City of Boys (20 page)

—And see this? Suddenly David’s seat tilts almost straight
back, and the car takes an alarming lurch toward the curb; then he pops the seat back upright. —In case I want to pull over and take a nap.

My mother turns around in her seat. —It’s just perfect for a long drive, she tells me. —It’s so comfortable.

—And roomy, David says. —In case you decide to come.

—Yes, my mother says, and turns back to face the road.

—But of course you’d be much too busy for that.

David parks the car two or three spaces away from any others, and at the door he turns back to smile at it. Inside, we are all struck a little numb by the frozen air, and we drift along the aisles gazing at food until my mother stops at the meat case.

—We’ll need something for dinner, she says, looking doubtfully down at the meat.

—You pick it out, David says. —I’m going to get some cookies or something.

He wanders off, and I watch him stop at the end of each aisle to read the signs. From here I can see the checkout, and in the middle of the express lane is a man I saw a few times a year or two ago. His name is Richard, and all I can remember about him is that he wanted the television on all the time, even when he wasn’t watching it. I can hardly remember his face without the light from the TV flickering like a changing wind across its surface. He stares around vacantly while he waits, leaning against a large cart, though he has only a few items rattling around in the bottom. Before I can turn my head away, he spots me, then looks quickly to see how many people are in line ahead of him. Unwilling to give up his position so close to the cashier, he calls my name, but I look away, down at all the red-and-white lumps of meat.

—Terry, he calls, with a kind of suppressed urgency. I
reach out and pick up the first thing I touch, which turns out to be a Rock Cornish game hen.

—Let’s have this, I say.

—Well, my mother says, looking down at the package of fish she is holding.

—Terry, Richard calls again, and she looks toward the sound of his voice.

—Theresa, that man seems to be trying to get your attention, she says.

I pick up another hen. —Chicken is supposed to be good for you, I say. —No cholesterol.

My mother looks down at the two hens I have in my hands. —That’s true, she says. —And David does like chicken. She lays her package offish on top of a steak and bends into the meat case. As she pushes the hens around to find the largest, I feel a presence behind me and turn to see Richard, holding his bag in a little bundle against his chest. I’m amazed that he got through the checkout and down to us so quickly. He never struck me as speedy.

—Hi, Terry, he says. —I guess you didn’t hear me.

My mother straightens and smiles as Richard sways in time to the store music, waiting to be introduced, then shifts his bag to one arm to shake my mother’s hand.

—I’d introduce you to my brother, too, I say, —but he’s disappeared.

—Oh, Richard says. —I’d like to meet him. I’d really like that. He smiles at my mother. —I really would.

—Well, she says, —we’re leaving in the morning. Early. She looks down at the hens in her hand, and though I will her not to say it, she does: —I suppose you could come for dinner.

I keep my face free of any expression at all, so as not to encourage him, but he smiles happily. —I could, he says.

—I’m free tonight.

They arrange a time, and when he goes, my mother watches him walk all the way to the front of the store. —He seems very nice, she says. —He seems to like you.

She doesn’t wait for a reply, and leans back into the meat case.

As she roots around for another hen, David reappears, holding out a package of frozen French fries; his other arm is behind his back.

—I got you a present, he says to me, and holds his hand out to show us two little collars, one red, one blue, each with a tiny bell attached. —For the cats. The bells are to warn the animals they’re coming. He presses the collars into my hand. —This could solve all your problems, he says.

When we get home, David unwraps the collars immediately and goes outside to find the cats, while my mother stands at the sink, preparing the hens.

—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.