You Are Not A Stranger Here by Adam Haslett Page B
Authors: Adam Haslett
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Reading Group Guide, Fiction - General, Juvenile Fiction, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author)
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faced the TV. As I walked closer I saw the top of Gramm's head over its back, his legs stretched onto the footrest. He lifted his bottle to his mouth and swallowed. I walked around to stand between him and the television. His mouth hung slightly open as he gazed at my body, stripped from the waist down.
"You must want to die," he said.
He stepped out of the chair. I closed my eyes. This must have been a fresh insult to him, for as soon as he reached me he slapped me across the face. Once the first blow came, the rest followed in a hail, knuckles to my temple and cheek, a knee against my chest. I fell to one side, collapsing onto the carpet. My mind drifted as I heard him pull down his jeans and then I felt his warm flesh against my back as he crawled on top of me, spreading my legs with his knees. The children's keening rose above the beating of the chopper's wings and the roar of the crowd in my head. Furiously, he stabbed me, again and again.
58
" W H AT O N E A RT H have you been doing?" Mrs. Polk asked when I stepped into the living room. "Watch out! You'll get blood on the carpet."
Her mother hauled her attention from the television and shouted, "WHO'S THIS!"
"THE BOY!" Mrs. Polk yelled back. "THE BOY! The one who lives with us."
"OH!" her mother shouted before raising the volume. A couple in riding gear cantered over the lawn of a manor house. I leaned against the door and fainted.
N ATA L I A , T H E M A I D , drove me to the emergency room, where they washed the blood from my face and thighs. A nurse in her twenties, wearing lozenge-shaped silver earrings like the ones my mother had on when I lifted her head from the oven to rest on my lap, asked me lots of questions about where I had been and what had happened. I told her I was walking home from school when a guy in a van full of sheet glass offered me a ride; he brought me to a clearing in the woods, I said. They took X rays and told me there was no permanent damage. The nurse said I should come back and talk to someone at the hospital but I told her I already had a shrink. Natalia gave me a crucifix and begged me to wear it around my neck.
At school, most people were too afraid to ask what had happened, except the lady in the office, who wept when I gave her the doctor's note. A mugging in the city, it said. 59
The few times I saw Gramm, he walked quickly in the other direction. He stopped coming to Mr. Raffello's class, which for me was the only place I felt any sense of purpose. I gave my pine chest another sanding with the finest grade of paper, smoothing every sharp corner and point. With a cloth, I applied the first coat of stain, a dark, amber brown that brought out the grain of the wood nicely. When it was dry I put on another coat, and over that a shiny polyurethane finish. To complete the design, I chose a brass lock from the hardware and affixed it to the lid.
Mr. Raffello went around the classroom examining students' work. When he reached my bench, his eyes wandered my face, reading the marks and bruises like a story he'd heard a hundred times before.
"Who hit you?" he asked.
I stared at the hem of his black shop coat, imagined it as a ferryman's cape. Maybe he'd think my tale unremarkable, having known so many. Maybe he'd listen in comprehending silence as he rowed me across.
"Nobody," I said.
"What are you going to do with the chest?"
I pictured myself curled inside it.
"I don't know," I said.
"Well, you've done a good job," he muttered. "Put your address on it. I'll drop it off next week."
I ' D K E P T A set of keys to my parents' house and as the real estate lady hadn't found a buyer yet, the place was empty. I'd go 60
in the afternoons to sit in my room, where the water glass still waited on the bedside table and the clock radio faithfully kept time. From the window, where I watched for Gramm, I heard my father turning the pages of his newspaper, my mother whispering; the sounds floated in the hallway just outside my door. The
"You must want to die," he said.
He stepped out of the chair. I closed my eyes. This must have been a fresh insult to him, for as soon as he reached me he slapped me across the face. Once the first blow came, the rest followed in a hail, knuckles to my temple and cheek, a knee against my chest. I fell to one side, collapsing onto the carpet. My mind drifted as I heard him pull down his jeans and then I felt his warm flesh against my back as he crawled on top of me, spreading my legs with his knees. The children's keening rose above the beating of the chopper's wings and the roar of the crowd in my head. Furiously, he stabbed me, again and again.
58
" W H AT O N E A RT H have you been doing?" Mrs. Polk asked when I stepped into the living room. "Watch out! You'll get blood on the carpet."
Her mother hauled her attention from the television and shouted, "WHO'S THIS!"
"THE BOY!" Mrs. Polk yelled back. "THE BOY! The one who lives with us."
"OH!" her mother shouted before raising the volume. A couple in riding gear cantered over the lawn of a manor house. I leaned against the door and fainted.
N ATA L I A , T H E M A I D , drove me to the emergency room, where they washed the blood from my face and thighs. A nurse in her twenties, wearing lozenge-shaped silver earrings like the ones my mother had on when I lifted her head from the oven to rest on my lap, asked me lots of questions about where I had been and what had happened. I told her I was walking home from school when a guy in a van full of sheet glass offered me a ride; he brought me to a clearing in the woods, I said. They took X rays and told me there was no permanent damage. The nurse said I should come back and talk to someone at the hospital but I told her I already had a shrink. Natalia gave me a crucifix and begged me to wear it around my neck.
At school, most people were too afraid to ask what had happened, except the lady in the office, who wept when I gave her the doctor's note. A mugging in the city, it said. 59
The few times I saw Gramm, he walked quickly in the other direction. He stopped coming to Mr. Raffello's class, which for me was the only place I felt any sense of purpose. I gave my pine chest another sanding with the finest grade of paper, smoothing every sharp corner and point. With a cloth, I applied the first coat of stain, a dark, amber brown that brought out the grain of the wood nicely. When it was dry I put on another coat, and over that a shiny polyurethane finish. To complete the design, I chose a brass lock from the hardware and affixed it to the lid.
Mr. Raffello went around the classroom examining students' work. When he reached my bench, his eyes wandered my face, reading the marks and bruises like a story he'd heard a hundred times before.
"Who hit you?" he asked.
I stared at the hem of his black shop coat, imagined it as a ferryman's cape. Maybe he'd think my tale unremarkable, having known so many. Maybe he'd listen in comprehending silence as he rowed me across.
"Nobody," I said.
"What are you going to do with the chest?"
I pictured myself curled inside it.
"I don't know," I said.
"Well, you've done a good job," he muttered. "Put your address on it. I'll drop it off next week."
I ' D K E P T A set of keys to my parents' house and as the real estate lady hadn't found a buyer yet, the place was empty. I'd go 60
in the afternoons to sit in my room, where the water glass still waited on the bedside table and the clock radio faithfully kept time. From the window, where I watched for Gramm, I heard my father turning the pages of his newspaper, my mother whispering; the sounds floated in the hallway just outside my door. The
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