City of Boys Read online

  —Yes, she says, —that Richard seems very nice. Not at all like Alan.

  I try to remember what it was she didn’t like about Alan, but by now it has become hard to remember even what I didn’t like about him. I close my eyes to picture him, but his face is blurry and shapeless, like clay or dough; finally it resolves into Richard’s, a face with no real expression of its own.

  —Actually, I say, —he’s a lot like Alan. He was Alan’s best friend.

  This is not true, but it does disappoint her, and she turns back to cleaning out the insides of the hens. We sit stranded in this uneasiness until David returns.

  —Look, he says, standing in the doorway, his hand behind his back. —I brought you another present. He lifts his arm up high, dangling a dead mouse, which swings stiffly back and forth from his fingers.

  My mother opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and she turns abruptly back to the sink. David gazes at her back a moment, then at the mouse, as if he has only just noticed it; then he turns and tosses it out into the yard.

  —Sorry, he says. He goes to the sink to wash his hands and smiles down at my mother, but she lifts the hens out and steps aside without looking at him.

  —I couldn’t find the cats, he says to me. —They must have heard me coming with the bells.

  I leave them in the kitchen and go outside to pick up the mouse, as well as any other prey I may have missed earlier. My neighbor to the right doesn’t even pretend not to have been watching when I look up and see her. She shakes her head and calls her husband over; they watch me as I walk through the yard, putting the little bodies in a plastic bag.

  When I come back inside, David and my mother are sitting quietly in front of the television watching a game show.

  —I couldn’t find them either, I say, and my mother looks up. —The cats, I mean.

  —Shhh, she says, and looks back at the television. —We like to watch this every evening.

  My brother stares intently at the screen as the host asks a question about geography. —Zanzibar, David says urgently before the host has even finished the question, but the answer turns out to be Zaire. —Damn, he says. —I knew it began with a Z.

  My mother pats him on the knee. —That’s okay, honey, she says. —Who’d have guessed Zaire?

  David watches the screen, the muscles in his jaw working as he waits for the next question, and I go into the kitchen for a cigarette. The hens are on the counter, sitting in pairs side by side on a baking sheet.

  In the other room, my mother congratulates David on every correct answer, and I imagine them in their living room, settling down together every evening to watch this program, sitting next to each other, David in the chair my father once occupied. Outside, the light is beginning to fade and somewhere my cats are lurking, their eyes gleaming like bits of glass in the dusk. My neighbors drag in their lawn mowers, and shake their heads at my own shaggy grass. Inside, they settle into their evenings; I see them through their windows at night, cooking dinner, washing dishes; they probably sit in front of the same game show that my mother and David watch, alternately congratulating and consoling each other as they compete. When the show is over, my mother goes upstairs to get ready for dinner and David comes into the kitchen, joining me at the table.

  —Got an extra cigarette? he asks.

  —I thought you quit, I say, but I hand him one.

  —Sort of. I don’t smoke around Mom. I go outside.

  —You go outside to smoke?

  He shrugs. —It’s not so bad. It beats what I had before. Barbara used to smell my breath every night when I came to bed. I used to brush my teeth, gargle, chew gum. She always knew.

  He lights the cigarette and holds the match up until it burns out. —I don’t know, he says. —It was like she had spies. He puts the match on the table even though there is an ashtray in front of me. —Maybe the kids, he says. —Maybe she trained them to spy on me.

  —So, I say, —when do you think you’ll get your own place? He looks at his cigarette as if he has never seen one before, turning it around and around in his long fingers before he takes a drag. When he speaks, each word comes out with a little puff of smoke.

  —I don’t know. He blows the rest of the smoke out in a steady blue stream. —I don’t see what’s so bad about living there. I mean, he says, looking around the room, —I don’t see what’s so great about living alone. What do you have? Just some cats and a bunch of dead things in your yard.

  —Those dead things aren’t there all the time, I say. —It’s just a phase. I’m sure they’ll stop soon.

  He taps his cigarette against the ashtray. —I don’t know, he says again. —I just don’t see what’s so bad about it.

  Behind us my mother clears her throat and we both turn to see her hovering in the doorway. —Oh, she says, —you two are smoking. You know, she says, looking at me, —smoking causes wrinkles.

  She is wearing a purple sweater covered with bright geometric designs. It is so ugly I feel I must compliment her on it and she smiles.

  —David got it for me. For the trip.

  David grinds his cigarette out and stands. —I’m going to go look for those cats again, he says. It’s dusk now, and I know he’ll never find them; I can hear the soft jingle of bells as he circles the house.

  We sit down to eat almost as soon as Richard arrives, and when my mother brings the four hens to the table, he smiles up at her.

  —That looks great, he says. —I love chicken.

  —They’re not chickens, I say. —They’re Rock Cornish game hens.

  He turns his soft blue eyes on me, and immediately I regret saying what was, after all, just a statement of fact.

  —Oh, he says sadly. —Well, whatever.

  He pokes gently at his hen with his fork and waits to see how my mother eats hers. When she peels the skin away from the flesh, he does the same, and they both take small, delicate bites. Like my mother, he takes only a few of the French fries David bought, but David has a heap of them piled on his plate; my mother watches him eat each one. The cat collars sit on the table by his elbow, and he lifts his head at every sound of the wind through the trees.

  —So, Richard says. —What brings you two to town?

  My mother responds with their itinerary, and when she finishes, he nods.

  —The Grand Canyon, he says. —You’re going to love it there, Dave. I went there when I was a kid.

  He watches as my mother carefully pulls one of the legs from her hen, then looks down at his own plate. —Lots of people, he goes on, —you know, want to go to Disneyland and places like that, but I say go to the source.

  David looks up from his food. —The source of what? he asks.

  —Oh, I don’t know. Richard waves his fork in the air.

  —Nature. You know.

  My mother smiles. —I know what you mean, she says.

  —It’s not man-made.

  —Oh, David says. He turns to me. —So where do your cats usually go at night? He lays his hand over the collars. —You know, he says, —if they were radioactive, they’d glow in the dark and you could always find them.

  —Dave, Richard says, —your mom says you got a new car. David brightens. —You bet, he says. —A Toyota. It’s the smartest thing I’ve ever done, buying that car.

  —It is, my mother says. —It’s been so comfortable.

  —And roomy, David adds. —In case Theresa comes with us.

  My mother slides the little heap of skin to the side of her plate. —Yes, she says, —well. She looks at Richard. —What kind of car do you drive, Richard? she asks.

  As Richard lays down his fork to tell her, David rises, then comes back to the table with the rest of the French fries, which he scrapes from the pan onto his plate. He takes the pan to the sink and turns the water on, which hisses as it hits the hot metal. Right now Richard is nodding at whatever my mother is saying and when he sees that I am watching him, panic skitters into his face, his attention torn between us, and finally
he settles on a smile that stops before it reaches his eyes, which pass unhappily from her face to mine and back.

  —Theresa, David says, —don’t you have any ketchup?

  When I give him the ketchup, he pours it onto his plate, and puts the bottle on the table in front of him.

  —You know, he says, looking at the bottle, —that was one of the things Barbara was always getting on me for, leaving the ketchup bottle on the table. She said people would say we had no class. He drags a French fry through the puddle of ketchup on his plate. —But the thing was, he says, —we never really had anyone over. We never really seemed to have any friends. He looks around at us. —No one really seemed to notice when we broke up.

  My mother reaches over and touches him on the wrist. —That’s all over now, honey, she says. —You don’t have to worry about that anymore.

  Richard pats his fork against the small pile of skin at the edge of his plate; he presses against it until he’s shaped it into a small square, then looks up.

  —So, Dave, he says, —what made you choose Toyota?

  David looks confused a moment, then sighs and begins to list all of the car’s features. Richard nods at each one, and my mother lifts her head and gently strokes the skin under her chin. Outside, something rustles in the leaves; it could be a cat following the trail of a bird to its nest, or it could simply be a trick of the wind through the branches.

  When we’re done, our plates are covered with tiny bones and brownish juice, dotted with beads of fat. My mother rises and Richard quickly stands. He reaches for my plate and allows his fingers to brush mine, but I stand and carry my own dishes to the sink. I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk. David goes outside with the cat collars as we clear the table silently. When all the dishes are in the sink, my mother turns on the water.

  —You dry, Richard, she says, and Richard looks around happily for a towel. I hand him the roll of paper towels and go into the living room.

  David has come back in; he is standing at my desk, flipping through the papers on top of it. I can’t see his face in the light, but he seems uninterested in the contents of what he looks at; he glances at each page for only a moment, then puts it down and picks up another. He looks up when he hears me and smiles faintly.

  —They seem to be hitting it off, he says, and I nod.

  —Like old friends, I say, trying for a cheery tone.

  He puts down the envelope he is holding and picks up a small jar that contains stamps and paper clips. —Do you do much at this desk?

  —Not really. Bills. Letters. It’s just there. Alan left it.

  He nods. —I know, he says. —It’s hard to get much done anymore. He twists the lid of the jar back and forth. —I have this feeling, he says, —that I should be doing things. But I don’t know what they are. He puts the jar down and looks at me. —But you, he says. —You should be doing things. You were always doing things.

  My mother laughs in the kitchen, over the sound of running water, and he stops to listen.

  —So you and–what’s that guy’s name?

  —Richard.

  —Richard. So you and Richard. Are you going to move in together?

  —I hardly know him, I say, but even as the idea is raised, I can almost feel myself becoming resigned to it. Richard could use Alan’s desk and play with Alan’s cat, and the television could be on all the time.

  David nods. —Well, you can always move back home. There’s plenty of room there.

  My room at my mother’s house has high yellow walls, with stuffed toys still arranged in little animal groupings on top of the bureau and bookshelves.

  —Oh, I say, —I’m happy here. Really.

  David stares down at the desk, then picks up a flyer advertising a lecture I meant to go to a few weeks ago.

  —I don’t know, he says. He turns his head quickly toward the window, as if he has heard something, but there is nothing there, only the wind and the occasional tick of a branch against the glass.

  —Sometimes, he goes on, —sometimes I just can’t seem to move. You know? I wake up in the middle of the night and I just can’t even, he stops and looks into the kitchen, listens a moment. —Well, I just can’t even, you know, lift my legs off the bed and onto the floor.

  He drops the flyer and lets it drift to the floor before he bends to pick it up. —Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? he asks. —You might just as well.

  He looks at me and I realize he is right: I might just as well. I think for a moment, searching out some compelling reason I must stay–something that might go wrong in my absence. But all that occurs to me is that the newspapers would pile up on my step, and the grass would continue to go unmowed, lopping over onto the sidewalk. The neighbors would probably miss me in their way, drifting aimlessly to their windows, and the cats would just go on littering the lawn with tiny corpses. After a day or two of scratching at the door for their dinner, they’d realize the little bodies were food, and they’d eat them. This is all that would happen. I try to think of something to say to David, but I am struck suddenly by the sense that I am living inside one of those pockets of air left by everyone who has been here. When David and my mother go, they will leave behind them empty spaces of their own for me to maneuver around; my life will be like an obstacle course.

  David is still gazing at me when Richard and my mother come into the room.

  —Well, Richard says, —I guess I should be going.

  He stands at the door and my mother backs tactfully away.

  —I’ll give you two a minute to say goodbye, she says.

  I stand on the front porch with Richard and watch his face as he tries to think of the right thing to say.

  —Well, he finally offers, —I really enjoyed that.

  —Good, I say. —Thanks for coming.

  —Oh, I was glad to. He looks out at the black street.

  —Really glad.

  As he leaves, he stops at David’s car and walks all the way around it, looking it over and nodding; when he gets to his own car, he gives me a little wave before he gets in.

  His brake lights blink like eyes, all the way down the street. When I turn to go inside, I am for a moment surprised to see David and my mother through the window; it seems odd to see people there, and, watching them, I feel like a spy. David sits at the desk, my mother stands behind him; his eyes close as he leans his head back against her, and she smiles, stroking his thin hair. Her mouth moves with whatever words a mother would say to a son at such a moment, and it is clear to me that they could be anywhere: in their own home, or in any motel in any city along their route. I turn away from the window. It’s late, and the wind carries a faint sound as it moves through the trees. It could be anything: the jingling of little bells, perhaps, or the tiny flickering out of tiny lives. I close my eyes and try to think of all I have, but all I can see is David and my mother; their voices echo in the deep canyons, and rocks are falling all around them as they look up at me, their faces dizzy with the steepness of the descent.

  Abattoir

  —Look, Teddy says, and when he turns to me, his eyes are the unquiet blue of the television, his skin lit by the reflected glare.

  —Look, he says again. —You’ve got to see this, so I put my finger on a word to mark my place in the magazine article I am reading and look up to see a tangled heap of men on a baseball field.

  —Not that, he says. —Wait. They’ll show it again. He leans forward on his knees, his face a foot away from the television. —Watch, he says; then, —Okay.

  The slow-motion replay begins, and we watch the man on third base run several yards into a dramatic collision with the catcher, the pitcher, and the umpire. Somewhere in the confusion, the baseball is thrown, and out of the pile the catcher’s arm emerges, miraculously holding the ball.

  —Amazing, Teddy says. —Amazing. He turns to me.

  —You’ll never see a better play at the plate. That guy should have been safe. Anyone else would have dropped the ball.r />
  He looks back at the TV. —You’re looking at one of the best catchers in baseball, he says. —I don’t care what they say. The catcher stands, and walks around, shaking out his legs. His thighs are enormous, one of them alone the size of the waist of any model in the magazine I am reading.

  —His thighs are huge, I say, and Teddy looks at me.

  —He has to have those thighs, he says. —He’s got baseballs coming at him ninety miles an hour. He nods. —You’d want thighs like that, too.

  The men on the screen untangle themselves, coaches hurtle out of dugouts, and everyone’s mouth is moving, but no one appears to be listening. I turn back to my magazine article about the things women do when they are on the rebound from love.

  —If I’d had thighs like that, Teddy says, —I could have been a catcher in high school, instead of playing first base. I might have gone to the minors. They always need catchers. He sighs and turns back to the television. —That would have been a good career.

  He rubs his hands up and down his thighs; even bent double, they aren’t as wide as those of the catcher on TV.

  —You have a career, I say. —At the Safeway.

  He turns to look at me. —I don’t think, he says, —that being an assistant manager in the produce section at the Safeway is exactly a career.

  He watches the next batter swing and miss to end the inning. —Shit, he says, then turns back to me. —At least not yet, anyways. He watches the commercial a moment, then says, —But maybe someday. Maybe someday I might just manage the whole place.

  He nods thoughtfully as the game comes back on. He says this often, that he might someday manage the store; in fact, he has promised me that when I am ready, he will get me a job at the Safeway, and together we will move slowly up the ranks, so that one day we will be at the top, a brother-and-sister management team. It will happen when things settle down, he always says, but he never says what this means, or when it will be. In the meantime, he reads books to prepare himself for that day, books on cost accounting and finance management, books by millionaires and businessmen. He’s going to be ready, he says; he is going to make his future happen. And mine. But for now, he smooths his pants down over his thin legs and leans forward to watch the failed play at the plate one more time.