he’s only talking to himself, like the born-again junkie he is. Soon enough—though not before taking a slug—he will cap her orange syrup and put it back into her rucksack. He will bring her baby bowl to the toilet and rinse it in the sink, watching the red insides of her swirl down the drain until it’s white, then zip that into her bag, too, placing everything back in the wardrobe under her neatly hung clothes. Soon enough he will open up his duffel bag and shove all her ruined clothes inside, noting a faint tinge of red on the carpet where they once rested but deciding that you’d have to be looking for it and that in this place—in places like this—no one ever is. He will soak a facecloth and, after that proves insufficient, a dish towel, methodically wiping the dried blood from her face and hands, though he will not be able to remove it fully from her fingernails or the tips of her curls; he will debate, then decide against, trying to get it off her bra, underneath which her nipples are stiff from water drying cool on her skin. He will contort her cleansed body inside Joshua’s Led Zeppelin T-shirt, though when he strips the sheets, there will be no new set to replace them with, so he’ll just leave Joshua’s mattress raw and unexplained. As he works, his body will hum productively, the lactic acid that burned his arms earlier from carrying her now forgotten, so that he feels young and without pain, though he was never really young enough that pain wasn’t involved.
This will come later, though. For now, camera securely hidden, he reclines on the island of their mattress, listening to her breath more carefully than he ever has to any jazz riff. She rattles like a broken space heater, no trace of his son anywhere now. She’s merely a car engine that won’t turn over, some failing machine. In any merciful world, there would be a way he could simply reach out and flick the switch to off.
It’s so easy to hide things from people who don’t want to know anyway. Joshua and Sandor came home, and Yank gave them some tale about how I was sick from our first batch of Pixie Dust Bars, how I threw up on my bed and he stripped the sheets and sent my “useless ass” to crash. I heard his flat, lying voice and closed my eyes again and imagined his story into being. The smell of burning hash oil permeated the house. Sandor clucked concern but I
wasn’t sure if it was over me or the cakes. Finally Joshua came in and sat on the side of our bed, smoothing back my
hair like a mother, and though I have been nurtured before,
too
many times, something rose in my throat so I almost
told him everything then. Instead, he pushed up the Led Zeppelin T-shirt Yank had dressed me in and lowered my
underwear around my knees like a snare. Maybe in case I planned to throw up again, he turned me onto all fours, and without a word, with Sandor and Yank still talking low in the common room, rode me so hard my head hit the wall. I started coughing into the pillow, but thank God no blood came up. Still, when I began to moan, Joshua covered my mouth and whispered, “Control,” and slid a sock (whose?) between my teeth to bite down on, continuing his frenzy. I knew I should be pissed. I knew that somehow he’d figured out there was more to Yank’s story even if he couldn’t fathom what, and he was punishing me, just like
you
were on the ferry when you made me swallow that gross bath-cube candy. But I wasn’t angry. I thought of Yank on the other side of the wall, taking in the pounding,
and I knew Joshua and I were both screwing for him in a sense. That all over the world, men and women are fucking
for people not even in the room, and I bit into the sock and coughed and cried a little, and as soon as he came, Joshua stood and zipped his pants, then left to sell cakes at the Latchmere. I thought Yank would stay behind but he went.
What if he had stayed behind? Or maybe that is only a story I’m telling myself.
Lately Joshua has
This will come later, though. For now, camera securely hidden, he reclines on the island of their mattress, listening to her breath more carefully than he ever has to any jazz riff. She rattles like a broken space heater, no trace of his son anywhere now. She’s merely a car engine that won’t turn over, some failing machine. In any merciful world, there would be a way he could simply reach out and flick the switch to off.
It’s so easy to hide things from people who don’t want to know anyway. Joshua and Sandor came home, and Yank gave them some tale about how I was sick from our first batch of Pixie Dust Bars, how I threw up on my bed and he stripped the sheets and sent my “useless ass” to crash. I heard his flat, lying voice and closed my eyes again and imagined his story into being. The smell of burning hash oil permeated the house. Sandor clucked concern but I
wasn’t sure if it was over me or the cakes. Finally Joshua came in and sat on the side of our bed, smoothing back my
hair like a mother, and though I have been nurtured before,
too
many times, something rose in my throat so I almost
told him everything then. Instead, he pushed up the Led Zeppelin T-shirt Yank had dressed me in and lowered my
underwear around my knees like a snare. Maybe in case I planned to throw up again, he turned me onto all fours, and without a word, with Sandor and Yank still talking low in the common room, rode me so hard my head hit the wall. I started coughing into the pillow, but thank God no blood came up. Still, when I began to moan, Joshua covered my mouth and whispered, “Control,” and slid a sock (whose?) between my teeth to bite down on, continuing his frenzy. I knew I should be pissed. I knew that somehow he’d figured out there was more to Yank’s story even if he couldn’t fathom what, and he was punishing me, just like
you
were on the ferry when you made me swallow that gross bath-cube candy. But I wasn’t angry. I thought of Yank on the other side of the wall, taking in the pounding,
and I knew Joshua and I were both screwing for him in a sense. That all over the world, men and women are fucking
for people not even in the room, and I bit into the sock and coughed and cried a little, and as soon as he came, Joshua stood and zipped his pants, then left to sell cakes at the Latchmere. I thought Yank would stay behind but he went.
What if he had stayed behind? Or maybe that is only a story I’m telling myself.
Lately Joshua has
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