We'll Fly Away

by Bryan Bliss

  Lily rolled her eyes and emptied the pitcher into her glass. Bo was about to stand up when Jimmy stopped him.

  “Hold up!” Jimmy yelled out Val’s name and held the empty pitcher in the air. When he looked back, it was to Toby first. Grinning like he was in a parade. When Val brought the beers, Jimmy handed her a hundred-dollar bill and told her to keep them coming until it was gone or somebody hit the floor.

  Then he lifted his beer in the air and said, “Drinks are on me tonight.”

  January 13

  T—

  I woke up yesterday feeling like somebody had taken a pipe to my entire body. My legs, my arms—hell, even my damn elbows hurt. I hadn’t been that sore since those first couple of wrestling practices freshman year, when I’d come home and the boys would jump all over me. The whole time I was just dying. Forty pounds of little kid can mess you up, T.

  Shit.

  I wasn’t even trying to talk about them. But that’s how it happens. You think you’re coasting, that somehow being in here has become normal. You start forgetting about time. There are dudes in here who look that comfortable too. Walking around like they’re in a retirement home. Always doing the same thing, laughing at the same bullshit with their friends. I have to believe they have these moments too, when a picture of what life is supposed to be comes floating into their heads out of nowhere. All of a sudden you’re thinking about your first-grade teacher. Hoping your face behaves, not letting it betray anything. Trying to stay hard.

  But like I said, I’m not even trying to talk about the boys right now.

  Anyway, I was supposed to meet with the lawyer again, so I was surprised when Sister showed up a few minutes before and asked if she could talk to me. Usually she carries on whether I like it or not. This time it was like she was choosing her words. The same way I’d get when I had to explain something the twins accidentally saw on TV. Or why Mom’s “friends” sometimes spent the night.

  So I was like, “Just say it, Sister.”

  That’s all Sister needed, I guess. Because she started saying I needed to give Marilyn a chance. Getting worked up about how I need to give myself a chance.

  I checked out, T. Stared at this crack on the wall in the visitation room until it started looking like a spider. Then a bridge. A few minutes later, I swear I could see a face with these big-ass eyeballs. But man, like I told Sister—Marilyn, everybody—if I don’t care, why should anybody else?

  I barely said two words to that first lawyer. When I confessed in the police station, he tried to get me to take it back. He asked for the recordings, anything he could get his hands on. But it didn’t matter, because I didn’t want to walk it back. I didn’t want him to stand up there and tell people I was innocent.

  Do you understand? If anybody could, it would be you, T.

  Grand jury. Sentencing. All of it. I didn’t say one word. I stood before all of them, blank. Nothing left inside me.

  Here’s a word that Marilyn likes to bring up: “mitigating.” That lawyer tried to get me to give him a name, anybody who would come in and make an excuse for what happened. What I did. To soften the scary pictures everybody in our town now had of me.

  I made that lawyer’s life hell. And he was doing it for free. So by the time they got around to sentencing me, I don’t think anybody was surprised when the judge put me here. A few people even cheered.

  Marilyn wants to bring it all back up. She wants me to have another chance to stand up in front of everybody and talk about how we grew up so shitty. How nobody took care of me or you. How we were basically alone since we were kids.

  But goddamn, that just isn’t true, is it?

  You and me were never alone, T. Not when we had each other.

  Nobody understands it, not even Sister. But I still nod. Tell her I’ll give it a shot. I already know that nobody—not her or Marilyn or anybody—will ever understand, but I’m hoping you do. You know?

  Luke

  11

  THE referee watched the scale’s weigh beam teeter up, then down, before stopping perfectly balanced.

  “One seventy, exactly.”

  A collective sigh went across the locker room. Coach slapped Luke on the shoulder, followed by a few teammates. Luke stepped off the scale and disappeared back to his locker. It probably looked cavalier, almost cocky. Or maybe it would come across as confidence, portraying a mystical belief that the scale wouldn’t betray him. In truth, he couldn’t shake visions of Toby sitting in Annie’s apartment. Beaten and broken and more angry than he’d ever let Annie know.

  Usually Toby showed up at his apartment, rubbing at his stomach or arm like he’d run through a patch of poison ivy. Trying to hide the damage. Doing anything he could to keep himself from crying, screaming—grabbing a baseball bat and going back to the trailer to finally let that bastard know exactly what it felt like to run. To fear. To hurt.

  Instead, they watched television. Went down to the Wilco to steal some candy bars, doughnuts, whatever they could get their hands on, to eat on the curb outside of Luke’s apartment. That’s how the healing started, wordlessly. They didn’t need to talk about it because it was just another part of life, like school or trying to pick up girls at the mall.

  Finding him curled up in the belly of that rotted-out plane shook Luke, more than he wanted to admit. Luke had lifted him up so easily, as if Toby had already lost something permanent. He knew he’d made a mistake bringing Annie. And an even bigger one taking Toby back to her apartment. But what else was he supposed to do?

  The kiss zipped through his brain too, darting between the legs of every other emotion. He could still feel her lips on his own. He should have kissed her back.

  Coach O came walking toward him, a huge smile on his face.

  “Lucky bastard,” he whispered, snapping him with the small towel he always carried. “Get this one out of the way and then next week you get to put Herrera straight on his ass, okay?”

  Luke nodded.

  Once Coach was gone, he shook his arms, his legs, and put on his singlet. When he jogged into the gymnasium, a few people clapped. Even with Luke, wrestling didn’t exactly draw a crowd. Every so often you’d see a coach from another school and, before he signed with Iowa, there would be small pockets of older men with notebooks, writing down every single thing Luke did. Tonight, though, he didn’t notice the crowd. He jogged around the gym, trying to empty himself of everything but the mat. His opponent, a kid named Davis Lowry, watched his every step.

  When they called his name, he stripped his warm-ups and jogged straight onto the mat. Lowry looked too small to be a 170. And maybe he was. It wasn’t uncommon for teams to move a warm body—a JV sophomore—up for the match. They were already going to lose the points—why risk losing a wrestler too? Luke never hurt them too bad physically. He was rarely even on the mat more than a few minutes. But sometimes it only took seconds to break an opponent mentally. Something that kid would remember every single time he saw Luke.

  Davis Lowry was looking to his coach like he’d been lied to. Luke already had him, and everybody in that gym knew it.

  The referee blew the whistle, and all the sound sucked out of the room until it was just Luke and Lowry circling like a couple of dogs itching for a throat.

  Luke shot, took the legs, and slammed the kid to the mat. Two points, raised in the air.

  Beneath him, Lowry’s breathing changed into panicked, shotgun spurts. But he wasn’t giving up. He was trying to create a base, pushing back against Luke with an unexpected determination. Then he reached back, presumably trying for some kind of reverse, and Luke hammered the kid.

  Lowry whined like a kicked dog as Luke drove his shoulder to the mat. From here, it was an easy headlock into an even easier pin. Coach O was already clapping. Instead, Luke let him up.

  The referee held a single finger in the air, one point for Lowry.

  A few people cheered, assuming Davis had escaped his fate momentarily. Just getting a point on Luke was an accomplis
hment, something to be proud of. The kid was rubbing his arm and looking over at his coach. As soon as he dropped his hands and got into his stance, Luke attacked and drove him down hard.

  Luke let Lowry up again, giving up another point before throwing him back to the mat almost immediately. Lowry mouthed breathless cuss words that sounded more like prayers. But there was a wall around Luke, shielding him from the glares of Coach O. The other coach, yelling. Luke let Lowry up one final time. By then everybody in the gym knew he was playing with the kid. And for the first time in many years, Luke didn’t give a damn.

  When he finally pinned Lowry, nobody clapped. Coach O’s eyes followed him all the way into the locker room. Once he was alone, all of the feeling came back to Luke in one sudden rush. He couldn’t sit down, but he couldn’t stand either. Every fiber of his body was alive. Luke was so angry he could barely see straight. All he wanted to do was go back on the mat and keep on hurting that kid.

  Because that’s what he’d been doing. Humiliating him, yes. But hurting him too.

  Luke punched the locker in front of him, the pain jolting up his arm. He paused for a second, looking at it. And then he hit it again. A third time. Four, five, six—until his hand was bleeding and the red metal locker was bent nearly in half.

  Nobody came over to talk to Luke when the meet ended. He didn’t even look up until his coach came and sat across from him. Only then did he notice that the locker room was empty. Coach sat in front of him, working his gum and sighing heavily every few seconds. He pointed at the locker behind Luke.

  “That doesn’t look very good.”

  Luke didn’t turn around, just stared at his hands. “And your hand?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  Coach nodded. “You want to tell me what that was about?”

  Luke shook his head, which he knew Coach would respect. And he didn’t ask again, just sat in front of him working that gum. Even if Luke wanted to tell him more, what would he say? In movies and in news stories, people said, “Something snapped.” But that’s not what had happened. Instead, it had been a slow burn. So slow that he didn’t even see it creeping toward him. All of a sudden—like a quick-moving tide—he was knee-deep. Then up to his neck. The anger drowned out everything else.

  And even sitting here now, he couldn’t calm down. He couldn’t get it to recede.

  “Do you want a ride home?” Coach asked. “We can talk about it in the car.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t look okay, son.” He bent over and forced eye contact with Luke. “You look like somebody fighting his way out of a corner.”

  Luke barely moved. They sat that way until it became evident Luke wasn’t going to accept any help. Coach stood up and put his hand on Luke’s shoulder before walking back to his office and, eventually, out the door. Once he was alone, Luke expected all the nervous energy—the anger—to drain out of his body the way it always did. But the longer he sat there, the more tense he grew.

  Toby could move in with them, he told himself.

  Or he could move in with Toby. Pull him away as soon as he smelled trouble.

  Hell, they could grab tents and camp, finding showers and food when and where they could. Living transient but free. Every single solution rose up quickly, its hand in the air—promising to be the answer. But none pulled their weight. They never did. More troubling was what popped into Luke’s head next.

  He still wanted to beat on something.

  Luke stood up and ran out of the locker room like something was chasing him. When he was a kid, before the twins were born, he would have moments of complete terror that overtook him. He could be sitting alone, watching television, and a shadow would settle on him without provocation. And that’s how he felt now, as if he was only steps ahead of something monstrous reaching, grabbing for his shoulders.

  He pushed through the doors and sprinted across the empty parking lot and didn’t stop until he saw the lights from his apartment building. He ran all the way to Annie’s door, pausing only right before his hand raised to knock—suddenly optimistic that they could figure it out. Bashful for the kiss. Hoping Toby was okay, calm and sleeping so it could all happen again.

  He stood there for another second, the cold catching up to his warm body, before he rapped on the door. It was silent. So when the door flew open, he jumped. Annie was wearing pajamas and a T-shirt.

  “Is he with you?” Annie said, looking past Luke.

  “What?”

  “Toby. He ran off. I tried to stop him, but . . .” She looked down at the pavement. “I’m sorry.”

  Luke turned to the parking lot. As if Toby would be sitting on the steps. As if Luke had somehow missed him when he had barreled through moments ago. Maybe Toby’d gone up to his apartment, knocked on the door until Doreen answered. Maybe he was asleep on the couch right now.

  “Did his dad do that to him?” Annie asked.

  Luke should deflect, because Toby was already mad. But he was tired of pretending. Tired of telling people that it wasn’t a big deal. All he wanted was somebody who would listen and, maybe, understand.

  “Yes. But it’s not like this is a surprise. If you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do.”

  Annie reached for his hand, and he flinched. When she saw it, bulbous and bloody, she bent down. “Jesus, Luke. What happened to your hand?”

  “Wrestling.”

  Annie looked at his hand again, suspicious. “We can go find him. It’s not a big deal.”

  Luke didn’t think Toby would go back to the trailer, but he didn’t know for sure. They’d made plenty of revenge plans on nights like this. Finding the revolver Jimmy kept wrapped in a T-shirt in the back of his closet. But the plans never had real teeth. The next morning, the bruises didn’t seem so bad. Now Luke wondered if that was ever really the case.

  “Maybe he went upstairs,” Luke said. “I should probably go check.”

  “When he left, he was . . .” Annie stopped herself, but Luke already knew.

  Betrayed. Angry. Panicked.

  “Hey,” Annie reached out and grabbed his good hand. “It’s going to be okay. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”

  She moved to come even closer, and Luke’s stomach flipped.

  “He just needs to cool off,” Luke said. “But could you stay here, in case he comes back?”

  Luke didn’t want to leave Annie, but he was relieved when she nodded. Part of it was knowing, if he found Toby, he’d need to smooth things over. Having Annie standing next to him wouldn’t help. And maybe he wanted to give Annie a reason to find him later, once Toby was safe. He allowed himself one second to think about her and him sitting close to each other, whispering as Toby slept.

  She smiled and squeezed his hand once before letting him go.

  When Luke opened his apartment door, the lights were on, and at first he thought that had to be a good sign. Toby wouldn’t be asleep yet, but it was way past bedtime for the boys. And when his mom was home, she put them to bed even earlier. He heard a glass clink against the kitchen sink.

  “Is that you, baby?” his mom called out. Luke walked into the kitchen, and his mom’s face fell. “Oh, Luke.”

  “Have you seen Toby?”

  His mom looked confused. “No . . . I’m waiting for Ricky. He’s planned a surprise for me tonight.”

  Years before, Doreen had started calling Luke her “partner.” They had an equal responsibility for keeping the apartment clean, for cooking, and for taking care of the boys. By Luke’s math, this partnership wasn’t close to equal. He didn’t mind watching the twins. He didn’t mind being the one who showed them how to grow up. But he always expected that she’d reciprocate when he needed it.

  “Something happened to Toby,” Luke said.

  “Something’s always happening to that boy.” His mom laughed.

  “No. Mom. Something, like, happened to him.” When Luke said it, his mom reached for a cigarette and lit it without looking at Luke.
>
  “Well, that has nothing to do with us. I don’t need to know about other people’s laundry.”

  Luke couldn’t believe it.

  “Jimmy beat the shit out of him,” Luke said.

  These were words he never said. Words Doreen didn’t want to hear. Luke let them push down on her until the front door opened and Ricky’s voice rang across the apartment.

  “Doreen! Bring that fine ass this way!”

  “That’s enough of that,” Doreen said, smoothing her shirt as she walked into the living room. When she saw Ricky, her face lit up with a smile so big, Luke couldn’t tell if it was real or not.

  “Look at you,” Ricky said. “Fine as hell. You ready?”

  “You know it, baby,” Doreen purred.

  Luke grabbed his mom’s arm and she laughed nervously, tapping him on the hand like he was one of the boys, not wanting her to leave for work. But he wouldn’t let go. How many times had Toby spent the night on their couch? How many times had he made them laugh over dinner, stopping only when Doreen couldn’t breathe? And now none of that mattered.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Luke said, his voice rising.

  Luke could see the embarrassment on Doreen’s face slowly becoming annoyance. It was in her voice when she said, “Luke, calm down. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Calm down? Calm down?”

  Ricky stepped up and put his hand on the small of Doreen’s back, directing her away from Luke. They only got a few steps before Luke jumped forward and blocked the door. Ricky shook his head.

  “I’m sure you think this is worth it,” he said. “But son . . .”

  “Just help me,” Luke said, ignoring Ricky. “Please.”

  Help could be anything. Driving him around to find Toby. Saying they would postpone their plans. Or even something as simple as telling him it would be okay. That Toby would be okay.

  Doreen seemed to be weighing the request when Ricky said, “Okay, enough of this shit.”

  He marched toward Luke and tried to bully him out of the doorway. At first Luke didn’t even acknowledge the attempt. He rooted himself into the carpet and stared at his mother, hoping she’d make the right decision. But when Ricky grabbed Luke’s bad hand, trying to force his arm behind his back, instinct kicked in. Luke drove the man hard away from the door.