by Paul Griner
You shouldn’t do that, he said. Red socks now; I guessed they were seasonal.
Yes, I should, she said. It’ll work better. She finished what she’d been doing, turned the monitor off and on again, and after a few seconds his O2 levels climbed back into the normal range. There, she said. Now, about Liam’s paranoia.
It’s not just paranoia, Trece said. Nightmares too. Have they told you that?
I said they hadn’t.
He nodded. Understandable. You’ve got enough to worry about. He leaned over Liam and with his thumb lifted Liam’s left eyelid, then his right.
What do the nightmares mean? May asked.
Another sign of ICU syndrome. The constant noise, their continual monitoring, the endless ambient light. It messes with sleep patterns.
I hadn’t heard of it. Will it get worse? I asked, my go-to question.
It might. It’s dangerous, but easily treatable. He needs to get off the ICU.
But his breathing is still shallow, May said. Shouldn’t that be monitored?
It’ll be monitored in any ward. He shrugged. Let me ask you something. Does Liam look smaller than when he first arrived here?
Well, sure. May said. He’s not eating a lot.
It’s not just that, Trece said. Every three days here, patients lose ten percent of their muscle mass. Normal and correctible, though it can have lingering effects. His breathing is shallow because of his brain injury, but also because of extended bed rest. Makes it harder to breathe. PT can only do so much.
So, what should we do?
Trece glanced over his shoulder, to be sure no doctors were coming. He didn’t want to overstep his bounds, probably, though I guessed he already had.
Get him up, he said. If he can take just three steps, he can move to a trauma ward. And if he’s on the trauma ward, he’ll get out of bed more. And get stronger.
May asked, Why don’t they just do that already?
Trece retreated a little. It’s a judgment call, he said. Specialized equipment here. They want to keep an eye on him. But the psychosis won’t go away on its own, and every day he deals with it means his brain and body have less energy to heal.
Push the PT when she’s here next, he said. Have Linh get him up. His recovery will speed up. Think of the trauma ward as a fallow field in winter. Recovering.
Three steps. Linh helped him out of bed the next day and his first two steps were fine, but the third came as he fell toward her.
It’s okay, she said, catching him under his arm. That’ll do. Three steps. She winked at me. He can move to the trauma ward now.
I was thrilled; May was too, though later, she came to blame everything that happened after on that move. To blame me.
Swag
LATE JANUARY 2019
Lean Luke was bright pink, 7” long and convincingly veined; he cost $12.99. We could get him with a suction cup or balls or both; the website didn’t say anything about volume discounts. He also comes in 6” and 8”, I said. Why 7”?
Lamont shrugged. Odd numbers are better. He laughed, a rare event.
All right, I said, and scrolled through the order. We’d hatched the plan over dinner, after Lamont told me he’d begun discouraging hoaxers by stuffing their hubcaps with rocks so they’d think they had flats, or filling their cars with shredded paper. The hoaxers were rolling deep, but for me, Lamont beat any larger crew.
I got one more, he said. My favorite. Sitting in the back seat of their cars and saying Hey! when they return from town selectmen meetings.
You could get shot, doing that, I said.
I could. But I haven’t. And I want them to think that maybe they could too.
When I got to quantity, I said, We’re sure about three hundred? And, do you think those GoFundMe people contemplated paying for realistically veined dildos?
They contemplated letting us do what we thought was right.
Okay, I said, and began typing in the credit card number, but I had second thoughts about actually spending money on a huge order of pink dildos, so I said, Maybe we should wait until after Valentine’s Day. They’ll probably go on sale then.
No sense waiting, Otto. The hoaxers are coming around more often. That’s not something you breeze over. Don’t make me get salty with you.
But what do we do with the extras, while we’re waiting for more hoaxers to show? It’s not as if thirty of them will have a convention.
Keep them at my place. If we kept them at yours, we’d pay to move them.
How come you don’t move?
They know not to mess with me. Angry Black man with a gun.
It’s not just that, I said.
I know, he said, and put his hand on my shoulder. Something about Liam’s wounding, that he was a survivor of the shooting, seemed to set them off.
I typed my way through the order form, giving Lamont’s address and hitting Proceed to Checkout. I was just about to purchase them when I stopped and said, They could turn this against us.
How? If they complain about it online, everyone will think they’re pussies. Showing up at town meetings to demand answers, and all they get is a carful of pink dildos? People will laugh even more at these cousin-fuckers.
They might turn around and sell them on eBay to raise money. They already sell shooting memorabilia.
I hadn’t thought of that, Lamont said. Not all of them are stupid, you might be right. Let me think about it, he said, and excused himself to go to the bathroom.
The session timed out while he was gone, so I refreshed the form, wondering as I did why Palmer hadn’t responded to my Christmas card, then pushed thoughts of her aside.
It was a smart idea to make the hoaxers who came around uncomfortable. To watch them, confront them, make them know they were unwanted. To let them know we knew their vehicles, had found their registrations, where they lived. To make them wonder if we’d come after them in their homes.
It would feel good, though I suspected that contact high wouldn’t last long. I’d written back some of the hoaxers at first, exhilarated as I sent off the replies, but the thrill never lasted, and none of them ever changed their minds. Maybe a bagful of dicks would be different, though.
I know what we can do, Lamont said, back from the bathroom. To make sure they can’t sell the dildos. Piss on them.
What? The packaging?
No. Take them out and put them all in a bucket and piss on them. Make their cars smell of it. Make it impossible to sell them. We’ll use gloves and tongs to pick them out and place them in their cars. Pickled dicks.
Jesus, Lamont. That’s too much.
Fuck you, he said, only partially kidding. Nothing’s too much for these people. Nothing. He reached over my shoulder and pressed the trackpad to buy them all. And if you thought it was going to end here, he said, you’re a fool.
What else do you have planned? I said.
You’ll be hearing about it soon enough. He smiled. You’ll see. They had a chance to get some act right. Now they’re going to get what’s coming to them. Just keep that old line in mind. A friend will help you move.
That’s you, I said.
That’s right, he said, squeezing my shoulder. And a best friend will help you move a body. That’s you.
Be Mine
FEBRUARY 2019
Palmer’s valentine is attached to a bottle of Blanton’s bourbon. Pink background, a picture of a sharpie. To: Otto From: Palmer r u a sharpie? bc ur ultra fine. Sweetly awful, but I figure it’s a response to my Christmas card, which was a thank you for her poinsettia; I hadn’t called or texted since and now that I have it, I wonder if I’ve been a fool. I’d feel mean throwing it out, so I tuck the card into the Steinbeck I’m reading like a bookmark, and draw her a valentine in return. Which makes me think that she’s still trying because I want her to.
All of Liam’s valentines are hand drawn; May and I parceled out his earliest ones. Every year until this year we’ve traded them back and forth, but I haven’t heard from her in a
couple of weeks. Work, probably, or Nash.
When Liam was eight, he and May were in the kitchen, Liam sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. A loose storm window rattling in the wind, May warming my tomato soup, grilled cheese cooking on the griddle. I wanted to join them but I was behind on a couple of assignments and I didn’t have the time; still, I could hear them.
Liam said, I didn’t get anything from either you or Otto for Valentine’s Day.
May said, Liam, you and I made that beautiful heart cake with the red frosting.
Food isn’t part of love, Liam said.
Well, Liam, love is lots of things. Like food. I’m making this for you and him. I got these beautiful tulips from daddy, but I didn’t give him anything.
Then he probably knows how I feel.
The Beginnings of Baggy Bronchi
FEBRUARY 2012
Fevered and fretful, sick with whooping cough, Liam slept between us. He woke coughing at two a.m. and kicked the covers off his superheated body and put his hands to his face.
His breathing was shallow so I’d lain awake, watching him. Willing the antibiotics to help clear his lungs, the ginger and raw honey, the peppermint oil I’d rubbed on the soles of his feet. Wondering when his sweat would change; it still smelled sweet.
Hey Otto, he whispered in the dark, his voice froggy, and pressed his hands more tightly against his skin. My face feels pale.
Opportunity Knocks
Two years after the shooting, a letter came from a man who claimed to have worked for the NRA. He’d left the NRA after helping produce videos about 9/11 and several of the school shootings, he said, including Liam’s, false flag videos that claimed they were all staged to give the government reasons to take away guns.
It wasn’t official NRA work that he did; he made that clear. Black bag stuff, off the books. But the NRA leadership knew about it, he wrote. And supported it.
I have immense guilt about my role in all of this, his letter said. Will you agree to meet me so I can apologize?
Unlike the other letters, which I kept, I threw that one away, in a momentary spasm of anger: Find your absolution elsewhere. Later, I regretted it, but by then the trash had already been collected.
His name was something peculiar, like Howaniac, but I don’t remember it clearly, though I do remember that he’d helped produce those videos, perhaps even ones that Kate appeared in. And I think he might even have known her name.
None of my searches about him ever turn up his name, no matter how I spell it or what the parameters are, so I’ll probably never know.
The Line Was Totally Worth It
FEBRUARY 2019
A packed signing, the long line weaving between aisles of books. Fiction, Nonfiction, Cooking and Religion; Lamont stood for ten minutes next to Travel and didn’t glance at a single title; he was picking out passages from the book he held: Never Surrender, Confessions of a Hitter. Tanner Weeks.
Rare that a football player came around to sign his book, rarer still one so high profile—three times an All-Pro safety—rarest of all that he was white. He was amazingly comfortable, Lamont thought, watching him talk to each person who offered a book to be signed, a jersey, a hat. Even if only for a few seconds, he tried to connect beyond the perfunctory handshake. Admirable, really. Most athletes didn’t like meeting fans. Deebo alert! he wanted to call out, but didn’t. Surprise mattered.
Bit by bit the line shuffled forward. Some of the women asked if they could touch Weeks’s arms, the blue-and-white striped shirt-sleeves stretched tight over them. One man did too and others talked about their own days playing football; Lamont pitied them. Weeks’s glamor wouldn’t rub off on them, as desperately as they wanted it to. And besides, the guy was a piece of shit.
At last it was Lamont’s turn. He stepped up to the table and handed over his copy of the book. I’m your biggest fan, he said,
Thanks, dawg! Weeks said. He shook Lamont’s hand and flashed his famous smile. Lamont thought it impressive that he didn’t try to outgrip him.
Well, Lamont said, me and everyone else in the line.
A genuine smile. White people problems! Weeks said.
Lamont thought, About to have some Black people problems.
After Weeks signed the book, he asked, Did you play, my G?
Yes, Lamont said, shamed that he liked being asked, angry that Weeks had dropped into pseudo-street lingo because he was Black. O-lineman, he said.
Look like you still got it, brother.
Lamont shrugged off the compliment and said, You got kids?
I do, Weeks said, and smiled again and pressed his hands together as if in prayer, gold bracelets flashing in the light. Two boys and a girl.
This is my son, Lamont said, and handed him a glossy picture of Latrell in his football uniform, helmet off, with a fresh fade. Can you sign that too? he asked
Sure. Who do I make it out to?
Latrell, he said, and waited until Weeks was done.
Good, Lamont said, and touched his boy’s face, stared at it for a few quiet seconds. Behind him he felt others waiting and didn’t care. He’s handsome, don’t you think? Lamont asked.
Very.
Lamont rubbed his thumb over the signature, smearing it. And dead, he said.
What? No, hey man, look. Sorry. Weeks pushed his seat back a little.
Shot in that school shooting you always say never happened. Three times in this book. Lamont tapped it. Page 17, page 257, and page 399. The very last one.
Weeks’s face was tight, a vein pulsing in his muscled throat. He stood and nodded at someone behind Lamont. Security, Lamont guessed. Around them chatter died out and Lamont felt attention shifting their way. And why not? They’d stepped into the spottie, and everyone was about to get the answer to the age-old question, if a tiger fights a bear, who wins? Weeks had two or three inches on him, and the broadest shoulders; he looked like he’d have to go through every door sideways. But Lamont was stone-solid, with huge arms and legs, a thick neck. He wouldn’t be half as fast as Weeks, but Weeks also wouldn’t have time to leverage his speed before Lamont smothered him; who got there first mattered.
Lamont said, Latrell died, and I’m his father, and I want to hear you say to my face that it never happened so I can smack you. Say it. After all, you got to be stronger and wronger than everyone about this, with your tweets and Instagrams, and I don’t fuck with that shit. He raised his voice and went on. That my boy not only never died, but never lived. He gripped the table with both hands, as if he was about to toss it aside like a stack of paper.
Weeks spread his feet apart and angled his hips and said, Bro, no need to get salty.
Salty? Lamont said. I’m beyond that. Here’s your chance. Man up, dawg.
Behind him someone said, Hey, watch where you’re going, and others murmured as someone else pushed through the crowd.
When Weeks said nothing, Lamont tore the book in half and tossed the halves at Weeks. Then he picked up the picture and said, I thought so. Don’t ever write or tweet about the school shooting again, or I’ll find you a second time. And I won’t be carrying a picture when I do.
Half a Truth Is Often a Great Lie
FEBRUARY 2016
At first Liam didn’t have a roommate on the trauma ward. The night nurses let me sleep clothed in the other bed and by day three he was sleeping through the night, the nightmares gone. When he woke he drank like a cat, rarely but copiously. I breathed on the window and wrote his name in the fog and watched three men standing facing each other down on the sidewalk with their hands to their mouths, wondering if they were some kind of harmonica band, but it turned out they were only smoking. After they left, I taped sketches on the wall, some of which I’d made while watching over Liam. Apple picking, fishing, Liam and Latrell asleep after a day spent gaming. Also the horse Liam had drawn years before.
Dr. Wild smoothed that one flat. This is beautiful, she said. Brightens up the room. That’s good. That will help him. The fl
owers too.
A dozen bouquets, jammed on the bedside tables and window-sills; freesias, roses, tulips, fragrant camellias; I couldn’t draw them all. Friends, relatives, strangers.
You think so? I rearranged violet tulips in a waisted glass vase. I wanted so much to help, to not be a passive observer, and I was scared that Liam wasn’t getting better faster. Scared and angry at him, as if it was willful. Fight!
If she intuited my need, she skipped over it. His sleeping through the night is a good sign, she said. With more rest, his brain can heal faster. The swelling will decrease, the blood flow improve. Brain function usually does too.
I cleared my throat. Usually?
She nodded and put her hands in her pockets, which I knew meant bad news. He should begin to speak more now, she said
He was speaking on the ICU.
Inconsistently. Some days he would, others not. He should begin to remember things from day-to-day now. If he doesn’t, that’s a bad sign.
When will we know?
She touched my arm. It’s a process. All of this can be disturbing, because he doesn’t seem like your child. Try not to become anxious. Ups and downs are normal. He’s already come a long way. We weren’t sure at first that he would even survive.
I didn’t like hearing that. I’d worried he might die and twice asked nurses and doctors directly. Tell me, I’d said. I want to be prepared. Will he die? Both times, they’d said no. Now I knew they’d merely been trying to comfort me. Was Dr. Wild doing the same thing again? I suspected she wouldn’t tell me.
What can I tell him about the shooting when he wakes up?
She picked at loose finish on the bedside table with her red fingernail. You should tell him everything. Don’t spare him. It’ll only make him distrust you later, once he finds out.
I must have made a face.
She checked her phone before responding. I know that seems harsh, she said and pocketed it. But I’ve been through a lot of these recoveries. Even kids want the truth. And it’s especially important that parents know what that is, and accept it.