by John Vercher
“What happened this time?” Bobby asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Why do you keep trying to be like them when this is what you get? I keep telling you, they’re animals. My Grandpap tried to tell me and I didn’t listen. You need to listen to me.”
Aaron shoved Bobby backwards. “Would you leave me alone? I never even said who it was that did it, did I?” Bobby stood with his back to the wall, open-mouthed. “God,” Aaron said. “I’m going to class. See you later, I guess.”
Aaron was right. Bobby had assumed it was the black kids again. He stewed with a confused mix of frustration and sympathy for Aaron. He wanted to tell him right then about his father, because despite their inseparable nature, there stood this divide between them, and at that moment, Aaron seemed more alone than ever. But he knew it would hurt Aaron to know that in some sense, he had what Aaron wanted, to not just be like them but to be them, and that Bobby wanted no part of it would be like throwing it in Aaron’s face, He thought Aaron might even resent him for it. He couldn’t lose his only friend. He also knew, out of some innate sense of self-preservation, that to the black kids with whom he fought to protect Aaron, the revelation about who he really was might bring him more harm than good. Bobby didn’t tell Aaron then and he promised himself he never would.
He would never tell anyone.
THE OVERSIZED WIPERS squealed across the windshield as the bus passed through Shadyside and drew closer to Homewood. A scant few passengers got on and off in-between. They probably went home to a comfortable boredom, to the same old job with the same old people, taking for granted the lack of anxiety of it all. Bobby could say “hello” and they’d forget him as soon as they stepped off the bus.
But maybe not.
Maybe they’d find out they had something common, the way he and Aaron did that first day of school. Maybe their lives would be changed forever. Maybe for the better, but probably for the worst, because everything falls apart. It has to.
There was a lecture in sophomore chemistry that always stuck with Bobby. It was about entropy, this idea that the natural order of the world skewed towards disorder. He’d had a hard time with the concept until the teacher put it a way he understood. Your room doesn’t get cleaner, it gets messier, she’d said. It’s the same with the universe. He became obsessed with the idea. He started sketching a villain in his notebook. The villain was a mutant, born to a drug-abusing mother whose only ability was to bring chaos to the lives of anyone with whom he came in physical contact. Bobby named him Entropy. When he showed him to Aaron, he’d been dismayed to learn that was already a character in the Marvel universe. Then Bobby picked up a thesaurus and went with Bedlam. Same problem. Aaron said it was a stupid character anyway and Bobby eventually scrapped it.
Bobby laughed to himself. He hadn’t thought about that in years.
The bus took a tight corner and hit a curb. The bump shook the homeless rider and he stirred but didn’t wake. What put you here, Bobby thought. Was it your choices, or were you just another result of entropy? A victim of circumstance who deserved pity, or a criminal, maybe even a murderer who was lucky to be sleeping on a bus? He might not know if he’d eat the next day or if he’d get rolled for the change he scraped together by someone just a little more desperate than he. But as long as he had money for the bus, he knew where he’d be tomorrow. He knew that his future was, in some ways, predictable. Though Bobby never knew if he and his mother would make rent from month to month, there was certainty in the fact that they’d work more than they played, that they lived shift-to-shift, and there would be nights where he’d sweep up the debris of her broken promises. As shitty as it was, there was comfort in their routine. He wanted that feeling back and he realized there was only one way to get it.
The bus turned onto Frankstown Avenue. Bobby reached to pull the cord to ring the bell, then stopped. “How much longer you on?” he asked the driver.
“Couple more hours,” the driver said. “Why?”
“Mind if I go around again?”
He looked up at Bobby in the rearview, shrugged and nodded. “What’s your story?” he asked.
“Still writing it,” Bobby said. He drove on. Bobby recalled his Entropy character again. He should have named him Aaron.
The bus ran its full route again and roared down Frankstown for a second time. Bobby pulled the cord. The bus came to a stop at the corner of the block and Bobby made his way down the steps.
“Go easy, young man,” the driver said.
Bobby turned back. The sincerity in the driver’s voice and the warmth of his smile made Bobby feel safe. He could go around for one more loop, but the reflective sanctuary of the bus was only temporary. He’d made his mind up what he needed to do and the longer he waited, the less likely he was do it. He nodded his head at the driver and he returned the gesture. The doors hissed shut and the engine growled until the brake lights winked out of view. Bobby raised his hand in a wave, already somehow missing both him and his homeless companion who would sleep until the sun came up, or until a less gracious driver kicked him off. His sanctuary gone, Bobby’s anxiety took firm hold again and he hurried down the half block to the apartment. The Fox was parked out front and had a light dusting of snow on the hood. It hadn’t been there long. He’d hoped Mom had stayed for an overnight shift, but if he was lucky, she’d be asleep. He still needed time to figure out how to tell her, what had happened, his plan, everything. But he was exhausted. Just a few hours of sleep. Then he’d let her know what he had done.
He shoved the key in, then the door opened with the gentle push. It was already unlocked. The apartment smelled of Drakkar and cigarettes. A throaty snore reverberated from down the hall, too deep even for Isabel.
Unbelievable.
Every time she rode the wagon away from the bar, it was if she sat in precarious balance on the edge of it, inches away from falling off when it struck a rut in the road, and that son-of-a-bitch Nico enabled her every step of the way back to that shit watering hole. Bobby wished he had the stones to kick open the door and yoke him by his midget neck, throw him out in the hall and lock the door behind him, leaving him with his clothes wadded up in his arms, shivering. But Bobby knew that was all fantasy. He was no more a tough guy than Nico. He wished he had been. Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in this spot.
The couch never looked so comfortable and Bobby face-planted onto it. While the bus ran its loop, his mind did, too. He had to call the cops and turn them both in. He would tell them Aaron threatened him and that he had no choice but to drive away or he’d kill him. He hadn’t had a gun then, but he had one in the glove compartment now. Maybe when they came to get them, that would seem like a reasonable story and they’d go easy on Bobby, maybe even let him go. But if they’d reviewed the tapes, it would already be too late. Any story he’d give them now would sound like covering his own ass. And what if Aaron somehow got off on claiming self-defense or some other bullshit. Then what? Would he come after Bobby?
Before that night, the idea that Aaron would do anything of the sort was like an issue of What If…? where Uatu the Watcher narrated the alternate realities of the Marvel Universe. In this issue, Bobby’s best friend has become a Neo-Nazi psycho killer. If Bobby had just said fuck the Original, their pizza blows, they would have hit the Taco Bell drive-thru and eaten their faces off. Aaron would have drunk himself stupid. The next morning they would catch up on all the things he’d missed while he was locked up. They’d geek out about all the good artists leaving Marvel and starting Image. How Keaton rocked it as Batman the second time and how they turned the Ninja Turtles into a fucking kid’s franchise even though Raphael was still kind of badass. Somewhere in the middle of all that, Bobby would have helped him forget what happened to him inside, back to some semblance of normal.
But that was the real What If...? That was the alternate reality.
Aaron deserved to go back to jail. But isn’t jail what did this to him? They tore out his hair and knoc
ked out his teeth. Fucked his face and raped him.
God, what would they do to me? Where would I sit in that cafeteria?
As small as the apartment was, as much he hated that couch and despised their slumlord, he was no warden, the couch no metal bunk. The rooms had doors, and those doors had locks that Bobby controlled, and he shit and showered in private.
The idea of turning Aaron in lost steam.
So run. As far and as fast as you can. You can wait tables anywhere. You don’t own a cell phone, no credit card. Even if they see your face on those tapes, the truck’s not registered to you. You’re as good as gone. A ghost. Even if they pulled in Aaron, he’d never turn you in.
He’d never turn you in.
He’d never turn you in.
As Bobby faded from the fatigue, his brain conjured living comic book panels. Aaron was a steroid-pumped Red Skull knock-off, sieg-heiling and goose-stepping, while Bobby was the Peter Parker nerd but without the super powers, still fighting to keep his true identity a secret from the evil super villain. They engaged in an epic battle of wits versus brawn as he drifted off to sleep.
He woke up hours later in the middle of an asthma attack. He’d had one of those dreams where he fought a faceless someone, but every punch he threw was in slow motion, like pushing his limbs through peanut butter. His punches barely found the mark, and when they did, they had no effect on his anonymous opponent. So he ran. That didn’t work, either. No matter how loud his brain yelled at his legs to advance, they stayed stuck in a different time, pulling and pushing against some invisible force. Then the dream changed. Now he fell through ice, his mouth filled with freezing water, dirty and putrid, until he vomited. That’s when he woke up face down on a drool-covered cushion and gasping for air. He grasped in his pocket and sucked on his inhaler until the boa constrictor let go of his chest.
Down the hall, Isabel’s door creaked open. Whispers drifted out soon after. Bobby heard Nico tell Isabel that he thought Bobby looked asleep. He kept his head leaned back against the couch, his eyes only open a slit and faked a snore for good measure. The hinges squealed as the door opened fully and Bobby strained to listen for footsteps on the threadbare carpet that covered the cold slab. Then, underneath his eyelids, he saw movement, smelled Nico’s cologne. Nico took long soft steps, Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs in hunting season. Bobby held back a laugh. Nico watched him with each careful step, and when Bobby opened his eyes and lifted his head, he cursed under his breath.
“Hey, Bobby.”
“Hey, asshole.”
“Right. Good to see you again, Bobby. Nice talking to you.” He zipped his coat to his chin and made for the door.
“Stay away from my mother, jagoff,” Bobby shouted after him. He shook his head and caught a glimpse of Isabel standing in the doorway. She wore a tattered terry bathrobe of the most horrendous periwinkle that Bobby had bought for her many Christmases ago with money he’d saved from his earliest jobs. He insisted she throw it away, but she never did.
“That’s not what it looked like,” she said. “Not exactly. He drove me home and fell asleep making sure I was okay.”
“Oh, well then that’s much better,” Bobby said, throwing his hands up. “Two days in a row, Mom? Jesus Christ. No falling off the wagon for you. You just jump.”
She tucked her hand into the worn pockets and walked down the hall, head bowed, hair pulled back. She sat next to him on the couch and put her hand on his knee. “Can you let me explain?”
Bobby put his face in his hands and leaned back again, talking into them. “Is it going to be anything different than the usual? I can’t keep doing this, Mom.”
“I know,” she said.
“I don’t think you do,” he said. “I mean I literally can’t do this anymore. You have to find a way to do this yourself.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder!”
Isabel jumped at his shout and pulled her hand away from his knee. She pinched the lapels of her robe closer together. “Bobby, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.” He laughed. “Everything. Whatever. It doesn’t fucking matter. What time is it? I should see if I can pick up a lunch shift since you’re in no condition.”
“I didn’t get drunk last night. I mean, not like normal. Nico just didn’t think I should drive.”
“See, that sentence should have been ‘I didn’t drink last night,’ Mom. See the difference?”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“All right, so why? Why even one drink at that sleaze bag’s bar?”
Isabel inhaled deeply, then let out a stuttered breath. “I asked you yesterday if you trust me. Do you remember?”
“Yeah.”
“If I try to explain to you what’s happened over the last two days, you won’t let me get past the first situation, and I wouldn’t blame you. It will sound like all the same old bullshit. Up until a point, it was. But if you really do trust me, then I need you to go somewhere with me. It’s not far, but you can’t ask me any questions until we get there. If you do that, I can promise you that I will never have another drink. I’ll go to meetings if that’s what it takes. I’d swear on something but we don’t really have anything worth something except you, so, you know, there’s that.”
They shared a genuine but tired laugh. Bobby opened his mouth to tell her no, that he needed to make sure they made rent this month, but then he remembered the billfold of hundreds in his back pocket. He planned to find Aaron’s bag in the back, get his keys and somehow get to his truck unnoticed and put it back in the glove compartment, disgusted with himself that he ever took it in the first place, but if he ended up in jail, it would sit in some evidence locker while his mother might end up on the street. Isabel looked at him with a conviction he’d always wished for when she promised these things before. He didn’t trust her then, but something in her voice, something in her eyes made him trust her now.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”
Isabel slapped his knee and beamed. “All right. You want a shower?”
“Go ahead.” He yawned. “I’m still waking up.”
Isabel sprung from the couch and nearly bounded down the hall. When Bobby was sure she was in the shower, he went to the mason jar above the kitchen sink. He fanned out the billfold and stared at it for a minute. He counted out enough for next month’s rent and stashed the rest in his pocket, resolved to put the rest back.
He could live with that.
Isabel couldn’t help but look at Bobby at every stop sign, every traffic light. God, he looked nothing like Robert and yet so much like him, especially now. They’d see the resemblance in each other’s faces instantly. She just knew it. Bobby smiled each time he caught her staring, but she saw his annoyance growing, in that harmless way sons get annoyed with their mothers when they treat their grown young men like the little boys they still are to them.
“What?” he asked.
“When did you get so handsome?”
“What’s gotten into you?” He rolled down the window a crack. “The cap fall off your body spray?”
He was right. She’d gone overboard. She kept it in check with the wardrobe, though. Tasteful. She wore a smart button-down with only the top two left undone and black slacks with a sharp crease past the knee. She let her hair down, swept to one side. The makeup was solid, too, not too much, not too little. It wasn’t for Robert, though. This was a day she would never forget, one way or the other. Whether for a wedding or a funeral, people always dressed their best.
“We agreed, no questions,” she said. “That was two.”
Bobby held his hands up and looked out his window. She missed this, the affectionate snarky exchanges between them. She missed that smile. It looked so real she almost didn’t believe it. A horn sounded as she ignored a four-way stop. She stopped the car short of being clipped and Bobby braced himself on the dash.
“Jesus, Mom.”
She apologized. Her heart thrumme
d, already at a breakneck pace with the anticipation of what waited for them in a few short miles. She felt that same feeling twenty-two years ago, driving to deliver the exact same revelation to Robert. She hoped this day would end much differently than that one had.
SHE HADN’T THOUGHT anything of throwing up the morning she found out. At least not at first. She’d been out late the night before and lost count of the shots, although she remembered the number for the taxi. Hangover sick felt different. This was different. It couldn’t have been what she knew it probably was, but it made scary sense.
They both hated condoms.
“I want to feel you,” he’d said.
She told him she did, too, and she really did. He pulled out in time, he had to have, she was sure, but maybe not so sure, so she sprinted to the bathroom and peed it out. It was just once and she thought she got it all out. What were the chances? How fertile could she be? Had enough time even passed? She counted the days in her head and when she came up with the number she fought the urge to vomit again.
She couldn’t look at food that morning. Even her morning cigarette made her so nauseous she tossed it after one drag, and forget about the hair of the dog. Stomach flu, that had to be it. When she could no longer convince herself, it was off to the free clinic.
She couldn’t hear anything the doctor said after he told her. The sound of his voice dulled, her head in a diver’s helmet. She felt weightless and heavy all at once, like she’d float away, but the nervous sweat on the backs of her thighs stuck her to the exam table.
I can’t take care of a kid. I can barely take care of myself.
That some child would be screaming every night and depending on her to keep it alive, let alone love it, seemed a like a cruel joke that she wasn’t in on.
Still, something stirred in her that she couldn’t deny. In between the dramatic swings of complete terror and familiar self-loathing floated this tiny atom of joy. This feeling that God had made all as it should be and that this was her test. Her way to straighten out. A child would force her to dry out and to get clear.