28 Boys

by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  I stop and gaze at her, puffy eyes and morning hair aside she is still so beautiful. She won’t look at me, so I lift her chin so I can see what her words won’t say – in her eyes.

  “Francis…” she shakes her head.

  I want to yell and scream and shake her until she chooses me, but I just sit here offering up the only thing I have that’s worth anything in this world.

  My heart.

  “What if I say stay, and then I change my mind?”

  Her indecision hurts me in a way I cannot explain, but I feel my heart sinking back into the hole I hid it in all my life. I feel myself hardening again. It’s a horrible feeling and I can’t stop it.

  “Then you change your mind, Engela. I am only asking for another chance. One I know I don’t deserve, but I had to try. And if I stay, that’s not the end of this conversation, because Engela there are things that we both need to know.”

  She leans closer to me, and I can feel the sweat on her palms as I grab onto them a little tighter. My breaths are short and frantic as I wait for her. The seconds drag on forever, it feels like a day in prison; never ending.

  This is worse than the day I waited for the judge to sentence me. I knew it would be bad, I just didn’t know how bad. I have that same ill feeling in my gut now, and I hate it.

  “One chance,” she says with conviction. “Only one, Francis.”

  One is all I need. This time I won’t fuck it up. I have one life and it’s time I actually lived what’s left of it. This won’t be easy, life isn’t easy for anyone who lives here in hell, but it will be worth it. “Okay.”

  “Een kaans, dis al wat ek vir jou kan gee Francis. Moenie my haart breek nie.” One chance is all I can give you, Francis. Don’t break my heart.

  I can’t help smiling even with all the sadness hanging over us, she just gave me a gift and my soul sings with happiness.

  “We have things to talk about, Engela. I will take that chance after we talk about them. Hard things, like I am HIV positive, things like my job. If you don’t want to talk now it’s okay, but we will have to have this chat.”

  Now she smiles, and pulls her hands from mine. She pulls me closer, her fingers crossing in my neck and our foreheads touching. I don’t have hair for her to run her hands through and the soft touch to my scalp feels odd at first. She moves me, so that this time it is her that takes my breath away with a kiss.

  I never imagined kissing someone to be so powerful. When you are a number in a cell you don’t think about kissing, you just want to live until the next day. A kiss reminds me of everything I missed.

  It reminds me of kissing Dan’s chubby baby cheek, and of her Ma pecking my cheek when I would drive her to town. Kisses are very powerful things, the connection between two people shared in those touches.

  Engela kisses me with love, regret, loss and hope — all things we share. She climbs on top of me, the plastic beneath me creaking under the added weight. My hands are on her bum so that she doesn’t fall.

  It feels so good, too good.

  On the Coke crate in my shitty little room, we surrender to what we feel for each other. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t have sex with her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want her, or feel things when we touch. I would do anything to be able to get that close to her, to make her all the way mine, but with her tongue she claims me as hers.

  I pull her pajama shirt up over her bush of messy hair, then I pause and stop her for a moment. I feel myself hesitate for a minute. It feels wrong, like I am taking advantage of her when she’s this vulnerable.

  “Wag Engela.” Wait Engela. I pull her hands away from where they have snaked up inside my shirt. Immediately I regret it when I see the hurt in her eyes, and she looks away from me staring at the wall. “Ek wil jou nie seer maak nie. I don’t want to hurt you. We can’t.”

  “I’m not asking you to have fucking sex with me Francis, I just want you to let me feel good. Everything hurts so much right now and this … us, it feels good. So shut up asseblief please and just feel this with me.” Putting her hands back onto my marked skin, she glares at me defiantly, pushing me. “I am not a kid, you can stop looking at me like I am, Francis. I know about AIDS and won’t let you hurt me either. But, you have to trust me, and yourself if we are going to even try and be … be whatever it is we want to be.”

  I melt. The man that could hold his own in prison, and commanded the resect of the hardest criminals can’t stand up to this girl and her brown eyes.

  “Just feel good with me, Francis, be the drug that takes away my pain today.”

  I lose the control I was hanging onto and in once swift movement I lift her up off the crate and we land on my small single bed between last night’s crumpled sheets, her on top of me. I feel her hips straddling me. I sit up so I can pull my shirt up over my head, posing my badges of dishonor to her eyes, but she doesn’t see it at all, she just sees me.

  Until today I had just accepted my illness and resigned myself to the fact that sex wasn’t going to be a part of my life, but now I would literally sell my soul to the devil to go back in time and stop myself from all of it.

  As she grinds against me, her warmth over my jean covered erection, I internally battle to find my self control and hang on for dear life. Her tongue traces lines on my neck where she kisses and bites. Her dark skin flushes and changes color, a mist of sweat covering her skin.

  I’m afraid to touch her, afraid of what I will feel if I do, but she takes my hands and puts them over her breasts. I feel her nipples harden, she is enjoying my hands on her.

  I never allowed myself to touch her skin before, over her shirt only — we kissed like children in middle school before this. Right now she’s not that little girl and it doesn’t feel wrong anymore, it feels good, better than good.

  “Francis, don’t be scared of me.”

  She talks to me, sitting up, placing her hands over mine. Her voice drips with a desire that wasn’t there before. And I am afraid, I feel like a little school boy again, like the first time I saw a girl’s snatch.

  I don’t know what to do. Engela smiles at me and shows me what to do without me asking her. Her hands guide mine. Her body moves slowly as she grinds harder against me and I grip her hips to stop her. I am getting to close to the point of no return.

  She slows down and slides off me, so she can lie beside me. The small bed means our bodies still touch. I can smell her shampoo when I kiss the top of her head, and she slides her hands down my body, stopping where my jeans are buttoned closed. Her fingers slip into the band and stop where the elastic of my underpants stop her going further.

  I start to panic and grab her wrist.

  “Trust me, Francis.”

  She pulls her hand away from my death grip and I want to trust her, my body wants me to, but I don’t trust me.

  “Nee Engela.” No Engela.

  I take her hand away and kiss it softly, putting it back on my chest, in a safe area, and try tell my dick to calm down. Deep breaths in and out don’t do much to help, and I just lie here like a wet rag.

  “Francis, just feel. Just give me this. We can’t have sex, but we can still feel good together. I want to make you feel good, I want you to touch me – everywhere. I can’t get Aids from you touching me. I learned that much in health class and think you did too.”

  It’s not a very sexy thing to say and I get her point, but the mood has just left me completely, so I pull her against me and cuddle into her full chest, breathing in the smell of her while she rakes her nails slowly up and down my back.

  “I’m sorry, Engela,” I say, not looking at her.

  I’m embarrassed. I feel stupid. I feel even worse that I didn’t trust her.

  “It’s okay, Francis. Ek verstaan.” I understand.

  We shift into a comfortable position to just hold each other, like we did before — before they were gone.

  “Can we just lie here and talk? Please Engela.”

  “Ek luister.” I’m liste
ning.

  She let’s me in.

  “What do you want to do, Engela? Do you want to stay here? There is no reason to stay anymore, you can go and do anything you want. You have a chance to escape.”

  She doesn’t answer right away, thinking about what I am asking her.

  “Where would I go? And would you go with me? As much as I want to go, this is home. It always has been and the thought of leaving home, and the memories I have here, scares me.”

  I can’t see her face because she has her back up against my chest.

  “I’ll go wherever you go, Engela. We can make a new home.” I hug her tighter to me. “They don’t live here anymore, they live in our hearts, all of them.”

  “I don’t know yet. Can I ask you something, Francis?”

  “Ja.” Yes.

  “Is jy seeker dat jy lief is vir my, ek bedoel sonder Ma en Dan, net ek?” Are you sure you love me, I mean just me, without Ma or Dan, but just me?

  I did fall in love with all of them. The family, the idea of having a family because mine were all gone, I never thought to separate them and her. They were everything I missed for twelve years and it felt so good to have them.

  “Seker.” I’m sure. And I am. “Can you love me without sex? If this is as close as we ever get, is it enough for you? Because I might never be able to give you more, and we will never have sex Engela. I won’t kill you.”

  “Sex isn’t everything, Francis, in fact it only ever caused trouble in my life. So if you love me without sex, I will love you without sex. We can still be close, there are other things we can do.”

  She sounds sad when she admits it out loud, but I want to be honest with her. I don’t want her waiting for things she can never get from me.

  “What about children, Engela? You are young and that’s something I can never give you. I can’t ever give you a child, and I know it’s not the time to say this, but if you want another child then I need to walk away from this, because we both know I can’t give you another son. Are you done being a mother?”

  I feel the droplets of her tears drip onto my arm where it holds her. I feel the way she tenses, trying to hold back the pain I just reminded her of.

  I wish I could take it away, make this all easier for her, for us, but all I can do is hold her tight.

  “I don’t want to bring another person into this world, Francis. I didn’t want Dan to be born into this place where he was just destined to be another number, another man in prison with a family dying outside. No, I never want another child. I loved the one I had and now I think that place in my heart is gone with him. Ek wil nie nog ’n kind hê nie, daar is glad nie plek in my wêreld vir kinders nie.” I don’t want another child, no, there is no place in my world for children.

  I understand what she says better than any other person could, it seems like an awful thing to say, and she might change her mind one day, but I know what it’s like to be born here into all of this, and that the hopes for any future other than one that looks exactly how my life did, are futile. I accept her choices, and they make me love her a little more for being strong enough to admit that out loud.

  “Ek verstaan dit, beter as enige iemand.” I understand that, better than anyone.

  Sniffing, she wriggles back against me, trying to get even closer. “Ek wil nie meer praat nie.” I don’t want to talk anymore.

  She ends the conversation. I know we will have many more hard talks like this in the future, but for now I’m just happy that she even wants to talk to me at all.

  I kiss her shoulder softly, and we lie here for a short while before there is knock at the door again.

  “Francis.” Eiran calls me, his voice harder and more demanding this time.

  “Jy beter gaan.” You’d better go, she says, turning to face me so I can see her again.

  With a soft kiss, that I want to turn into more, she lets me know that she’s okay now.

  The door handle turns and I yell. “Ek kom, fok.” Fuck, I'm coming damn it.

  I kiss her and pull my shirt back on, before I slip out the door, making sure no one can see where she lies half naked on my bed.

  20

  Engela

  after the storm someone has to clean up the mess

  The door clicks closed between us and I scramble to put my top back on, suddenly aware of my state of undress in a house full of men.

  Not sure what to do, because I can hear whispered and muffled voices outside the door, like they are standing right there, I sit on the bed and just wait to see if he comes back in. It sounds like they are arguing, the whispers are interspersed with the odd louder word or two, and I wish I could hear more.

  I jump when the door flies open again. Francis looks mad as hell, but his face softens and the frown lines disappear when he looks at me.

  “I have to go out for awhile, you can stay here if you want to. You don’t have to go home yet. I might be long.” I look past him to see a scowling Eiran in the passage. “I’m sorry, Engela.”

  A peck on the cheek and he’s gone again. The closed, tatty wooden door, makes me feel alone. Sadness settles in me and I curl into a ball in his messed up bedcovers and twisted sheets.

  They smell like him and it makes me feel safe as I drift off to sleep.

  When I got up earlier, the house was empty. All of them had gone and there was quiet, inside at least. Outside there were cars, gunshots, and sirens to serenade me all afternoon.

  I walk through the house where I have counted about eight guys are staying. In the one bedroom there are bunk beds, the triple decker ones like they have in prison, in fact they probably come from prison. All the beds are unmade and it smells like feet and old bread in there.

  I wrinkle my nose and hold my breath until I get back into the passage. The third bedroom, the one that was Francis’s mother’s room, has a double bed and a stack of mattresses on the floor. The bed is at least made up, and the smell is slightly less offensive.

  The place makes me want to scrub everything clean, including myself. The bathroom, oh good lord, the bathroom is scattered with empty deodorant tins and about forty half-used bars of soap. You can instantly tell there is no lady living here. Men are pigs when left alone.

  In the lounge and front room I look over at my house, but it looks so far away. It doesn’t look like home, and I close the curtains so I can’t see it. Even in here there are dirty dishes and ashtrays all over the place. I can’t help myself, I start picking them up and carry them to the equally disgusting kitchen.

  I quickly look around and come up empty on the cleaning products. Taking a deep breath I go back across to my house, change into track pants and a t-shirt, grab a bucket and all the cleaning materials from under the sink, and stomp my way back across the street.

  I don’t know why I want to clean their mess, but the whole place gave me the grils (jeeblies), and anything is better than sitting around crying for another day. I kick the front door open so I can lug the bucket of cleaning stuff inside. I can’t believe they didn’t even have Handy Andy (ammonia cleaner), sies gross.

  I start in the front of the house and work my way from room to room, making the beds, washing sheets, and dusting the surfaces that might even have had fossils buried beneath that layer of furry dust. I make a few more trips home to fetch things, like all the spare sheets from the linen cupboard so I can wash theirs. I fill their washing machine and my own, and go between the two all day filling up and emptying them.

  When I finally make it to the kitchen my feet ache and every room in the house is spotless, and the smell has been replaced with that of bleach and soap. It’s there, scrubbing week old dishes and with my hands burning from chemicals, that I realize just how much Francis needs me, and I need him.

  On my knees cleaning that linoleum floor, I find something I haven’t had since my brother died. I find peace – and myself.

  I am not the stupid girl making stupid choices because I am angry at the whole world anymore. In my grief I find somethin
g lost, and it is more precious than anything. My self worth is here on the filthy kitchen floor, and I am picking it up as I wash away their dirty footprints and spilled coffee.

  Engela isn’t the gangster’s that she slept with, or the girl whose brother died, or the teen mother who lost her son, she is stronger than all those things. She has a purpose, and even if it isn’t clear what it is yet, I am going to find it. My ma wouldn’t want me to die of heartbreak or sadness, she taught me to be better than this place, she had high hopes and maybe I can still be what she saw in me.

  There are about six black bags of rubbish by the time I am happy with the house. I start to carry them down the front steps so I can put them on the pavement. It’s two days until dustbins are collected, but they can rather be out there, it’s clean in here and I want it to stay that way.

  On my second trip outside the first car pulls back into the driveway. Some of the guys get out and barrel towards the house. When they see me, the younger one, the white boy, he comes and takes the bags from me.

  “Thanks, there are more in the kitchen,” I say, as he walks them to the street and I go back up the steps.

  The rest of them arrive in drips and drabs over the next few hours, and I am showered with thanks, and comments about clean sheets and Stasoft.

  “Engela,” Donnie, who introduced himself properly after he took out all the rubbish says. “Thank you.” He has a big smile on his face where he leans against the kitchen cabinets. “This place feels like a home now, it missed a woman’s touch.”

  I frown at him. “Julle is 'n klomp vuil gatte.” You are a bunch of dirty assholes, I tell him shaking my head. I am scratching for some sort of food that I can cook for them all, but there isn’t much in the pantry cupboard. “What eet julle? What do you lot eat? There is nothing in here.”