by Kara Storti
She’s drinking the rain.
Mrs. Looney Tunes over here. Christ.
When I approach her she’s still in the same position and hasn’t given me any indication that she knows I’m standing there. Beads of water trail down her raincoat, some are caught in her puffy hair. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I’m the crazy one. But I committed myself to doing this. There’s no other way to make this kind of money.
“Yo,” I say, leaning in, my hands wet inside my pockets. I check myself. “I mean, hello, Mrs. Thorbor.”
“Yo yourself,” she says, her head tilted up toward the sky. “And it’s not Mrs. Thorbor. I kept my maiden name. It’s Klaski.” Her pink lipstick is the only bright thing around. I pull the mirror out of my pocket and hand it to her. It takes a beat or two for her to notice what I’m doing. She looks at it, looks at me, and then goes back to her previous position—head up, eyes closed, mouth open.
“You left this behind. I’m returning it.” She doesn’t respond. I don’t think she cares. I stand there, a little unsettled, but I remind myself of what I’m good at, and set the mirror on top of the gravestone.
“That is one powerful drug,” I say. “You got a prescription for that, or is it some off-the-grid stuff?”
Nothing. Not even a twitch of recognition on her damp, expressionless face. She holds the package tight against her chest, a posture of defense. Okay, I get it, come on Finn, lay it down.
“Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush. That powder—I tried it, and it—was beautiful. I’m telling you this from the bottom of my heart. Beautiful and pure, like a work of art that you can consume, body, soul, and mind.” I pause. She’s staring at my chin. The side of my face. My scar. What’s the deal? I want to tell her step off, but I hold myself straight, because this is my mission. My sister deserves Harvard. I deserve a win.
“Anyway, I’m not here to rat you out, I’m here because I want you to hear me out. Who’s your supplier? I probably know him. In fact, I’m probably friends with him. I’ve got history in this town and I can help you if you can help me. I know a lot of people who would die for this drug.”
The woman doesn’t say anything, just gets up slowly from the grass. She’s calling my bluff, she knows I don’t have shit for an argument. At least now she’s making somewhat of a face—the corners of her mouth have curved downward; her nose has scrunched up, producing wrinkles that have no sense of direction.
“Like I said, I’m not here to turn you in, but . . . I’m just saying, I saved a little of that powder, in case the police need some evidence.” I point at the mirror on top of the gravestone.
A twinge of shame pinches me. I try to shake it off. Finn, you’ve done this a million times before. Persuasion. But this is an old lady. She’s not going to be swayed by your smile or desperation to help pay for your sister go to college. She’s got nothing to gain from you. Yet she’s not walking away—in fact, she’s leaning in closer. The package against her crinkles as she moves.
I lean in too, cocking my head. “Look, I just need a name, that’s all, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of your life. It could be just a name or . . . we could make another arrangement. I’m just saying, lots of money to be made here . . . and you could be a part of that. No more living off social security and meals-on-wheels. Did I tell you that you look like my grandmother? God, if I could have helped her out like I’m going to help you, man, things would be way different. Way different.”
Still nothing but that scrunched-up, wrinkled-up face. I’m sweating, I’m overheating, good God. I can’t lose my cool. The misting rain feels soft on my face and makes the gravestones a shade darker than their original color. Man, if anything, my mood’s a shade darker, or off-color, or something.
“I got contacts from here to New York City. We’re talking mad profits.” I wince, hearing myself do this hard sell to a little old lady. “Lucrative profits.”
The lady snaps her head in my direction. “Mad profits?” she asks, startling me with her strong tone.
“Yeah, you heard what I said. It could be a successful business.”
She seems to consider this, shifting her weight. It’s then that I realize that this little old lady is almost as the same height as me. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s intimidating because her old lady ’fro—which gives her another three inches at least—is matted down, yet she still looks tall and overwhelming.
“Mad profits,” she repeats, nodding once. “Is that the term you use these days? Mad?”
I’m a little off balance. Off my game. Maybe I should lay off the hard stuff and just stick with weed for a while. I could have done without the heroin at the party, and the few tastes of it during the week. The hill of the cemetery is steep, dizzying, and this Klaski lady is so damn steady on her feet.
“Yeah, like mad profits, mad skills. Out of control. Amazing. Unexpected. Do you know how many definitions the Oxford English Dictionary has for the word mad? Like a hundred.”
She scratches the corner of her mouth and some of the lipstick comes off on her nail.
“I don’t like how you kids use words these days. You murder words. You don’t treat them with respect. You’re the acronym generation, and that’s not something to be proud of. OMG I was like WTF LOL BRB.”
I draw up straight, stung a little in spite of myself. “Hey, we like our technology. Nothing wrong with being fast-paced. Anyway—”
“You know what I say?” she says, leaning on the balls of her feet, closing the distance between us.
I jut my chin out. “What?”
“F-U.” She spits out the letters, then moves past me speedily, way too speedily, her shoes slapping the sodden ground. The mirror is still on the gravestone. I scramble after her, almost losing my sneaker in the mud.
“What—no. That’s not what you say. That’s not what you say at all.” When I catch up, she wrenches around and throws something at me. The package. It whacks me against the stomach and knocks some air out of me. It’s hard, with edges. Not the magic powder, but I knew it wouldn’t really be.
“That’s for you,” she yells huffing, puffing, red-faced. Her gray pants are soaked up to her ankles. She’s pretty much a mess, but then what does that say about sweaty, inarticulate, bumbling me?
I pick up the package. It’s wrapped in pages of a newspaper; its black and gray washing out with the rain.
“I’m not sure why I’m giving this to you,” she spits at me. “I thought you would appreciate it, I thought perhaps we could talk about it some time. A conversation piece. But now I see you may not deserve it and you may not care much about it, because you have your fancy technology and letters, and what can an old lady like myself offer you? Oh wait, I know.” She glares at me with toughened eyes. “Drugs. You want my drug. You want to sell it so you can make mad money. You actually thought you could sell this idea to me? You actually think I’m that stupid to fall for it? Oh, don’t even look at me like that, child, I know your tricks. I know them six ways to Sunday. Why? Because you remind me of my grandson.” She stabs her finger at me.
“Oh?” I squeeze the package, not really knowing what else to do.
Then her demeanor switches, eyes welling up so fast it’s like the tears were that close, crouching, always ready. “He’s . . . gone,” she says. It doesn’t matter who she is, if I see a woman cry I’m on the verge of it too. I look away, concentrate on the flat, charcoal-colored sky, the hills and valleys in the distance. Figures a cemetery would be the only place in D-Town that’s picturesque.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean, I sincerely am.”
“You don’t know what you are in any kind of sincere way, young man. Now, I’m tired and I want go home. You imposed on my time to visit with my husband and if that isn’t disrespect, then I don’t know what is.” Suddenly she’s empowered again, the tears are gone, and my blood is boiling or bubbling or doing somersaults over what she’s said. Don’t like her tone or her sour-ass face, she’s reminding m
e a little bit of Pop, or maybe Peter, Faith, all high and mighty, all of them without reason to be. But I regret the words even before I say them.
“Hold up there. Are you for real? Disrespect?” I step back with a bounce, shaking my head. “How would Jimmy feel if he knew you were snorting up on his grave? No, no, scratch that, on top of his grave. How would he feel if he saw you bombed out of your mind? I mean, what’s an old lady doing tripping balls in a cemetery? Are you trying to like, relive your youth or something? I guess what else are you going to do, huh? Eat Jell-O? Play bridge? I feel sorry for you. I bet Jimmy does too.”
She stiffens in shock, but not as overcome as I’d expect because she’s up in my face in one second, all charged up.
“Don’t you dare say his name. So help me God—” She rips the present or whatever it is out of my hands and starts beating me over the head with it. I try to shield myself with my arms, but that package is hard, and man, is she strong.
“Hey, Mrs. Klaski, stop, I didn’t mean it, okay?” She’s pounding on me something serious and it’s actually starting to hurt. I don’t want to hit back, obviously, I don’t want to run, and I don’t want to cower, so I stand there, shut my eyes and take it. I’ve taken it before.
Slam.
Thwap.
Grunt.
Her knuckles graze my face. I don’t know how it happens, but it’s not her anymore, it’s Pop, intent on beating me to a bloody pulp because of a failing grade or catching me smoking in the bathroom. Those fists were boulders when I was young, and I was too much of a coward to fight back. And here he is, and I’m seventeen goddammit, I got muscle on me, I got fight in me, yet I’m back to that scared little kid who doesn’t want to cause a stir in the household, tip the fragile balance, one light vibration and it all comes tumbling down. Oh God, my eyes hurt from clenching them so tight. Please stop, I say, please stop, but he keeps wailing at my chest, at my legs, because he’s smart like that, giving me secret bruises.
“Finn. Phineas.” I’m looking up. Somehow I’ve ended up on my knees, cowering like a little kid. A cough-gasp escapes from my mouth and then another one. I’ve taken a beating so many times—at school, at a bar, on the street—and have come out on top for most of them. But this, this is what breaks me? Takes me back like that? She places her hand on the side of my head, tender as all hell, shit, and for a moment I allow it, and then I shrug her away and sit on my ass. My throat’s so tight I can’t swallow. We’re staring each other down, chests heaving, water pooling up on our eyelashes and dripping down our faces. She places the present at my feet and walks away.
I really didn’t picture this all ending so horribly.
Way to go, Finn.
You really knocked that one out of the park.
I try to get my shit together, but something is needling me, and I can’t put my finger on it. I move to the nearest bench with the soggy and partway torn package in my hands, not feeling the rain anymore and not feeling right. I don’t know if I should open the package or if I should leave it here, where I think it probably belongs. Who brings a gift to a cemetery? Why did I think she was my best bet? Stupid lady. Dumb old woman.
My finger picks the corner of the gift. What is bothering me so much about this? I check my phone. I have to go to work in a few hours, and the thought of being around deli meat makes me want to puke. Yet it’s a job and it’s good to have; it keeps me out of trouble. It’s not like I can shoot up at work. Maybe I should put in more hours for that reason. Yeah. I’m going to figure this out. I’m Finn. And that’s what Finn does.
I tear away what’s left of the sopping newspaper pages taped around the present.
I hold in my hands a hardcover book.
Audubon’s The Birds of America.
No fucking way.
I’ve been wanting a version of this book forever, but it’s like three hundred dollars online. A first edition of the book was sold at an auction for eight million dollars. My fingers tremble, and I’m getting all teary, which I’m not proud of, not proud of at all, but the way it feels in my hands, I don’t know, it’s incredible, incredibly stunning.
This is the best gift I’ve gotten in a long time.
I don’t deserve this.
And now she knows I don’t deserve it. She said I reminded her of her grandson and that she wanted to talk about the book with me sometime—talk with me, really? Like hang out? Book club? Of course I blew that opportunity, along with the possibility of obtaining the drug. But here one of the coolest books lies in my hands, and it is heavy, like heav-y, and I’m surprised she didn’t do more damage to me with it. The cover is a little worn, and there’s a stain on the spine. I slide it underneath my hoodie as much as I can to protect it from the rain and walk to my car.
I’m warm inside my Honda, windows fogged up, air humid, when it dawns on me. What’s biting at me. In one of her rants she said: Drugs. You want my drug. “My” drug? Like it’s hers and hers alone. Am I just overanalyzing, or is there something more to this picture?
My instinct is telling me there’s something more. I open the book to a random page. Audubon had this crazy method of using wires and threads to hold dead birds in lifelike poses while he drew them. So funny how the birds had to be dead to make them look so alive.
The picture I turn to is of two white falcons, spotted with black markings. One looks like it’s about to attack the other, and they’re both perched on top of a cliff that hangs over a gray, sullen sky, an exact replica of today’s. Eyes locked, wings rigid and muscular. Is that hate in their eyes? Or are they laughing?
Chapter Eleven
We’re piled into my room at the back of the trailer. It always surprises me how many people I can fit in here. There are eight of us, some are playing the guitar, badly, and some are using their knees and legs as drums. Cigarette and pot smoke draw over us like a blind. Saturday night at Finn’s. It’s the place to be.
We sit and lean and slouch. These are my best buddies, friends I’ve known for years. I’m not saying they’re all good people, but they’re my people. They’re going to be given an assignment tonight. I smoke and stew, deciding upon my words. Haven’t been so good with them lately. Starting to feel like I lost my touch. The Birds of America is underneath my bed, on which most of us sit, and I swear I can feel its presence, maybe its warmth, as it incubates underneath our bodies. It might be totally moronic, but knowing it’s there gives me a boost of confidence. The book is so solid. Today it held up to the rain and a beating. Where, oh, where are you, dear Mrs. Klaski?
Peter showed up, bright-green bong in hand, yet to be lit up. When he smokes, his eyes disappear and his nose runs. I don’t know if he’s here because we’ve made our peace or if he just wants to get really baked. Penelope, an ex-girlfriend of mine who’s still after it, holds my hand, and Diane, who brings me lunch every day, is kissing my neck so much it’s numb, but I lean into it anyway. Music blaring, hacking on smoke, talking a lot of dude did you hear this, dude did you hear that . . . I’m home (this is home), but there’s a tiny part of me that isn’t. There’s a crack widening inside me, and I wonder when it’ll start to show. If anyone’s going to see it first, it’s going to be Faith. That’s why I need this new venture. I really need it. It’s going to make things right, going to take away the guilt, and maybe the craving—getting worse all the time—will go away.
Faith is getting ready to leave for a date, bursting in and out of the room, looking aggravated, changing eye patches every five minutes and asking our opinion about which one looks the best with her outfit. The red lace eye patch to go with the black pants? The iridescent one to go with the white skirt? She’s modeling, they’re ogling.
“They all look great to me,” Peter says. Faith winks her approval at him. He blushes.
“Stop trying to get into her pants, dude. It’s getting old,” Bryce says, taking out his rolling papers and a baggie of weed. He used to be such a dork, walking around middle school in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle T-shi
rt, hitting on girls with gusto, always failing to impress.
“So who is this guy anyway?” Peter asks.
She answers eagerly. “He goes to Scotia High, but he lives out by Berton’s Farm in Charlton.” She throws on some blush and expertly lines her one eye in front of the mirror on our closet door. Her joke about herself is, voilà! Makeup in half the time.
“Oh, you’re getting yourself a country boy, huh?” Bryce says, snickering. Faith sighs, exasperated.
“No, not a country boy, you douche. He plays in a band called Junkhead. You heard of those guys? They play over at Pinhead Susan’s all the time and do a wicked cover of Nirvana. They’re like, kind of brilliant. I want to look hot, you know, but not too hot like I’m trying too hard.”
“It takes a lot of effort to look effortless,” I say.
“Kiss my ass, punk,” she replies.
“Heard you got into Harvard,” Bryce says, rolling up a joint. Deft hands, pretty much the only deft thing about him. The energy in the room changes; I can tell because of my spidey sense. Faith looks caught off guard but she plays it smooth, shrugging her shoulders. I didn’t even know she told anyone besides me.
“I’m not going.” Her head is uplifted in a show of confidence, but I see she’s avoiding looking at anyone in the room. “Not worth the money. Dammertown Community College offers all the business-related courses I want, for way less.”
Bryce nods like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal, though.
“Are you fucking stupid?” I ask. Penelope takes a strong puff from the pipe and blows the smoke in my face and giggles. I almost slap her across the face. “I told you I’d take care of it.”