Poison Shy

by Stacey Madden

  When I stepped into the elevator and watched the doors close without anyone else getting on, I knew I was free. The doors opened in the lobby and I strolled out of there with my hands in my pockets, nodding at the bare-legged smokers and wheelchair-ridden vegetables, sympathizing with them, feeling like a member of their clan.

  There was only one Gloria Sands in the phone book, though my source was a water-logged edition I’d found in a public booth. The pages were crunchy and smelled like piss.

  Sands, Gloria. 111-57 Malt Rd. 444-5903.

  The address was three blocks from the hospital, in an area known to Fraynians as either The Lantern District or Hooker-town.

  It was cold, but the weather didn’t keep the streetwalkers from doing just that. There were white hookers and black hookers, Asian hookers with small breasts and pert little asses, she-males with fat collagen lips, their packages on display in red leather tights. Goth chicks with tattoos on their faces and fat chicks in ass-less mesh nightgowns. They saw the bandages on my head and shot me sex-hungry looks of compassion, their mothering instincts still alive beneath their skanky exteriors. A teenaged girl in jeans and a bra told me she’d rub both my heads for twenty.

  Standing outside Gloria’s building, smoking a bitch-stick the length of a pencil, was a buxom redhead in sunglasses and a fur coat. She saw me approaching and smiled. “You looking to spend some time, honey? Ooh, what happened to your noggin?”

  “Sorry, not interested.” I moved to go inside.

  She lowered her sunglasses. “Hang on a second. Darcy?”

  I looked at her again. It was Suzie.

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” I said, and pulled the door closed behind me.

  There were only eight names on the tenant list in the lobby, all of them single syllables. Bragg, Ford, Gale, Katz, Sands, Smith, Ward, Wynne. I punched in the code for Sands, and after a few beeps a crackled voice said, “Who is it?”

  “Um, it’s, ah . . .” I paused. “This is going to sound crazy but I think you used to know my father. His name was Jack Galloway.”

  Static.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Can I come in and talk to you for a second?”

  “I don’t even know who you are. Goodbye.”

  “No, please. I need to know if you ever had a son.”

  Another pause. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “It’s Brandon. Jack Galloway was my father. Did you know him? Please just let me in.”

  As I stood in the lobby with my head wrapped in bloody bandages, it occurred to me that the last thing this woman should ever do is let a lunatic like me into her building. It surprised me when the buzzer sounded. I opened the door and made my way down the dark, cabbage-scented hallway to room 111.

  The door was ajar. I knocked lightly three times. A calico cat curled around the door and pranced past me down the hall. I knocked two more times. “Hello?”

  I heard something like dinner plates clanking together, and a few seconds later the door opened. I saw a yellow-eyed woman with long witchy hair, a mix of grey and sandy blond. She wore a pair of stonewashed jeans and a tank top, exposing a splatter of faded tattoos on her arms and shoulders. She sort of gasped when she saw me, then quickly composed herself.

  “Miss Sands?” I asked.

  “Jesus Christ, Brandon,” she said. “You look so much like your father.”

  I cleared my throat. “I think your cat escaped.”

  “Jackie’s always escaping,” she said. “She likes to wander. It’s okay. Do you want to come in?”

  Her apartment was small and cramped. There were boxes of stuff in every corner. The layer of dust on them was thick. Two more cats were curled up on filthy mats under the coffee table. The whole place reeked of cat litter.

  “Is your head okay?” she asked. “It looks pretty nasty.”

  “Just a little accident. I’m all right.”

  She sat down on her couch with a sigh, and I took the wooden stool across from her. A small TV on a shelf showed a fuzzy episode of The Sopranos. I looked around the room for pictures of Darcy, but there was nothing. No pictures at all.

  “So you did know my father, then,” I said.

  She smiled a sad smile, her eyes on the rug. “I did.”

  “You know, I think I remember you from that bar. What was it called?”

  “The Jug,” she said. “I remember you too. You were such a cute kid. So quiet and well-behaved. I still work there, you know, only it’s not The Jug anymore. Some restaurateur took it over and called it Parker’s Grill. Tried to class it up a bit, but nothing’s changed. We serve Stella instead of Blue. Big deal.”

  There was a silence. On the TV, Tony Soprano said, “It was just a little suicidal gesture, that’s all.”

  I could feel Gloria looking at me, but for some reason I didn’t want to look at her.

  “So tell me,” she said. “Why are you sitting in my apartment right now? What is it you want? Most guys who come to this part of town are looking for something . . . specific.”

  I fidgeted with my shirtsleeve. “I’m not looking for . . . whatever I think you mean.”

  She crossed her legs. “What do I mean?”

  I wasn’t interested in playing games. “Did you and my dad have a kid?”

  She put her head down and laughed softly. “Is that really why you’re here?”

  “Of course it is. I thought I said that already.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry. That’s right, you did mention that.”

  “Well?”

  “Jack never wanted you to know. He threatened me.”

  “My dad was an asshole and a drunk. And you know what else? He’s dead.”

  “I know that.”

  Something scratched at the door. Gloria stood up and let her cat back in. Picked it up and cradled it like a baby. Its purr was laboured. It might’ve had a lung problem.

  “Anything else you want to know?” she asked, a little scornfully.

  “Do I know anything yet?”

  “God, you’re just like your father. Of course we had a kid. A boy.”

  She didn’t need to tell me more. I knew the truth. I reacted with dull acknowledgment, a small step up from indifference. Darcy Sands was my half brother — big fucking deal. In practical terms it meant less than nothing. It didn’t even feel like a revelation. More like someone pointing out a mustard stain on your shirt after lunch. On the other hand, something told me there was a storm of shit on the way.

  “You okay, Brandon?” Gloria said.

  I was surprised to find she was sitting right beside me. The cat was in her lap, and her hand was on my knee.

  I nodded. “I should go.”

  “Please stay,” she said. “Have a drink with me.”

  I looked at her jaundiced eyes, her tattoos. Her breasts sagged almost to her belly.

  “I’ve met Darcy,” I said. “I know him. I know him well, actually.”

  She took her hand away and stood up. “That little bastard sent you here to make a fool out of me, didn’t he?”

  “No! Miss Sands, that’s not what I meant . . .”

  She dropped the cat out of her arms and stormed into the kitchen. Opened a drawer and pulled out a steak knife. Pointed it at me. “You better get the fuck out of here.”

  “Gloria, please! I don’t know what I said, but I swear I wasn’t sent here.”

  The cats under the table had been roused awake. They curled around her legs, moaning and mewing as she moved toward me. “You expect me to believe that?”

  I stumbled over an empty vase as I backed away. “I didn’t know Darcy was your son until just now, I swear. Please put the knife away. I don’t even like Darcy.”

  There was a flash of something in her
eyes, and I thought she was about to lunge at me. Instead she dropped to her knees with a thud, almost squishing one of her cats in half, and started to cry.

  There was nothing I could do but stand there and watch her break down.

  “I’m sorry,” she bawled. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I’m going to go,” I said, but I didn’t move.

  “He ruined my life. My own little boy . . . ruined my life.” She looked at me with desperation. “He’s sick, Brandon. He needs help. Probably I do too.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m going now, okay?”

  I opened the door. She continued to speak as I speed-walked down the hall.

  “He was more than just my son,” she yelled. I couldn’t make out the rest.

  12

  I left Gloria’s building through the back door and hopped some fences until I was clear of the Lantern District.

  My head throbbed with metronomic consistency. Was I insane, or had Gloria hinted at an incestuous relationship with Darcy? It made me think about Sarah and Abraham, Hera and Zeus, Donny and Marie. I’d gone digging for information and what I got was something out of a tabloid.

  As I wandered home, I entertained the thought of suicide for the first time in my twenty-nine years. I’d lost my girlfriend, my job, and a section of my scalp, all in the last twelve hours. My mother was in the hospital. Darcy was my illegitimate brother, and a sexual deviant to boot. I needed a friend, but more importantly, I needed a drink. No, scratch that. I needed to get boiled as an owl. Chad was probably listening to fuck-me techno and sucking on Farah’s toes, but with the night I’d had I was more than willing to disturb him.

  I called him as soon as I got home. “Let’s get soused,” I said when he picked up.

  “I don’t know, man. Farah and I were gonna stay in and do a movie night.”

  “Come on, Chad. I’m desperate. I got put on leave at work. I could get fired. My mom’s in the hospital. Melanie wants to break up. Did I mention I got put on leave?”

  “Jesus. What happened with Melanie?”

  “I don’t even know, man. Just get your ass over here and let’s get sloppy. If you want to hit a strip joint, we can hit a strip joint, I don’t care. I’m begging you here, buddy. Please.”

  Half an hour later he showed up at my place — with Farah, of course.

  “Dude,” he said, looking more apelike than ever. “What happened to your dome?”

  “Got in a fight,” I said.

  “What? With who?”

  “A security guard at the hospital. They wanted to put my mother in the psych ward, and I said no fuckin’ way.”

  Chad’s jaw dropped. “You’re shitting me.”

  Farah laughed and shook her head.

  On the way to the bar — The Bloody Paw, where else? — I told them all about Darcy’s failed attempt at rape, my unfortunate trip to the hospital, and the fucked-up visit to Gloria’s cat sanctuary.

  Chad soaked in these tidbits with the enthusiasm of a teenage scandalmonger. “You could have your own reality show, dude. I’m serious.”

  As we turned onto Dormant Street, I bumped hard into a fat man who seemed to be in a rush. I twisted my ankle as I stumbled, and he dropped the cardboard box he was carrying. Rolls of duct tape and a bundle of rope fell to the side of the road.

  “Watch where you’re going, tubby,” Chad said.

  The man opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak I said, “Bill?”

  “Oh shit. Brandon. I didn’t realize it was you.” His face went red, and he bent over to pick up his things.

  I told Chad and Farah I’d meet them at the bar, and went to help Bill. He was sweating like a beaver in Saudi Arabia.

  “What’s with the supplies?” I said.

  “Nothing. Just fixing some things around the apartment, that’s all.”

  “Well, let me know if you need any help.”

  “Sure thing. By the way, I heard about your leave of absence. I’m sorry, Brandon. I can’t say I didn’t warn you, though. Dick’s had his eye on you for weeks.” He looked me in the face for the first time. “Hey, what happened to —”

  “Had a little accident. It’s fine.”

  He stood up with his box of things and I tossed in the last roll of tape.

  “I’m kind of in a rush here, otherwise I’d buy you a beer or something. But give me a call, Brandon, okay? Hang in there.”

  “You got it, Bill.”

  I watched him waddle down the street, the waist of his workpants slipping farther down his ass with every step.

  I checked myself out in a few store windows as I limped the rest of the way to the bar. I looked like an escaped mental patient. I didn’t care. My appearance mirrored my state of mind, and there was something invigorating about that. Something primal and threatening. I was in the mood to be threatening.

  There was the usual cluster of smokers standing outside The Bloody Paw. The music was louder than usual. I could hear it from the end of the block. Chad and Farah emerged from the crowd, spotted me, and jogged to meet me.

  “Why don’t we go somewhere else? I’m sick of this place,” said Chad, the master of subtlety and persuasion. Farah stood beside him with her shoulders hunched, nodding rapidly.

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Come on.” He spun me around. “Half-price pints at, umm . . .”

  I pulled away. “Don’t touch me. I want a fucking beer, and I want to drink it at that shithole right there. You can come or not, I really don’t care at this point.”

  I made for the crowd. They didn’t follow me. Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” blasted through the speakers and out onto the streets. Everyone outside the bar seemed to be looking inside, and everyone inside seemed to be cheering. I nudged my way to the window, but it was fogged up. All I could see was a blurry mass of bodies. On my way to the door, someone’s lit cigarette burned my arm, and a fat guy stepped on my foot — the foot with the twisted ankle.

  Someone said, “Watch it, gimp!”

  I went inside. There was a banner hanging above the bar:

  Save the Bears Fundraiser Night

  The tables had been rearranged to make room for a stage, and what I saw on that stage was like a hallucination. Viktor Lozowsky sat on a throne-like chair dressed in a fuzzy bear or gorilla costume with the head off. On stage in front of him, Melanie wound herself around a stripper pole, completely topless in a black G-string, while another girl held a collection bucket out to the audience. Melanie danced over to Viktor and began writhing on his fuzzy lap like a professional. He groped her ass with his paws and the crowd poured money into the bucket.

  No boyfriend, no bra, no shame.

  I turned around, calm as a criminal, and went home to get my baseball bat.

  A quick story about good old Red Hot:

  When I was twelve, my dad and I went to a father–son picnic with a few of his electrician buddies and their sons. We played a game of baseball in the afternoon, then cooked hamburgers and hot dogs on an old charcoal barbecue in the sun. As usual, dad torpedoed himself with drink. After dusk had settled in, a curious raccoon started hanging around our camp, sniffing around for crumbs and meat scraps.

  For some reason, my father had it in for the little creature, calling it a good-for-nothing trash bandit, a scum scavenger, a fluffball of disease. Some of the other fathers tried to calm him down, but it only made things worse. He started throwing rocks and hot coals at it. When the raccoon snuck up behind me and stole a hot dog right from my paper plate, my dad picked up Red Hot, chased the animal into the woods, and bludgeoned its brains to slop.

  Someone called the police and had my father arrested for cruelty to animals, but to no purpose. Dad said the four nights he spent in jail for the ’coon incident were four of the mos
t restful nights of his life — and the food wasn’t bad either.

  My point is this: Red Hot was a killer. I took it out of my closet and gripped it tightly in my right hand. It seemed to vibrate of its own accord. It was a killer, all right.

  I had no idea what I was going to do, but I left my apartment with the bat in my hand and dragged my twisted ankle back to The Bloody Paw.

  Melanie was no longer on stage. The new act was some acoustic folk-punk band performing Billy Bragg covers with their shirts off and letters painted on their chests that should have spelled B-E-A-R-S had they been standing in the right order. It seemed bare chests were the theme of the night. Come to think of it, it’s only now that I see what they were up to with the bear/bare thing. If I’d known at the time, maybe I wouldn’t have smashed up the place.

  Before I did that, though, I wandered through the crowd in search of Melanie, gripping Red Hot so tightly in my hand that it became an extension of my arm. Nobody seemed to notice me. I looked like the last man standing at the end of a horror film — the one whose vengeful thirst for blood has finally matched the killer’s.

  One of the idiots in the crowd said to me, “I’m loving the statement, man. Powerful.”

  I found Melanie in the storage room with a belt tied around her arm, a needle and burnt spoon on the floor at her side. Her head was resting on a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. She was still topless, but she’d put jeans on. Her skin was glossy, almost slimy with sweat. Cradled in her arms were the pink pumps she’d worn on our first date. She rolled her head and looked at me with zero recognition on her face.

  “Heavy,” she said. “Heavy like a balloon.”

  The desire to smash things left me. I wanted to lay her over my shoulder and carry her back to my place, nurse her back to health. I was about to do just that when a voice behind me said, “Mind telling me what you’re doing in my bar with a baseball bat?”

  I turned. Standing in front of me was Viktor. He was still in the mascot suit.