by Peter Giglio
His father slapped Roy on the back as the two men, clearly tired, ambled toward the house.
“Dad?” Ben said.
His father turned. “Yeah.”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“You head inside,” his father said to Roy. “Give me a minute with my boy.”
Roy threw a two-finger salute at his friend, then continued along the path to the deck. The door slid open, and Ben’s mother beamed at her guest. “Afternoon, Roy,” she sang. “Saved you a slice of apple pie.”
“You’re too good to me, Claudia,” Roy said.
Staring down at Ben, his dad said, “What is it?”
“What’s wrong with Mom?”
“What do you mean?” His dad’s face darkened.
“Ever since Ryan Barnes died, she’s been acting strange. She’s either being too nice to me, smothering me like a dumb little kid, or she’s acting downright mean. And she’s always in my business. I even caught her spying on me last night.”
“She said you were talking to yourself. Is that true?”
“Maybe, I guess.”
“Why would you do a thing like that?”
“I thought I was alone. Don’t you ever talk to yourself when you’re alone?”
His father seemed to consider the question. After a moment of silence, he nodded, a smile cracking his otherwise grim expression. “I guess we all do…sometimes.”
“Dad, I’m okay. Really, I’m fine. I’ll be even better if I can get a little breathing room. You’ve been in my business, too, but not as bad as Mom. You’re not mean like her.”
“All right, you’re fine. I believe you. But you’ll have to give your mom more time. Mothers worry, it’s what they do. They can’t watch you all the time, but that’s not gonna stop ’em from trying. So you get spied on a little. You also get three square meals and a roof over your head.”
“She’s worse than she was after Johnny died.”
“This is different,” his father said. “Johnny was with his parents when he died. That Barnes kid was out doing something he wasn’t supposed to—up to no good. What happened to him was…well, it was preventable.”
“But they were both accidents.”
“I know, but…it’s still different.”
“Why, because Johnny was with adults when he died?”
His father shook his head slowly. “That Barnes kid had no business out in the park late at night. If he’d been home sleeping, where he should have been, he’d still be alive today. They say he had alcohol in his system.”
“Shit happens,” Ben said. “We all have to deal with it. Johnny was my best friend, and Ryan was my worst enemy. If Mom’s gonna get more bent out of shape about Ryan, I’m sorry, but I’m not okay with that.”
“Don’t you understand?” his dad said. “It’s not about Ryan.”
“I know, it’s about me. I get it. But can you tell her to lighten up on me a bit?”
“Sure, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
His father pointed at the fence and smiled. “If you mow behind the fence.”
Ben grunted and shook his head.
* * *
Ben pushed the mower as he waved at Aubrey across the alley. She stood on her back deck in a bathing suit top and shorts, talking to someone on a cordless phone. She didn’t seem to notice him at first, and he was struck by how sad she appeared. Slowly, she turned in his direction. Recognition lighting her face, she smiled and waved.
Guiding the mower along the edge of the alley, planning to work inward toward the fence, Ben spotted a large rock in the high grass. As he swooped down to pick it up, still smiling from the sight of Aubrey, a loud crack pierced the air, followed by the rattles and pings of something caught in the mower’s blades. Before Ben could straighten up and kill the engine, he was thrown back, away from the mower. Something had smashed into his left wrist, and a numbing rush splintered up his arm.
He lost balance and toppled backward, falling onto his side in the weed-choked strip of earth between the fence and the alley.
He lay still for a moment, his senses dull and his breathing shallow, fearing that he’d been hit from behind by a car, the same way Ryan Barnes had left the world.
Duck, duck, goose, he thought, his mind inexplicably flashing back to a childhood game. I’m the goose this time. Odd man out. My turn to die.
But that was irrational, he realized; he’d been hit by something the mower spit out.
He managed to push himself up a little, and that’s when the pain started—an agonizing thunderbolt that flamed up his arm and into his shoulder. Every nerve in his wrist suddenly felt like it was ablaze. He clenched his jaw and tears welled in his eyes.
“Oh my God,” an approaching voice shouted over the mower’s grinding engine. When he dimly realized the voice belonged to Aubrey, he felt a flash of shame. She’d seen him fall and look weak.
But then, pushing himself up a little more on his right arm, he turned his head and saw his wound—a horrific mess of flesh and blood and green beer-bottle glass. So much blood.
He fell back to the ground, in shock. A moment later, he passed out.
3
When Ben’s mother wasn’t berating her husband for not fixing the guard on their old lawnmower, she squawked about the teenagers who partied in the park and tossed their empties in the back alley. This unsettled Ben, who wondered why she hadn’t shared his concern about all the trash behind the fence earlier, when it might have saved him a trip to the hospital.
But the emergency room doctor, who was tasked with cleaning glass from the gaping wound in Ben’s wrist, was a real pro. An attractive woman in her late twenties, Ben guessed, Dr. Parks conveyed sympathy with a bright smile and pale gray eyes. Those small mercies, in addition to the numbing agent she’d injected into his wrist, were making the ordeal bearable.
Parks clearly had a talent for speaking without her mouth, because when she shot Ben’s father a sideways glance, her smile faltering just enough—though not so as much as to convey poor bedside manner—his father seemed to get the message. He led his wife through the curtained partition of the makeshift operating bay, flashing Ben a smile as he went.
“Thank you,” Ben said to the doctor.
“Don’t mention it,” said Dr. Parks. She returned to his wound, poking around with a sharp tool that glistened under a bright surgical lamp. The whole thing would have looked frightening, like something out of a demented horror film, but her hands remained steady, her smile implacable, reassuring. “It looks like I got all the glass,” she said, “so we’re ready to close you up. You’re very lucky, you know.”
“Why’s that?”
“The main artery in your wrist didn’t get so much as nicked. It’s almost a miracle, considering that everything around it took some damage.”
“Would I have died?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You were lucky to have people around who cared about you. I understand that your friend used her bikini top as a tourniquet.”
Ben’s eyes went wide, and his face became flushed. “She did what?”
Dr. Parks’s smile widened. “Caused quite a scene, from what you mother said, but don’t tell her I told you that.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Thanks. She seems like a wonderful woman, your mother, but I wouldn’t want her mad at me.”
“No, you really wouldn’t, and I’m sure glad you double checked for glass without her around distracting you.”
Parks chuckled. “Well, you’re doing great,” she said, “very brave. And the hardest part is over.”
“Why’s that?” he asked. “You haven’t even started with the stitches yet.”
“The hardest part,” she said, “is trust. Do you trust me?”
He nodded.
“Good. Then this won’t hurt much at all. Just think of a young pretty girl taking off her top to save your life, picking you up when you fell down. That should
put you in a better mood, Casanova.”
Relaxing his muscles, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Though he felt the needle piercing his flesh, the doctor had been right. It hardly hurt at all. Soon, exhausted from his restless night and the day’s ordeal, he drifted to sleep.
* * *
When he opens his eyes, he’s alone in a dark room, bathed in dim red light. Though he’s still lying on the gurney, he doubts he’s still in the hospital. Panicked, he tries to call out for help, but his mouth won’t open.
He slowly brings his fingers to his face and feels fibrous ridges, evenly spaced, along his lips. The doctor sewed his mouth shut, but why would she—
Something moves in Ben’s periphery. He turns his head to face a metal table, upon which rest two plastic pans filled with clear liquid. Strands of film bathe in the pans, and he knows where he is—a developing room—but how did he get here? A dream, he realizes, but different than any he’s ever experienced; it feels far too real.
From the darkness beyond the pans of film, a gray-red hand, covered with tiny cuts and scratches, slowly coalesces, then the face of a child.
It takes Ben, squinting at the figure before him, a moment to recognize Ryan Barnes. A large gash runs down one side of Ryan’s face, and the eye next to the wound is entirely black. His flesh, made more gruesome beneath the dim red light of the room, appears dead. And his lips are sewn together, like Ben’s.
Ben squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, hoping that when he looks again, he’ll be back in the hospital or his bed at home or in the car with his parents. But Ryan remains in place, lifting a strand of film, developing solution dripping from his fingers. He extends the film to Ben, a pleading look in his one good eye.
Ben eases himself from the gurney and reaches out to take the film from Ryan, but then he jerks back, startled by a sudden sound: the unmistakable clinking of glass on glass.
Ryan looks down, and Ben follows his gaze, discovering the floor littered with green Rolling Rock bottles, uncapped and empty. When Ben looks up again, Ryan’s no longer there, but that’s not the only thing that’s different. The developing pans overflow with red liquid—blood—bubbling up and spilling over the edges. Crimson rivulets run across the metal tabletop, blood dripping to the floor, the contents of the pans gushing faster and faster.
Using all of his strength to force his mouth open, Ben screams, and the world around him spins. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then screams again, and that’s when he feels something touch his face.
* * *
When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by Aubrey, smiling down at him.
“What’s wrong?” she said in a soothing voice.
They were in his bedroom, and she was kneeling by his bed, a gentle hand brushing hair away from his damp brow. Dust motes swirled in rays of light that bled from the room’s sole window.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
“You fell asleep at the hospital, and your parents didn’t want to wake you up. Your folks are with my dad, picking up some pizzas for dinner. I told them I’d stick around here and make sure you were okay.”
“You saved my life,” he said.
“I made a scene is what I did. If I’d known that glass hadn’t hit your main artery, I’d have kept my top on, trust me.”
“But you didn’t know,” he said.
She shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I love you,” he said, instantly fearful of the words that had tumbled from his mouth. Everything he’d been through, he thought, must have broken his filter and made him brave; either that or just plain stupid.
Then, to his amazement, Aubrey nodded and said, “I know, Ben.”
He put his arms around her, and she returned his tight embrace. They stayed like that until he heard the front door opening. Languorously, he fell away from her as adult voices and clomping footfalls echoed through the house.
“C’mon,” Aubrey said. “Let’s go eat.”
4
Three boxes from Shakey’s, Ben’s favorite pizza parlor, sat on the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen, and the sweet aroma of pepperoni and fresh baked bread hit his nose the moment he and Aubrey emerged from the hallway.
Sitting at the dining room table, Ben’s father and Roy drank Budweiser tallboys as they conversed in hushed tones. Roy, the first of the duo to look up from his beer, locked eyes with Ben. “The sleeper has awakened,” he roared. “Isn’t that a line from one of those movies you kids all like?”
“No,” Ben said, “it’s from Dune.”
Aubrey gave Ben a playful punch on the shoulder. “That’s for knocking David Lynch.”
Ben turned to her. “Did you see that movie?” Then he pretended to yawn.
Aubrey chuckled.
“Hey, champ,” his dad said. “How you feeling?”
“Hungry,” Ben said. Everyone, including his mother, who was opening a two-liter bottle of Coke in the kitchen, laughed at that.
“We got your favorite,” his mother said. Her voice was warm, the way it normally sounded, and the way Ben liked it. He smiled.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a plate from the counter. He grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza, thick strands of cheese following it to the plate, while his mother poured a glass of Coke. Smiling, she handed him the glass.
Before turning toward the table, he flicked his gaze to the microwave clock above the stove; it was almost seven, and he was tempted to ask if he and Aubrey could take their dinner in the TV room to watch The Cosby Show and Family Ties. But he didn’t want to push his luck, and the episodes in the summer were only reruns anyway.
As Ben neared the table, Roy pulled out the chair next to him and patted the cushion. “Come sit next to your uncle Roy,” he said with a grin. “And tell us all about your big adventure today.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Ben said, sitting in the suggested spot. He took a big bite of pizza, the only thing he’d eaten all day, and was sure nothing had ever tasted better. After a couple more bites, he looked up, mortified to find everyone’s eyes on him. Unsure what to say or do to make them stop staring, he held up his bandaged wrist and said, “At least this happened over summer break. Otherwise, everyone at school would be giving me grief for trying to off myself.”
No one laughed.
Aubrey, sitting across from Ben, frowned. “You shouldn’t joke about suicide.”
“No,” Ben’s father said. “You really shouldn’t.”
Well, Ben thought, then you shouldn’t all stare at me like I’m a fucking exhibit in a museum.
Roy put his arm around Ben and pulled him close. “Aw, let’s cut the boy some slack.” He then ruffled Ben’s hair with fast sweeps of his meaty hand. “He had a rough day.”
“Yeah,” Ben agreed, “cut the boy some slack.”
At that, everyone laughed.
The dinner conversation was quickly dominated by the adults, and Ben was glad he was no longer the center of attention. His mother complained about Reagan, and Roy defended the president.
Ben’s father, as usual, kept his mouth shut during political debates. He was there to be a peacekeeper if things got out of hand, more interested in who was going to win the World Series that year than what had happened in Grenada two years before.
But things didn’t get too heated; they rarely did.
Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, Ben’s father said, “I think the Royals might have what it takes to win the Series this year.”
“Nah,” said Roy, “your boys in blue will collapse midseason. They’ll be lucky to make the playoffs. Besides, Brett’s a bum. Now Ozzie Smith, there’s a real star. He’s gonna take the Cards all the way this year.”
“You men and your sports,” Ben’s mother huffed. “What we need is a woman president so maybe something would be done about all the starving children in Africa.”
<
br /> “Oh, Claudia,” Roy said, “England’s had a woman prime minister for years now. What’s that old bat done for starving kids in Africa?”
In the movies, Ben thought, it was always easy to tell the good and bad guys apart, but in the real world, even Democrats and Republicans and fans of different baseball teams could be friends. And though some might have found the exchange between Roy and Ben’s mother unnerving, Ben found the whole thing strangely reassuring.
It was clear, however, that Aubrey didn’t. Her eyes darted between the two arguing adults like a cat at a tennis match, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight line.
Ben smiled at Aubrey, which seemed to pull her from her funk, and she returned the gesture before casting her attention to her father. “Can we not talk about politics?” she said.
Laughing, Roy pointed a finger at Aubrey, the rest of his gesturing hand wrapped around a wet can of Bud. “This one,” he said, smiling at Ben’s mother, “is on your side.”
“Oh,” Ben’s mother said, “a young Democrat in the making?”
“I don’t know what I am,” Aubrey growled. “But I’m no fan of Ronnie Ray-Gun, that’s for sure.”
Ben’s father laughed. “I’m with Aubrey. Let’s stop talking politics.”
Roy took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “One of these days,” he said with a smirk, “I’m gonna be arrested for raising an enemy of the state, a real commie pinko.”
“Oh hush, Roy,” Ben’s mother said, throwing him a dismissive wave. “Aubrey here’s a good girl.” Then, in almost a whisper, she added, “As long as she can keep her clothes on.”
Aubrey’s eyes shot wide, and Roy bellowed laughter. Ben felt his cheeks go warm as he lost the ability to maintain eye contact with Aubrey. Embarrassed, he got up from the table to get more pizza and soda.