby kicked his body up, sending Jimmy to the ground.

  Toby didn’t run immediately. Instead, he swung—as hard as he could. The first time he’d tried in years, and he knocked the shit out of his old man, right in the eye. It even shocked Toby, who froze long enough to let Jimmy get back to his feet. The belt swung almost playfully in his hand.

  “It isn’t fucking open,” Toby hissed.

  Jimmy cracked the belt, the buckle catching Toby right above the temple. Toby dropped, his vision doubling. The tickle of blood dripping down on his cheek. And then he wasn’t sure whether he passed out or just forced himself to separate from his body until it was finally over.

  They were flying.

  It was him and Luke and the boys and it was glorious. They sped across the state of North Carolina, across the oceans. Below them, people laughed and waved—look! As the countries scrolled by, they crossed mountains, wonders of the world, going faster and faster until monsters appeared far below them. Creatures they’d never seen, snapping their teeth and running their claws against a stone floor.

  Toby kept them in the air. Kept them moving at the speed of light, the speed of sound—faster than anybody had ever flown before. And soon the sun came up and there was nothing below them, above them, no ground or water, just a never-ending sky.

  Toby woke up cold and in pain, the side of the plane bruising his ribs. He didn’t remember walking to the plane or much else that had happened. His head throbbed and his entire body was raw. He was too cold. Too tired. But—reaching out to touch the rough metal of the plane—safe.

  He slumped down, trying to use the crumpled leaves as a blanket. Curling his body until he was asleep again.

  January 11

  T—

  I spent a lot of time thinking about what Eddie said about getting my head right. And man, I wish I could tell you that one of those little light bulbs popped above me, the way it happens in cartoons. How all of a sudden, I was happy and started feeling good.

  But hell no. The more I sat there, the more I got angry. I tried writing you a letter about it, but I couldn’t get more than one or two words down before I’d get pissed and crumple the paper up. By the time I finally blew out of my cell for lunch, looking for Eddie or Sister, I ran straight into this dude everybody calls Jokes. Here’s the thing: Jokes is one of those ironic names. Because this dude will light you up, even if he only thinks you’re talking sideways to him. He’s been here a few years longer than me, but has probably twenty or thirty more infractions. Talking shit to guards. Having something that looked enough like a weapon got him to iso for a solid month. And of course, beating on dudes like it was his job. So when I ran into him, he puffed up.

  It was like I had never left the mat, T. I had that dude sized up and was about to take him down when Eddie pulled me outside, stopping once he got to the basketball courts. He picked up his ball and tossed it to me. Eventually, I gave it a couple of dribbles. The las
t one hit my foot and went rolling into the grass.

  Eddie shook his head and laughed. Told me I played ball like every other wrestler he’d ever known—poorly. Then he picked up the ball and tossed it lightly into the air, nothing but net.

  What was I going to say to that? You and I both know I couldn’t catch a ball or swing a bat. Wrestling is one of those sports designed for people who’ve lived tough lives. People who know how to endure.

  He walked over, got the ball, and cool as could be, said, “We’ll go to ten.”

  But I wasn’t about to get embarrassed like that. Before I could walk away, he shot the ball toward me, a chest pass like a bullet. I barely got my hands up.

  In here, anything can be a challenge—even the smallest thing. Which meant that anything could be seen as weakness. You didn’t have to be a damn detective to know what he was doing. Everybody was watching us, so I fired that ball right back at him. Hard as I could. Eddie caught it like it was a stuffed animal, barely a sound from the leather hitting his hands. He nodded, impressed.

  But man, I wasn’t falling for it. I didn’t want to play basketball. All I wanted to do was wander around the yard until they blew the whistles. Eddie must’ve seen it too, because all of a sudden, he started talking trash. For everybody to hear.

  Like, “I’m gonna take it easy on you, young buck.” I might be shit at basketball, but I wasn’t going to let him stand there and burn me. So I said, “You sure you aren’t going to break a hip or something?”

  That was a mistake, T.

  I knew Eddie could ball, but I swear he had two baskets on me before I even got a chance to move. The next time he started toward the basket, I dropped back and jumped just as he let the shot go. Grabbed that thing out of the air like I owned it!