by Tom Kealey
When they reach the apartment, Omar sets his mother against the wall, closes the door behind them, pulls her up before she can sit down, presses his hands against her ribs. He looks up the stairway. Two minutes you think? he says.
Three.
Three then. He wipes the snow and rain from her hair, off the crown of her nose and cheeks. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and takes the stairs, letting her lead, pushes at the small of her back.
Why you pushing? she says.
I’m trying to help.
You’re being rude.
I’m not meaning.
Meaning and doing are two different things. Your brother never pushed his mother like you do.
Omar says nothing.
If your brother was here, I’d already be up these stairs.
He takes his hand from her back.
Don’t make that face, she says.
I’m not.
I’m looking at your face and you’re making it right now.
He hides that face, looks down at the stairway, sees the cracks in the wood, a dark stain on the floorboards. He waits, listens to the silence between them. In that silence, she takes his hand, squeezes it, leads him up the stairs. As he follows her, he feels as if he’s learning a trick. He’s adding to his bag of tricks: keep her talking, wipe her face with cold water, give her a goal—five minutes, three, ten. Turn on the lights. Pout a little. He’s going to get this right.
She stops on the staircase with a flight and a half to go. Give me a push, she says. These old bones aren’t going to make it.
It’s a wood yard, says the younger Winston. They sit at a roadblock, the blue lights still flashing above them. Another deputy walks down the line of cars ahead of them. He’s checking licenses, looking in backseats. Behind him, dark smoke pushes across the road. The fire in the wood yard is a deep orange, tinges of blue and white in the center. It’s a huge fire—even many miles back, a deputy with a broken foot can see it. But it puts the younger Winston in mind of the carnival. He remembers the spook house and the fire in the dragon’s belly. He’d screamed, though he doesn’t scream now. He’s tempted though. He watches the firemen spraying white mists of water over the blaze. They’ll not put it out for a long while. By the time the road is open again: another boy, miles and states away from here, will have unlaced his mother’s shoes, tipped a mug of water to her lips, pulled the curtains closed from the glow of the moonlight. He’ll take a blanket from his own bed, Omar, cover his mother. He’ll slip in next to her and sleep. But Winston doesn’t think of this. He can’t see any of these things. He sees the fire only. Even at this distance, he can feel the heat of the blaze.
The older Winston has a fog in his mind. He’s confused, but at least he knows it. But he doesn’t know if the fog is coming in or going out. He sees, ahead of them, another deputy. The one checking the licenses. Three cars ahead. The man wears a cowboy hat. Silhouetted against the fire the deputy looks like a bandit, or the Lone Ranger. The deputy gives the license back, sees the blue lights. He looks. He knows this cruiser, but he doesn’t know the two people in it. He passes the next car. Keeps his eyes on the two Winstons. But he doesn’t know their names. He holds his hand up to shield against the lights. He tries to see into the cruiser, he’s level with the car ahead. He studies these two people in the cruiser. The older Winston feels the fog slipping in.
The younger Winston, he’s been waiting. He has his hand on the seat between them. What do you want to do? he says. He’s said it three times now. There’s no answer. He grips the edge of the seat hard. Looks at the deputy.
He wants then to reach into his pocket. Take out his wallet. Pay the deputy. But the man doesn’t approach the car. Winston wants to pay the price for this ride now, before the price is named. He thinks the ride might could go on. Thinks maybe if he moves fast enough, he might get a bargain. He believes the price to be paid will not be found in his pocket. He reaches there anyway. The deputy, watching the boy, doesn’t see a boy. It’s a big boy. It’s an adult. The boy’s hand reaches for something, and the deputy unclips his holster.
The older Winston reaches forward. He’s not sure if he’s got this right, but he reaches out of sight of the deputy. The younger Winston watches the hand go. He wants that hand to go on and on, knows that the ride is still on, as long as that hand moves, as long as the deputy’s hand moves, the ride will not end. The old man flips his wrist and the engine dies. His hands are still moving. He takes up his grandson’s hands, slowly. He’s gentle, this man, with this boy. Always. He puts their hands on the steering wheel.
The uppercut is a blow delivered—well—up, with either hand and in close quarters. The boxer finds this blow most effective against an opponent boxing in a crouched position and moving in.
It’s the morning. Helen walks the three miles to the gym in a white fog that hovers over the gravel and the farmland in wisps and strings, in fingers. She smells smoke and watches the first orange rays sift through the white fog.
She’s been told where the key is. She undresses near the ring, hears the door open across the way. Slips into her shorts and T-shirt. She tapes her hands, and watches her trainer undress, tape his hands. She skips rope. Three hundred.
In the ring they say nothing. She ties his left glove. They crouch in the center of the ring. He ties her left, then her right, shows her again how to tie with a glove on. How to make do. They take a minute in their corners. Here, they are their own trainers. When she talks to herself, she sees his face. She listens to his instructions.
In his corner, he sees a girl. Not this girl—the one behind him—but another girl. He sees his mother as a child. He’s seen her in black-and-white photographs, and he remembers a story now. His mother is nine years old and reaches for a piece of fruit in a street cart. He can’t remember the fruit now. Let’s call it an orange. His mother is looking like a buyer, but she means to steal that orange. Her brother lies in a bed, asleep. When the boy—the boxer’s uncle—wakes, someone will wipe his chin, will help him walk, might offer a piece of fruit. The boy will not live out the year. But his sister reaches for an orange in a cart on the street with a picture of her brother in her mind. She has black curls and tiny hands. She watches the merchant, pretends to be a buyer. She squeezes the orange while her brother, blocks and blocks away, sleeps, while the merchant turns, while, years and decades later, Helen says, Ready?
The trainer turns and looks at this other girl.
Do you know what I’m going to do? he says.
No.
This merchant. Decades before. Let’s give him a moustache. He sees the girl. The merchant is quick and tall, and two steps away. He’s got long arms and angry hands, and he’s caught his share of thieves in his day. This little girl looks at him. She’s nine years old, but will one day be someone’s mother. She puts the orange into her pocket. Brazen. Her eyes ask him a question: are you as fast as I am? He doesn’t have to answer the question. He believes he’s plenty fast. He moves, sudden, and grabs her. He’s going to show her now. He’s going to show what he does to thieves.
But he is completely mistaken. He looks at his hands. He holds nothing. And now he has one less orange. He grabbed air. He looks around for the girl, for the boxer’s mother. But she’s long gone. She’s slipped away. Because that is what a fast speed does.
The trainer moves away from his corner.
Do you know what you’re going to do? he says.
Yes, says Helen.
What’s that?
Keep moving, she thinks, but she says nothing. She lets go of the ropes, fits her mouthpiece to her teeth, walks to the center of the ring, meets him, and moves in.
THE BOOTS
It was a visiting priest, as it often was, and the two altar boys half-listened to the homily and stared out at the small congregation. Snow was falling fast outside, and many of the old people had stayed home, but there was one man—more ancient than any they’d seen—sitting in the back of the church, and he was obviously
a homeless man and a little drunk tonight. At least it seemed this way to Omar, the older of the two altar boys, and he watched the man close his eyes and lean forward, almost asleep, then catch himself and listen again to the homily. The priest had moved past grace and love, as if they might be near the bottom of a list, but important to mention nonetheless. When he spoke the words “Lazarus” and “resurrection” the two boys perked up, because that story was often interesting to them. “When his name was called he awakened,” the priest said. “Just as our names are called, every day. And we must awake in a similar way.” And then the priest went on to some parish announcements. It made Omar frown. He’d been hoping for some new information. He looked over at Lewis, but Lewis did not return the look. The younger boy’s head jerked to the side, and then again, as if beyond the priest’s homily he could also hear some music that no one else could hear. It was a bad tic and had become worse in the last year. He’d been told he might eventually—when he was older—shake to death, and he’d shared this secret with Omar, who had told him not to worry over it too much, and who’d said, no, he wouldn’t tell anyone else.
They went through the rest of mass, ringing the bells when it was called for and taking the gifts back to the altar, and during communion they held the little dishes under the chins of the parishioners, though no one had dropped a host in a long while. It had been a year, and Omar had caught it, and the priest—another visitor, though not this one—had told him that he was a very vigilant young man, and this had delighted both boys, so much so that they’d gone to the dictionary and looked up the word: “watchful and awake, alert to avoid danger.” They liked that. When mass was over, they walked down the aisle and waited at the back of the church with the priest as he shook hands with some of the parishioners, and some of the people shook the hands of Omar and Lewis, or patted them on the head, and when this happened the boys smiled though they weren’t smiling on the inside. They watched the poor box as some people dropped in dollars and coins, and even the ancient man dropped something in, and when everyone had left the boys took up the box and brought it back to the sacristy and opened it and counted out the money.
It was not much: four dollars and change, plus a candy wrapper, a book of matches, and a little white bone that they picked up and studied. It was just a few inches long and seemed like it might be half the wishbone of a turkey or a chicken, and they wondered about the wish that had been made upon it. Good health maybe, or a change in the weather. They placed it at the top of the stack of money and took it away to the priest, who was preparing himself for confessional.
Once—the year before Omar arrived—there had been a five-dollar bill in the poor box, and Lewis had slipped this into his pocket. He’d bought nine cans of lemon soda with the money and drank them all in one day. He felt bad about it now. He’d felt bad about it for a long time, and he’d been sneaking a quarter into the pile for the last few months. In a few more weeks he’d have it all paid back.
They offered the money to the priest, and the man took it and put it in a drawer, and Lewis stood there with the bone in his open hand. The priest looked at it.
“What the hell is that?” he said.
“It was in the box,” said Lewis, and his head jerked to the side.
“Somebody offered it up,” said Omar.
“Well, get rid of it,” said the priest.
The two boys studied the bone.
“Can we keep it?” said Lewis.
The priest frowned. His expression seemed to indicate that the bone was a great inconvenience to him.
“I don’t care,” he said, and though there were altar dressings to fold and the chalice and the dishes to wash, and the wine to be poured back into the bottle, the two boys followed the priest out to the confessional where there were two women waiting in the pews just outside. Later, the two boys would try to guess the sins to be confessed: adultery and jealousy and murder and thievery and sloth, the latter of which was the worst as far as Omar was concerned, but now they waited for the priest to open the door to the confessional, and when he saw them standing behind him he said, “What do you want?”
“Can we see in?” said Omar.
The priest looked at his side of the confessional. “In here?” he said.
“Yes.”
He seemed to consider that, and he looked over at the two women who were praying with their eyes closed.
“Does Father Ramon let you see in?”
They frowned at that and said that he didn’t.
The priest sighed, opened the door, and waved them in, and immediately they asked if they could slide the windows open, and he said to keep their voices down and yes that was all right if they were quick about it.
So, they opened and closed the windows and they each had a seat in the chair. The other leaned outside to see if the little light came on, and when it did he gave the thumbs-up. They asked the priest if one of them could go around and kneel on the other side of the confessional, and the priest said no, go on now, and so they did, back up to the altar and the sacristy where they washed and folded and put things away, and when they were done they put on their coats and scarves and headed out into the snow.
There was a strong and painful windstorm outside, and the two boys headed straight into it, wiping the snow from their eyes and moving from streetlight to streetlight in the dark. The lid of a trashcan blew across the road, and the cars parked near the sidewalk were covered in white, like a long line of sand dunes or mountains in a range. The boys crunched along in the drifts, and Omar thought of his mother, as he often did. He’d not been vigilant enough with her—she’d been a heavy drinker and had died of it—but he tried to put that from his mind, and instead he remembered waiting for her at the laundry in the hospital, watching her sort and weigh the linens that she pulled from baskets and oversized sacks. The room was long and filled with light, and he could hear nothing above the din of the washers and the fifty-gallon tanks filled with bleach water. His mother worked slow and deliberate in her long bib overalls, and every so often she’d motion for him to fold this stack of towels, these pillowcases, and they’d play an unnamed game: a poke to her ribs when she wasn’t looking, and a pinch on his ear when he wasn’t. Omar kept a tally in his head. He was always way ahead. They took up the sheets together and placed them in the washers.
When the boys arrived at the diner, just past the butcher’s shop, they went in and found a booth in the corner. There was some music playing from the jukebox, something slow and bouncy, and the two boys bobbed their heads to the music as they studied the menus. They looked at the pictures of the french toast and the patty melt and the banana pie. There was a line of syrup caked at the top of Lewis’ menu, and he scraped it off with the edge of his fingernail. They counted out their money, and figured in for a tip, and while they waited on the waitress they looked out at the snow that was swirling down into the streetlights. Omar imagined the moon and the stars falling to earth.
“What’s it going to be?” said the waitress.
“A tea, please,” said Omar.
“With two spoons, please,” said Lewis.
She looked at them. “That’s all you’re going to order, isn’t it?”
They said that it was, and sorry about that, and she took up their menus and went off into the kitchen.
Lewis took out the bone and placed it on the table halfway between them. His head jerked to the side. It was a strange little bone, they both agreed, and they began to play the football game with it. They slid the bone across the table to each other, trying to score a touchdown by getting the bone to hang off the edge without falling. They tapped it with the ends of their fingers. It was not easy, and they worked at it for a while, and at some point Lewis observed that the table had not been wiped down in a long time. Still, he was the first to score, a lucky shot that ricocheted off the sugar container. Lewis lined the bone up for the extra point, and when he flicked it, it went over Omar’s shoulder and into the soup of the man sitting
behind them.
“What the hell?” the man said.
They turned to look at him, and the man was dressed in a red Santa Claus suit. He looked very drunk and not very happy about the bone.
“Sorry,” said Omar.
“This is a finger bone,” said the man.
“Sorry,” said Lewis.
“You threw a finger bone in my soup,” said the man.
Their tea came then, with two spoons and two little containers of cream.
“What are you yelling at these boys about?” said the waitress.
“Look,” said the man. He pointed at his soup. “Finger bone.”
The two boys went back out into the wind and the snow. They were filled up with a cup of tea and two refills, and Omar had the bone in his pocket. The man had not given it up easily, and they weren’t allowed to play the football game anymore. The snow was coming down sideways now, and they walked into it, back toward the church. Lewis’ tic was worse, harder than before and more frequent, so that he began to have trouble walking in a straight line. He took hold of the tail of Omar’s coat and followed the boy into the wind.
When they came to the church they could see that there was a strange form under the light by the side door, and they trudged up toward it until they could see that it was a man lying facedown on the steps. The man was bundled in a heavy coat and scarf, and he had no shoes on his stocking feet. The boys circled around him and stopped near the hat lying alone and covered with snowflakes. Lewis brushed it off and gave it a quick snap against his knee, and he placed it back on the man’s head.
They turned the man over and they could see that it was the priest, the visiting one, and he was alive though he seemed fast asleep, and his face was cold to the touch. They found his wallet and the keys to the church in his pocket, and they dragged him inside to the sacristy and closed the door from the cold and the wind.