Prodigal Sons

by Mike Miner

  Lee glided into the backseat.

  “Man, you guys saved my ass. It’s gettin’ cold for a brother out there.”

  Tommy chuckled.

  “I think black people weren’t meant to live in cold climates.” He blew on his hands. “Where y’all coming from?”

  “LA,” Tommy said.

  “Los Angeles?” he dragged out the last syllable to sound like “ease.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “La La Land, huh? That’s some shit. I could deal with a bit of California sun right about now. Why the hell’d you guys leave?”

  Tommy looked at Matthew, but he wasn’t saying.

  “Tough city to live in, maybe?”

  Matthew just stared at the road.

  Lee leaned in close to Tommy who bent her ear close to his lips. “Your boyfriend don’t talk much.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. And no, he don’t talk much.”

  Matthew’s eyes met Lee’s in the rearview mirror. Lee’s eyes glinted with a kind of amused mischief. This was the guy your mother warned you about, Matthew thought. He guessed maybe the same could be said about him. But he couldn’t quite get a read on Lee. The way he licked his lips when he looked at Tommy, Matthew could see he wanted to fuck her, but that was between them. Was there something else on Lee’s agenda? Lee seemed to pick up on his thoughts in all of a second and winked at him.

  “You kids interested in maybe hitting a party?”

  “Maybe,” Matthew said. He could use a drink.

  “What about your car?” Tommy asked.

  “That bitch ain’t going nowhere. Take this exit.”

  The house he led them to was in some rotted out section of Denver. Matthew thought it was Denver anyway. All he knew for sure was that it was in Colorado and they looked to be about a mile high. There were a lot of cars on the street, half of them steel skeletons. Like they’d come here to die. He wondered if people drove them here and never left. Lee told them where to park and they got out. Lee talked the entire time about how “off the hook” it was going to be. A wolf moon looked down between the ramshackle houses, showing even at dusk, their peeling paint. He knew it was a mistake to go inside. What wasn’t a mistake lately? Some lessons you learned the hard way.

  They could hear the music about a block away and when they opened the front door it was so loud it was like wind. Too distorted to pick out the tune or any lyrics, just the bumping bass line. Lee showed them around but it was too loud for Matthew to hear what he said. There weren’t a lot of white faces here and Matthew felt very out of place. The few white faces he noticed were as run down as the neighborhood. Lee directed them to the fridge. Matthew was amazed to see it was stacked with Mad Dog 20/20 of every color. Lime green, pink, and red like you might find in an Easter basket.

  Lee noticed Matthew’s expression, “You know you at a real party now.” He started to dance. The expression on his face was hysterical and seemed to contort with each beat as though the music physically hurt him.

  Tommy and Matthew cracked up.

  The first two sips of the Mad Dog were terrible, like candy that hurt your teeth. But after half a bottle, all was right with the world. Matthew wanted to keep an eye on Tommy but the thought got pushed further back in his head with each sip. The party crashed over them, like waves taking them farther and farther away.

  At some point Matthew befriended a well-dressed man with a thin mustache, making a show of his card shuffling skills.

  “You wanna play cards, brothah?” A shark-toothed smile.

  “Okay,” Matthew said. The undertow pulled him in like a discarded toy on the beach.

  ***

  Matthew woke up shivering. Urine had soaked through his underwear and pants. He could hear it in the wet cushion as he shifted on the couch where he must have passed out. He stood, felt an uncomfortable stickiness on his crotch and thighs. His hand felt around in his damp pants pockets for a pack of smokes. Nothing. Would have looked in his suit jacket pockets but it seemed to have gone missing. This was troubling since that was where he’d been keeping all his cash. Also, it was pretty fucking cold.

  He didn’t see it anywhere in the remains of the party. There were half-filled bottles and glasses turned into ash trays, tipped over, crushed beneath dancing feet. Shoes, bits of clothing, fancy hats obscured the floor. The smell of smoke and the debris evoked a plundered city. No jacket. No Tommy.

  His eyes found a window and he remembered that they’d made it to Colorado. The Rocky Mountains glared back at him.

  His right hand was killing him. A rag was wrapped around it stained with his blood. An image of a large man with a knife came to him but wouldn’t come into focus. For now, he’d leave it alone.

  After a while, he realized Lee was standing there, watching. He wore a tight, white tank top and loose, white sweatpants. It was the purest white Matthew had ever seen. The filth surrounding them only amplified how clean Lee’s clothes were. Matthew thought even to touch them would spoil them. Lee’s bare arms were folded and so rippled that it looked like his muscles had muscles. He looked like a genie sponsored by Adidas. What scared Matthew was the expression on Lee’s face.

  It was dead serious and unchanging as he asked, “How’s your hand feelin’ Boss?”

  “Not so hot.”

  “That was some fucked up shit.”

  Matthew tried to recall it. He understood now that the man with the knife had done something but he couldn’t retrieve it from his blurry memory.

  “Kind of tripped Tommy out.”

  Matthew shrugged, started to stand, but Lee held a hand up. Matthew remained sitting. His hand throbbed. He didn’t ever want to take the rag off.

  “Kind of freaked Tommy out so bad, she might be looking for a change of traveling companions.”

  “So there you go.”

  They looked at each other. Each knew where the other stood. Matthew didn’t like where either of them was standing but especially didn’t like where he stood.

  “She can’t tell me herself?”

  “I’m telling you.”

  Matthew couldn’t think of a way to challenge this perfect lie.

  “So what now?”

  “So now you get the hell out of my house. Stop bleeding on my furniture.” Lee handed him his suit jacket.

  Matthew knew there was no money left in it. Both of them knew there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I don’t suppose I could get a lift into town?”

  “You suppose correctly, lushface.”

  Matthew glared, hating the handsome, impervious features of Lee’s face. Looks can’t kill.

  “Get the fuck out.” Lee turned and left.

  Matthew got up after a moment. He shook from withdrawal and rage. Kept replaying Lee’s tone of voice, imagined a fist or a hammer shattering Lee’s massive jaw.

  Nobody bothered to check on the scarecrow shivering his way down the highway toward the tall buildings of downtown Denver. After a few blocks his piss-damp boxers felt like they were carving furrows into his thighs. The pain in his hand turned surreal, every step created a new sensation now bubbling, now bursting. But still he wouldn’t take the rag off. Instead he hoofed it and pulled his jacket tighter against the cold and watched the cloud of his own breath puff out in front of him. If the tall buildings in front of him were growing taller he didn’t notice. He worked on Boston lineups in his head as he walked. Manny would be nice in the four spot. Carl Everett was a poison and they were well rid of him. Matthew pretended he was shaking because of the cold. A drink. His kingdom for a drink, a sip, a taste, anything, but he’d already given his kingdom up.

  The sun started to warm the day. The white puff of his breath faded. The sky was a pretty blue with a few soft, sugary clouds. The city still seemed far off but he came into some sort of town. His stomach was running on empty. He stopped and looked at himself in a storefront window. Not much to see. What looked like a heroin addict stood where his reflection should be. A sudden gust of wind revealed the
skinny man underneath his suit. He was probably the best dressed man in all of Denver with no money. Matthew put on his best smile. He’d need it if he was going to try to order a meal. Looked at the rag around his hand. The hurt twisted up his arm, painted spots in his vision.

  How the fuck did we get here? his ghostly reflection asked.

  “Don’t ask me.”

  The smell of grease got his attention. A diner called The Over Easy Café. He took a deep breath and went in to try and bluff himself a meal.

  Sat in a booth near a window. An old but perky waitress came by with a pot of coffee.

  “Coffee, hon?”

  “Sounds great.” He flipped his cup over.

  She poured it, humming something to herself. “Menus are right there if you need one. Pretty typical diner food.”

  “That’s what I came for.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

  Matthew smiled as she walked away. The menu looked good. He burned his mouth taking a big sip of coffee.

  “Whatchya liking, sir?”

  “Pancakes, eggs and bacon.”

  “That’s a healthy appetite.”

  There’s nothing healthy about my appetite, he thought.

  As he thawed out, the feeling slowly came back into his face. Wasn’t looking forward to eating his meal one handed so he decided to take off the rag. The men’s room was small and he was almost touching the toilet when he stood at the sink. He took a deep breath and unwrapped the makeshift bandage.

  His pinky finger was nothing but a memory.

  Objects lost their size, expanded and contracted in time to the pulse pounding through his brain. He swooned.

  ***

  Matthew woke up in a hospital bed. His hand was bandaged and his clothes were gone. Some dim memories of an emergency room echoed in his head. There was nobody in the room with him.

  He stared at the phone on the bed-stand table for a while before picking it up. He called his parents in Connecticut. Who else was there? Got the machine. His mother hadn’t changed the message in years. The sound of her voice hurt worse than his hand.

  “Hey. It’s me.” He imagined the sound of his voice in the house he grew up in. “I’m in a hospital somewhere near Denver.” Pictured the kitchen where the phone was. “I guess I could use some help.” Couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “Bye.”

  He hung up and lay on the bed. Tried to imagine where his missing finger was.

  LUKE 4

  As if in reward for the miles of tedium, shortly after they left Pam, Utah gradually unfolded its treasures. Bored with itself, the desert started to reveal a breathtaking array of landscapes, swirls of land twisted and shaped by a playful giant into art. Revealing its maker to be a proud, talented craftsman. In Colorado, trees were reinvented, the alpine scenery carpeted in tall pines. They drove steadily through it all relieved for something to look at, something they never knew existed and would have trouble describing to anyone else, a land for fables and tall tales. Luke was grateful. It felt like a gift to have seen it. And then they had climbed all the way to Denver.

  They got a hotel room and called home. They were still on the right trail. Matthew was here, only five miles away. In a hospital. It seemed absurd.

  Ragamuffin was the first word that came to Luke’s mind when he saw his brother asleep on the hospital bed. He looked thin and dirty and beat up. His hand didn’t look right. There was a bandage on it but it seemed like there should either be more bandage or more hand showing.

  Luke and Mark were clearly not who Matthew expected or hoped to see. He got out of bed on shaky legs.

  Luke wondered what Matthew was about to say before Mark hit him as hard as he could in the face. Matthew went down like a bag of bones. Mark’s face was bright red and Luke could almost hear how fast the blood must have been pumping through his veins.

  It was only after Luke bent to see if Matthew was okay that he noticed what was wrong with Matthew’s hand. Luke sucked in some air and pointed the wound out to his brother. Mark was shaking his punching hand and wincing but stopped when he saw the hand. He looked like he almost felt bad.

  They checked out, wheelchaired him outside then packed him into the van like a piece of luggage. Matthew looked out the window of the van in utter defeat. Like he was on his way to a funeral. He touched his already swelling face, but he didn’t seem too concerned about it.

  Mark talked to Matthew’s reflection in the rear view mirror. “Well I hope it was worth it, asshole.”

  Matthew kept looking out the window as though he was considering Mark’s words. Was it worth it?

  “Cat got your fucking tongue?”

  Nothing.

  “What the fuck’s your problem? We chased you halfway across the goddamned country. You want to thank us for finding you?”

  Matthew turned to look at Mark’s angry eyes in the mirror. “Thanks.”

  Luke noticed that Matthew was trembling.

  “Where are we going?” Matthew asked.

  “To the hotel,” Mark said.

  Matthew nodded. Luke felt like he was barely in the car.

  “You’re gonna need to stop.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Stop at a liquor store and get some beer.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “Just do it.” Matthew’s voice was just loud enough to be heard. “Or you will regret it.”

  Mark looked at Luke. Luke put his palms up.

  “Call it a last request if you like.”

  Luke didn’t like the sound of that.

  Mark pulled over in front of a 7-Eleven. Mark handed Luke a twenty. “Get twelve, we could all use a drink.”

  Luke nodded and got out of the van. It was cold. Beyond the cityscape ahead of them the mountains were snow-capped. Luke got a twelve of Bud and some peanuts. Better than nothing, Luke thought to himself. He paid. Out in the van, his brothers didn’t speak to each other. They stared out the van at their own private thoughts, probably wondering how events had conspired to bring them both to this place at this time. Luke couldn’t figure out who looked sadder.

  Luke wasn’t happy either. Their adventure had come to a none-too-thrilling ending. The real world started to close in again on all of them. What could you do? In the movie version, Luke would add a final chase scene, maybe a shootout.

  Luke got in the van, threw the bag of peanuts to Matthew in the backseat. After he shut his door, the bag of peanuts was tossed back at him. Matthew snapped his fingers and Luke knew without looking he was holding out his hand for a beer. He took a deep breath and handed him one.

  Matthew twisted the cap off and took a big sip. Then an awful sound like Matthew had been kneed in the nuts as he tried to keep the big sip down. The next snap came too soon but Luke handed him another.

  In the hotel room, Matthew brought his fourth beer into the shower with him. Once the water started, Mark and Luke looked at each other.

  “Fuck, dude,” Mark said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell should I tell Dad?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t seem good.”

  “No it does not. He looks like shit.”

  Mark opened a beer. Took a swig. “Should we be letting him drink?”

  “I don’t know if we could stop him. Might be easier for the purposes of getting him back to let him drink.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you see how thin his face looked?”

  Mark nodded.

  He looked young and malnourished like some kind of concentration camp victim. His eyes deep in their sockets. “Maybe the shower will do some good,” Luke said.

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  They sat for a bit, sipped their beer and listened to the water run.

  “Feels strange,” Mark said.

  “That we finally found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kind of anticlimactic.”

  Mark looked like that wasn’t the word he would have used.r />
  The sound of Matthew throwing up interrupted Luke’s train of thought. They each took another swig, to get the taste of bile out of their mouths.

  “Asshole,” Mark muttered.

  Matthew came out of the shower with a towel around his waist. Luke could count each one of his ribs. He was working on a pretty big shiner. Matthew grabbed another beer. He took a big sip and made a loud, pleased noise.

  “The fuck happened to your finger?” Mark asked.

  Matthew looked down at his hand as though he’d just noticed it and said, “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “That’s right.” Matthew drank his beer.

  “You just woke up with your finger missing?”

  “Hey, did you guys bring my clothes?”

  Luke pointed to a drawer. Matthew opened it.

  “Niceness.” To Mark, “What’d you say?”

  “You just woke up with your finger missing?”

  Luke thought he saw a faint smile on Matthew’s lips or maybe just in his eyes.

  “Something like that.”

  Mark shook his head. “Dude that’s fucked.”

  Matthew pulled on a pair of jeans. “Yup.”

  “Does it hurt?” Luke asked.

  “A little. The worst part is the itching.”

  “The itching?” Mark said.

  “It feels like my finger’s still there.”

  “What’s it feel like?” Mark asked.

  “It itches.” Luke thought his brother looked recognizable with jeans and a t-shirt on. He had shaved in the shower but that just showed off how pale he looked.

  “You guys call the ’rents yet?”

  They both shook their heads.

  Matthew nodded as if that settled something. “Let’s get a sandwich or something before you do.”

  Mark and Luke couldn’t see anything wrong with that.

  The food put some color back into Matthew’s face. He favored his hurt hand and had some trouble holding his steak sandwich.

  “When did that happen?” Luke pointed to Matthew’s hand.

  “What day is it?”

  “Friday.”

  Matthew thought about it. “I don’t know.”