by David Beers
Tonight, John dreamed about the first time he realized he and Harry were different. That perhaps he and all kids were different. Perhaps he and all people.
He was twelve when the two met. It didn’t take long for him to figure it out, that though he and Harry might be best friends, something separated the two of them in a very, very fundamental way.
They were in the woods, after school. Most days anyone could find them there, sometimes with a large group of kids, sometimes just the two of them. Either way, the woods always seemed like theirs.
John got in some trouble a few years before; he got into a fight at school and did his best to fuck the kid up (though he didn’t know what that word meant when it happened—at twelve years old, fuck was a new and exciting word). He still remembered the way his mom acted when it happened, as if she couldn’t understand it and as if John should feel … sad or something. He didn’t. He enjoyed hitting the kid’s head up against the mirror, still remembered the way his eyes squinted and lips twisted into something little more than fat, slobbering pieces of meat. He didn’t know why she didn’t get it then, but he knew that it scared her. So John stopped fighting. He stopped picking on those three kids, though they were more terrified of him than ever.
It’s not like he did nothing, he just stopped fighting at school.
No one tried to fight him, either. That little hiccup when he was seven had followed him for five years, people remembering the day John Hilt smashed a kid’s face with the bathroom mirror.
Harry didn’t have that same advantage. Harry was taller and lanky. Thin, though, as if his bones refused to allow either muscle or fat to grow over them—only skin. He wasn’t great looking either, not ugly exactly … just nerdy. Glasses that were too big for his face and unruly hair, like he either didn’t own a comb or the thing broke five years ago and he never bothered to buy another one. John truly didn’t care what Harry looked like—he was fun, and more, Harry liked him, too.
That’s what he learned when the fight happened at seven, you couldn’t trust people.
He hadn’t picked on all three of those boys. Two of them, sure. He hated those fucks, but the one that got his face cut up? That boy had been his friend. Tom Jerwin. He ended up moving school districts, and John had no way to keep up with him, but he remembered what betrayal felt like.
Harry … he didn’t think Harry would betray him, though. They were pretty good friends, best friends, even.
Harry, however, was picked on. Time and time again, someone would shove him as he walked into the bathroom, hitting the door and flailing inward while everyone on the outside watched with near glee. John saw it happen often enough, heard the laughter of boys and girls alike. Harry would open his locker and find a goddamn snake in there. Harry once used the restroom while it was lunch period, and when he came back, someone replaced the meat of his hamburger with dirt. He didn’t notice it until inches from his mouth, when he smelled the clay.
John watched it all in silent amazement. He never said anything to Harry, didn’t want to embarrass him, and Harry never said anything about it either. Each of them acted as if that part of Harry’s life didn’t really exist, not while the two of them were together. John damn sure wasn’t going to do anything at school to cause a scene. Lesson learned.
The woods were a different matter.
John hadn’t learned any lessons there and he didn’t think anyone would try to teach him one either. As long as he didn’t take things too far. Which he wouldn’t. Unless something presented itself.
Which it did.
First month of school, seventh grade year, John headed down to the woods. Harry was going to meet him as soon as he got done with his chores. John had his backpack on, jumping straight off the bus and coming down because he always tried to knock his chores out before school started.
He stopped at the edge of the woods, on the trail just before he entered the shady canopy. He smelled burning tobacco, though he didn’t hear anyone. Cigarettes meant older kids. Eighth and ninth graders, maybe older. Kids played down here for the most part, but sometimes the older kids came down, especially if they were ditching class.
Cigarettes, though, meant a different brand of kid. The type that might pick on someone, say like … Harry.
John took his backpack off and placed it behind a tree, still on the edge of the forest. He didn’t want anything weighing him down.
He started down the path, hugging the side, making sure the trees on his right were close. He would hide if he saw anyone. The smell grew stronger as he pushed deeper.
And then John saw him, as if God placed the kid there. He was alone, puffing on a cigarette. He stood with his back to John, looking out at the small creek which cut through the middle of the woods.
John knew his name. Lionel. The only white guy in the history of white guys to ever be named Lionel as far as John was concerned. Lionel was in a class all by himself at bullying. How many times had John watched Lionel drop his shoulder into Harry on their way through the school hallways? Each time Harry nearly flew off the ground, because Lionel outweighed him by fifty pounds or so.
And now, the guy was here alone, with no one else in the woods yet … but Harry on his way down.
John stepped behind a tree, looking around the area for anything that might help him. A few feet away he saw a nice sized rock, something that would fit in his hand but was nearly too big as well. John stretched out, getting low to the ground, careful to make no noise, and grabbed it. He turned, looking back at Lionel.
What was the best way to do this? If he threw the thing, he could miss, and would be in for a pounding.
If he got close, he could still end up losing.
He could also cause some real damage, and John knew he had to walk that line carefully. Too much damage and John would end up with a pair of cuffs on his wrists.
He stepped out from behind the tree, looking at Lionel’s back. He stood for a few seconds, watching the cigarette smoke float up into the leaves above. John smiled. Lionel had no clue what was coming.
John walked forward, rock at his side, crossing the ground between himself and the bigger kid with a sure speed. Two feet away, Lionel must have heard or sensed something, because he turned, but it was too late. John brought the rock up from his side, in a round-house punch, and slammed it against Lionel’s turning face. Blood shot out his nose and he grunted, heavy, but that was it. The boy collapsed to the ground, all his muscles giving up on him at once. He fell to the dirt, blood dripping from his nose and the discarded cigarette lying two feet away, smoke still moving up from its red ash.
John sat down on a large rock jutting up from the creek.
He waited ten or twenty minutes, studying Lionel’s blood. He watched it spread and sink into the dirt, the red substance almost hypnotizing him. Something in the way it moved? The fact that it carried Lionel’s life in it and that John had taken just a bit of his life from him? Maybe both of those things.
Finally, he heard footsteps and stood from the rock, ready to run if it wasn’t Harry.
But it was. Harry, consistently consistent.
He stopped ten feet away, hands at his side. “What the hell happened?”
“He was down here alone, so I clocked him with a rock. I wanted you to have a chance to get a few licks in.”
“Do what?” Harry said.
“He’s always picking on you. Now you can do whatever you want; he’s not waking up any time soon, and if he does, I’ll jump in too.”
“Dude…,” Harry said, shaking his head. “We can’t just hurt someone while they’re knocked out. What are you talking about?”
“Why not?”
Harry looked at him, disbelief weighing on his face. “Man, I’m getting out of here. You’re going to get in some trouble.”
He turned around and walked back up the trail. John watched him go, his head slightly cocked. Betrayal? No, he didn’t think so. John didn’t get the feeling that Harry was going to tell on him, but �
� still, his best friend was walking away when John had brought him a prize.
John looked around the room. The bed was empty, so Diane must have already woken up.
The dream faded quickly, disappearing just as Harry had when he walked up the path, leaving John with Lionel’s unconscious body.
John blinked a few times, trying to chase the dream completely away.
What day was it?
Saturday. No work.
Thank God.
And yet, John didn’t know how he felt about that. Without work, when Harry arrived, John would have absolutely nothing—nothing—to keep his mind off his dead friend.
He rolled over to his side, facing the bedroom door. He curled up underneath the blanket, not closing his eyes as he prayed: Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever, amen.
John felt the Lord’s touch sometimes. A deep warmth and sincere knowledge that God was with him. Not today. The prayer seemed to float like Lionel’s cigarette smoke all those years ago—looking for a home as it traveled upwards but finding only open space to dissipate in. God wasn’t here. John was alone in this room, alone in his house, even with his wife in another part of it.
Harry would come though, and then John wouldn’t be alone anymore, but his company was worse.
Is it really, John? There isn’t some piece of you that’s glad he’s here? Some piece of you that’s ready to break someone’s face like you did Lionel’s?
No, he thought, rebuking the questions as Jesus once rebuked Satan. No.
John sat up in bed, blinking. He knew what he needed to do, the only thing that might help. It worked in the past and maybe it could now, though he’d never attempted it while Harry was actually here.
John dressed, his face solemn and his eyes glancing around the room constantly, looking for any sign that Harry might show up. Nothing, though—just him and the empty bedroom.
He walked out into the hall, stopping momentarily to see if Harry’s bloated body waited for him, smiling, offering some sick joke about getting ready for their work, as Saturday meant he didn’t have to go into the office. Nothing, though—maybe God wasn’t in the room with John, but perhaps He was clearing the path.
Thank you, he prayed silently.
He walked down the hallway, heading to the kitchen where the smell of hot coffee emanated from.
“Hey,” he said as he entered.
“Coffee?” Diane said.
“No thanks. Look, I’m going to go to a meeting, okay?”
Diane nodded, taking a sip out of her own cup. “That’s fine. What time do you think you’ll be back?”
“Couple hours probably. Meeting before the meeting and the meeting after the meeting.”
She smiled. “All the sayings you guys have.”
All the sayings. Harry could tell her a few sayings.
Stop.
John gave her a kiss and left the house, keys in his hands. He looked down at his keychain: ‘One Day At A Time’. It had been a while since he last went to a meeting, but he knew he was always welcome.
John got into the car, expecting to see Harry sitting in it, waiting for him. Again, though, John was alone.
Going to a meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous. Even that was a lie, though. A lie within the lie. John didn’t drink, but a lot of what his family saw over the past twenty years had been attributed to that devil. John stopped drinking and started attending AA meetings, though he wasn’t an alcoholic and his problems had nothing to do with drinking. He covered up, though, the best he could; he went religiously to these meetings for a while, and knew the language like a man who hadn’t missed a Saturday meeting in twenty years.
Except, he started out at AA, but … well, he didn’t think that drug related enough to his own problem. The people in there had issues, sure, but not like John—their addiction lacked the intensity of what he felt. They wanted their drink, but …
He found what he needed in another twelve step program. Sexaholics Anonymous. SA for short.
He certainly couldn’t tell his wife about that, though. John went because the people in there, they had compulsion issues. Alcoholism could get you in a lot of trouble, but it wasn’t get-you-locked-up-for-molesting-a-twelve-year-old-girl type trouble. That was a type of compulsion most people couldn’t ever understand—it defied what their brains could rationally believe in. Not John. John knew all about the intensity that might drive a person to do something like that.
This damn motherfucker.
John sat at the table, twelve other guys around it with him, all of them fairly close together. You could go to AA meetings and see fifty or sixty people; SA was different. A morning like this one was considered packed. Though everyone got their chance to talk.
Or they were supposed to, but John didn’t know how well he’d be able to speak given Harry was walking around the outside of the circle.
“These are the people you want to hang around?” Harry said, not looking at John, but at the guy in front of him. Harry stood on the other side of the table, looking down at someone (Hi, I’m Eddie and I’m a sexaholic.). “You heard what this guy just said, right?”
John didn’t look up, didn’t even glance at him. He had to focus on the next person, had to keep his mind on the words and the solution they brought.
“A higher power … I know, I know,” Harry said, moving to the next person in his path. “The higher power can release you from your lust or alcoholism or gambling or whatever the hell twelve step program you go to. Too bad we don’t have any of those things, John. We’re not like these people. What we do … it’s fun.”
“Will you please shut up?” John said, finally snapping his face up and staring at him with all the severity of an executioner.
“You can’t really expect me to hang out while you do this, right?”
“Then don’t hang out. Get out of here.”
Harry laughed. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Why would you bring me here?”
“Because it’s not about you.” John looked back to the person speaking. Alfred. What was Alfred talking about? John couldn’t remember. Couldn’t keep up because fucking Harry wouldn’t stop talking.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
He let his mind go to Alfred, trying his best to love the man in front of him, to do what the sayings always told him. This was God’s child, and John should treat him as such. Harry was no one’s child, or perhaps John’s, but either way he didn’t warrant attention.
John remained quiet, oscillating between Harry’s incessant chatter and the stories going around the table—until finally, the dealer chip made its way to him.
“Got something you want to say?” Harry asked, smiling his broken toothed smile.
“I’m John and I’m a sexaholic,” he said.
“Hi, John,” the refrain came back.
“I’m struggling this week, to be honest. I don’t like talking about the problem; I prefer to focus more on the solution, but I need to check-in. I’ve got five years sobriety, but I’m near a breaking point. The … urge, I guess, it’s coming on like it hasn’t in a long time. I mean, it’s bad. I keep praying, keep trying to give this away to my higher power, but it’s like He’s not there right now. It feels like He’s putting it in my hands, and I know He wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t handle it, but … I don’t feel like I can. I just wanted to get that out, to check it in. Thanks.”
“Thanks, John,” the group spoke as one.
Harry walked back to the wall, leaning against it, not saying anything—only smirking. John watched him for a few seconds and then brought his attention back to the next sp
eaker.
Harry remained silent the rest of the meeting though he didn’t leave. At the end, John stood up, and though he knew he should stay behind and talk to some of the guys, he just couldn’t handle it. He headed for the door—
“Hey, John, wait up a second.”
He stopped and turned, just happy it wasn’t Harry’s voice calling after him.
“Paul,” the guy said as he approached, sticking his hand out.
“Hey, Paul.”
“Do you have my number? It would probably help when the urge comes again, because we both know it’s not done, is it?”
John glanced over Paul’s shoulder, getting a quick look at Harry. “That’s the truth,” he said, refocusing and pulling out his phone. “What is it?”
Paul gave it to him, then said, “Want to give me yours too? I can call and check in.”
“Absolutely,” John said.
When he left the building, he didn’t glance back at Harry.
8
Present Day
John said he’d be home in a couple of hours, but five hours had already passed and Diane was worried. Or maybe not worried, per se, but still—she wondered about him.
Plus, she was bored. The kids still weren’t back—wouldn’t be until Monday—so without John to hang with on Saturday, she didn’t have much to do.
Is that really all? she wondered. Nothing to do with how he acted at dinner last night?
She pushed the thought away, swatting at it like a fly buzzing around her ear. He had a bad night, that didn’t mean he was drinking again.
And what about the meeting? What about the fact that he’s not here and it’s been hours?
He went to the meeting didn’t he? Didn’t he always say his actions were what mattered, not the feelings or the distance? He took action, as they say in the program. She’d call him, he’d answer, and then everything would be fine.
She picked her cell up from the kitchen table, tapped in the number, and put it to her ear.
It rang.
And rang.