by Nick Nolan
But the situation wasn’t funny to him. Not at all. His mother hadn’t been awake for two minutes and she was already issuing orders like a sergeant. She had, of course, no concept of what the past few hours had been like for him. She hadn’t witnessed the group of neighbors who huddled in front of their apartment, smirking as the paramedics hauled her blathering self into their rig. And over the coming days, while she lounged in her hospital bed ordering the nurses around, he would have the revolting task of cleaning and dismantling their apartment before being shipped off to Foster Care Hell. And finally, as her dutiful son, he would do whatever he must with the knowledge that she was an alcoholic time bomb with an unpredictable hair trigger. Who knew but God what would set her off? And when would it be—next month, next year, tomorrow? He should have come home later…He vowed never to cut swim practice again.
What could he say to get even?
“No, Mom, I didn’t bring your cigarettes.”
“Oh. Well, you’ve got some money, don’t you? They’ve probably still got a machine in the cafeteria; you know most of the doctors smoke here. It’s really not as bad for you as—”
He held up his hand to cut her off. “They’re taking me away again, Mom, for a long time I think. I don’t know where I’m going, but they’re coming tomorrow.”
“What?” Her jaundiced cheeks flushed orange. She searched his face for any sign that he was lying. She expected him to be angry; she could count on that. And it wasn’t unlike him to make up a story; after all, he was her son. “What do you mean they’re taking you away? They can’t do that. You’re nearly grown! You can stay with Mrs. Jackson for a couple days ’til I get out of here.”
Her smug expression said and that’s that.
He pushed down a grin. “The doctor said a social worker will be at Mrs. Jackson’s tomorrow to tell me what’s gonna happen. They say I can stay with her for a couple days, maybe even a week or two.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You’ve got to face the fact that you’re an alcoholic, Mom, big time.”
“I’m aware of my disease, thank you.”
“Just listen to me. Please.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes.
“The problem, Mom, is that the doctor says you have diabetes now, and liver and kidney failure too. Besides, you choked on your puke and you’ll probably get pneumonia. Dr. Kathy says you almost died.”
“What else did that woman tell you?”
“She says another binge like this’ll kill you. And she thinks this six-month program she knows about is your only chance now.”
“That’s bullshit. I’ve survived a lot worse than this.”
“But that was before the diabetes. The doctor said your life depends on your never drinking again, forever.”
“Well, doctors make me sick,” she said. But she assumed that what her son had relayed from the doctor was correct; she had, in fact, felt her body deteriorating. She had no energy, her pee was now a brownish-yellow, she wobbled from a loss of balance, and had bloat that never drained. She had even thought about moving downstairs because the climb to the second floor was becoming too difficult. In fact, her latest binge was fueled partly by the desire to know if she could still pull one off, or if the party was indeed over. She had been sleeping more and more lately, forcing herself to rise and brush her scant remaining teeth barely ten minutes before her son was expected home each day.
If she were as ill as her situation indicated, and if she didn’t want to die a miserable death filled with dialysis, blindness, and hacked-off limbs, she really had no choice but to try another program. And this would also mean sending him away to some god-awful foster family or, worse yet, a group home filled with teenage thugs.
There has to be some other way.
This time, maybe there was some angle she hadn’t thought of—some bridge she hadn’t yet burned that could take them both to where they needed to go.
Had enough time gone by that she could send him to Katharine?
There was no one else, so Katharine had to be it.
But what about Bill?
She could deal with Bill, even if it meant…
She smiled sweetly and reached out for her son’s hand, which he accepted limply.
“You know I love you,” she said, Shirley Temple–style.
He nodded.
“So don’t worry. I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow. And I think I’ve got a way to take care of us, to give us both what we need.”
“Like how?” he asked suspiciously.
“I can’t say yet, ’cause I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Leave it to me. Everything’s gonna be OK.” She nodded with conviction. “Trust me.”
“So you’re gonna go into that program?” he mumbled.
She inhaled dramatically, then blew a vodka-scented sigh at him. “Yes, honey, I’ll go. I’ll tell the doctor tomorrow. Now I think there’s still this big old nurse out there, looks like an old man with boobs—she works nights. She smokes. Go find her and tell her I gotta have one, bad. Then you go on home. We’ll talk more tomorrow after I fix everything.”
Chapter Three
At a quarter to eleven, Jeremy plodded up the stairs to their unit.
His mother’s bodily fluids had combined with the day’s ovenlike heat to make the apartment smell like a Dumpster, so he pushed rolled-up towels along the underside of her bedroom door and shoved his sofa bed up to one of the louvered windows that faced the street. He then slept comalike, fully clothed and impervious to the hizzing glare of the amber streetlights or the cars that sped by throughout the night.
By sunrise the stench had dissipated enough that he was able to enter her bedroom. He spent the earliest part of the day cleaning and going through their belongings, and around lunchtime was coming down the stairs with the last two bags of trash when he heard a car pull up to the curb in front of the apartment house. He watched the white Honda creep to a stop, its engine fan blowing like a hair dryer under the hood, the young woman behind the wheel craning her neck to make out the numbers on the front of the building. She switched off the motor, then ratcheted the parking brake.
He continued more slowly down the stairs, his stomach tight, watching as she scooted out of the car hefting an expensive-looking briefcase, then sashayed toward him. She stopped next to the bus bench, flipped her hair back, and smiled.
“Hi,” she announced perkily with eyes purposefully widened. She was pretty, and he figured she knew it. “Can you tell me where I can find Jeremy Tyler?”
He looked across the street and saw a filthy man eyeing his bulging trash bags. “That’s me,” he said.
“Thought so. I’m Ms. Klugburm, from DCFS.” She walked closer but extended no hand. “You can call me Kelli. The hospital sent me. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Um, not at our place, it’s kinda gross right now. But we can go to Mrs. Jackson’s. She’s right back there.” He turned around to point just as the woman herself emerged from the shadow of her screen door, arms folded like a sumo wrestler.
Jeremy led the way to her cozy apartment as his neighbor grunted a welcome to the young woman and directed them to sit on her long, autumn-leaf-patterned sofa. Mrs. Jackson then took a seat in her own sagging recliner, which had been placed in the room opposite the front door, affording her a commanding view of the comings and goings of everyone in the building. Troll Under the Bridge, she called herself.
“I’m Louise Jackson.” Her voice filled the room. “This boy’s mama directed me to care for him when she’s away, and I’m prepared to do so. I’ve done it in the past, and when I do, I look after him like he’s my own. Now what’s your business?”
Ms. Klugburm shot what was supposed to be a disarming smile first at Mrs. Jackson, then at Jeremy. Then she snapped open her briefcase and withdrew a series of stapled forms. “Mrs. Jackson, Jeremy, I’ve just come from interviewing Mrs. Tyler about your placement. And please keep in mind this is only temporary.”
She handed them each a set of papers. “I understand in the past his staying with you has worked out really well. However, this time, because of Mrs. Tyler’s lengthy hospital stay, some other arrangements had to be made.”
“What other arrangements?” Jeremy demanded. “Where’m I gonna live?”
“I’ll speed this up, Jeremy, as I can see that you’ve been through a lot.” She looked sad for a second, turning to face him. “And please keep in mind that this decision was made in your best interest.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Mrs. Jackson.
“The court has arranged for you to live with an aunt of your late father’s in Southern California, in Ballena Beach. Her name is,” she looked at the paper in her hand, “Mrs. Katharine Tyler.”
“Oh God, not Aunt Katharine!” Jeremy shouted, jumping up. “My mother hates her! Why would she send me there?”
“His mother speaks wickedly of that woman,” Mrs. Jackson added.
“I understand that there were some disagreements in the past.” The girl scratched her nose. “But the court believes that her and her husband will be the best equipped of all your relatives to care for you. They’ve got no children of their own. And although your mother hasn’t wanted you to stay with them in the past, she said she’d rather see you with them than in foster care. And when I confirmed the arrangements with Mrs. Tyler, she seemed very friendly and really excited about your staying with them. The paperwork’s still being processed, but you should be ready to go by tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow!” exclaimed Jeremy. “Why so soon?”
“The court doesn’t like children missing school, especially when placement has already been determined and the new school year has started. The county has purchased a bus ticket for you. I’ll be by tomorrow. I think the bus leaves at one in the afternoon.” She looked at her notes. “Yes, so I’ll be by at noon to pick you up. Do you think you can be ready by then?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She smiled. “No, honey, you really don’t.” Then turning to Mrs. Jackson she asked, “Can he stay with you one more night?”
“He could stay with me forever,” she said. “But I’ll do as you say and see he’s ready tomorrow by noon sharp.”
“Great,” she replied, snatching her briefcase and then pushing herself up from the sofa. She held out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jackson. I can see that Jeremy would be very well taken care of here.”
Mrs. Jackson took her hand. “Promise me that if it don’t work out with that woman you’ll come talk to me before you put him somewhere else. This boy’s been through enough already. He needs a good home and lots of love. I’ll give him that.”
“I promise I’ll do that, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Call me Louise.”
“I promise, Louise. See you both tomorrow.”
By eleven the next morning, Jeremy had two pieces of luggage packed: for himself, an old green canvas army duffel stuffed with balled-up clothes, his journal, and his pillow, and for his mother, a trash bag. In it he placed her freshly washed and folded pink bathrobe, her only pair of decent jeans, her scuffy slippers, two worn T-shirts, and the shoe box covered with layers of masking tape that she had carried dutifully from apartment to apartment over the years. He had long ago given up asking her what was inside; when asked, she would only reply, “Some old crap.”
He hoisted the duffel in his right hand and her bag in his left, but then noticed that one of the corners of the box was already sticking through a hole in the black plastic. He set both bags down, pulled the box from the trash bag, then pushed it past his pillow deep within the duffel—just to be safe, just for now. After all, everyone knew that things got lost in hospitals. And maybe he would open it up himself, just to spite her.
At a quarter to twelve, he went downstairs. Jeremy and Mrs. Jackson said their good-byes and, judging by her glistening eyes when the Honda pulled up in front, his leaving appeared to be difficult for her. But not so for him. During the early years, his mother and he had moved a lot, so he never became attached to people or places. It was easier that way. He hadn’t even bothered to call the hospital to say good-bye to his mother—he knew he’d be hearing from her as soon as she needed something.
When they got to the bus terminal, Jeremy thanked Ms. Klugburm for the ride, slung the duffel over his shoulder, then waved at her, ticket in hand. She responded with a happy smile and then drove off to the hospital to deliver the trash bag and, he assumed, to cart off more children to some moldy orphanage.
As he stepped up into the long silver bus, he scanned the remaining empty seats and saw that the back row was unoccupied. He made his way to it, tossed his bag on the netted shelf above the scratched and tinted windows, and then slid himself onto the vinyl bench seat.
After a few moments, the bus driver, a frighteningly gaunt black man dressed in a flawlessly creased gray uniform, slammed the folding door shut, then gunned the engine while simultaneously farting the air brakes. The immense vehicle shuddered and then began rolling down Mission toward Highway 99.
The bus made two stops on its journey south: the first to pick up more passengers in the farming community of Tulare, the second at a depot on the outskirts of Bakersfield. Here they had a twenty-minute rest stop, so Jeremy got off the bus to spend some of the five dollars Ms. Klugburm had insistently pushed into his hand for food. He needed to pee, besides.
He surveyed the outrageous prices of the snacks in the half-empty vending machines lining the back wall of the station and then came to the conclusion that he had just enough money for some M&M’s, a bag of Doritos, and a Coke.
He had only just retrieved his snacks, torn open the package of candy, and unscrewed the soda cap when a friendly voice startled him from behind.
Chapter Four
“Where ya headed?”
Jeremy turned and then jerked away from the pear-shaped man standing too closely behind him. He wore jeans and a black satin shirt that was unbuttoned but shouldn’t have been, considering his flabby torso. His eyes were hidden by glasses tinted so dark they looked like outer space.
“L.A.,” the boy replied as icily as he could, and then made his way over to the row of orange hooked-together fiberglass-and-chrome chairs. There he sat.
“That so,” the man said, and sat next to him. “You gonna be in the movies?” The man grinned, revealing front teeth like piano keys and an absence of molars.
“No,” he laughed.
“Looks like yours, you could be.”
“Thanks.” Jeremy looked away, trying not to encourage him. He checked the clock over the ticket counter: fifteen more minutes before his bus left.
“I got a buddy who makes movies in Hollywood. And I know he’s always lookin’ for boys like you to make into stars. I could hook you and him up—you’d be rich. What’s your name, son?”
I’m not your son. “Josh.”
“Well, Josh, glad to know you. I’m Bud Stygian…rhymes with pigeon.” He held out his hand to Jeremy, who automatically shook it because that’s the only thing he’d ever been taught about what men are supposed to do. But after his hand made contact with the skin, he recoiled—it felt dry and cold and hot and wet at the same time, like the man was sick in a hundred different ways.
“Josh, like I said, I could do you a favor and hook you up with him—give you his number for when you get into town. So I do you a favor,” he murmured, “and you do me one. Know what I mean?” The man looked around nervously as his hand secreted down to trace a finger along the boy’s thigh. “By my count, we still got about twelve minutes before your limo leaves for Beverly Hills,” he whispered, leaning in. “Truck’s out back. Whatcha say?”
Was this happening?
“No way.” Jeremy rose from the chair as the loudspeaker announced they would be boarding in five minutes. His bladder was about to rupture, so he trotted toward the men’s room while keeping Mr. Stygian in his peripheral vision in case he followed, which he did not.
Jeremy was zipping himself up at the urinal when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see the man entering the restroom, his piano-key mouth snarling.
“Look, you shitty punk, you think you’re better’n me? I can tell trash when I see it, ’specially faggot trash. Could see it all over you like neon lights when you climbed off that bus.”
“Get away!”
Stygian spat on the floor. “You’re just another worthless queer boy on his way to L.A. One a day just like you comes in this station. The smart ones sees I can give ’em something they couldn’t get from where they come from, but not you…so not only are you faggot trash, you’re stupid faggot trash.”
“Fuck off!” Jeremy pushed past him as he trotted from the stinking restroom toward the lobby. He glanced out of the windows and saw, with relief, that the passengers were already pulling themselves up the steps of the bus.
Some time after the adrenaline had worn off and he was rocking again with the motion of the highway, he ran the incident over in his head, from start to finish and back again. The episode bothered him more, he figured, than it should have; he’d heard stories of guys at school getting hit on by dirty old queers. So why did it bug him so much?
For starters, he hadn’t fought back, he’d just run. Any other kid his age would have flattened the old creep and been justified in doing so. So he’d cheated himself out of the opportunity to stretch his manly wings and fly; after all, bashing a fag was supposed to score you even more Dude Points than losing your virginity to the hottest cheerleader at school. But he hadn’t slugged the man, hadn’t pushed him down or shoved his head into one of the unflushed toilets.