Damage (11 page)

Yep. You’ve always liked being the unfrayed end of tradition that’s been passed from father to son all down the generations. Starting with a straight-edged razor a leather strap.

You’re turning your head this way and that, measuring the path of metal over skin. The razor feels light, like your dad’s hand swiping the foam onto your cheeks. your mind, you’re sitting on the counter, feet dangling until your dad lifts you down, and your feet landing solid on the blue tile floor. You remember that blue tile, cool under your bare feet.

Blue tile.

But the floor under your feet is white.

The truth wrings you out slowly, like a sponge.

This, the only bathroom in your house, is white—white tile, white paint, white everything. It always has been.

The Hightowers’ bathroom has blue tile on the floor, reaching halfway up the wall to cream-and-blue patterned wallpaper. The wallpaper’s changed over the years, but the tile has been blue ever since you can remember.

And you used to be this pitiful, hopeful kid hanging around the Hightowers’ house, trying to soak up any father-son atmosphere left over from Curtis and his dad.

Don’t look at the mirror anymore. That guy saws you, he’s going to cut you completely loose.

Be a machine. Clean off the razor. Place it back in its box. Wipe any traces of foam from your cheeks and neck.

Standing there holding the towel, you notice how the tendons are bunched lines along your forearm; how the blood rushes through the veins in your wrist. You can almost hear it, whispering along the blue-walled tunnels.

No.

Put one foot in front of the other, all the way to the phone. Take it back into the bathroom, where you are insulated from the rest of the household, where the razor is still sitting there in its box by the sink.

Your fingers are hitting the buttons on the phone, in the correct order, all on their own. You don’t even need to look at the numbers. When Heather answers sleepily, you speak almost in a whisper, because these words are for no one but Heather. “Let’s ditch school today,” you tell her. “Let’s just take the day off and go somewhere.”

“Austin?” She sounds groggy.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s…five till six. God. What are you asking me?”

“To let me pick you up so we can—”

“Is something wrong?”

Silence. It’s a very simple question.

“Hello?” She sounds irritated. “Are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“You called and woke me up. Is something wrong?”

Did you ever have this feeling like you’re not sad or thing, but like something’s squeezing the back of your eyes?
“No,” you hear yourself tell her. “Nothing’s wrong. I missed you this weekend.”

“God. Why is it you early risers always assume everybody else is up, just because you are? It’s not even light out.” She sighs, and you hear the rustle of bedclothes. Okay, let me get this straight. You called me at five till six to ask me not to go to school today just because you missed me? I mean, I’m glad you missed me, but couldn’t it wait?”

The wooden box sits there, unmoving. The lid is shut so you can’t see the razor, but you know it’s there. metal, that’s all. Just metal. A tool. Cold when left in it box, warm when it’s been held awhile.

There’s no hurry. You can hang on till you see her can’t you? All you have to do is nothing, until you can
Heather and dig even just one finger back into solid ground.

Deep breath. “Yeah,” you tell her. “It can wait.”

“Great. I’m touched, I really am, but I can’t ditch school for you. Not today. You know my schedule, right? So you can catch me between classes. And I’ll meet you after practice. Okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell her again. What else can you say?

After hanging up, you don’t put the box back in the cabinet, but leave it by the sink. Don’t take a shower, either, just go to your room to throw on some clothes.

When you leave, the razor is still there in its place, waiting to see what’s going to happen when you come home.

You see Heather for a brief moment between classes try to walk with her, but her friends are there and she’s laughing and gossiping with them, pulling you down hall beside her, with one hand latched onto your arm. not what you need from her; whatever it is that you need will have to wait till afternoon.

The day inches by.

After school, when you’re heading across the parking lot to the field house, football is just a long, dark that you can’t escape.

When you walk into the field house, Coach isn’t there. There’s a note on the marker board, written broad, square black letters:

SUIT UP AND GO TO THE FIELD.

And, below that:

FULL PADS.

On the field, Coach is standing on the grass alone, apart from the gathering players. He’s got both hands in his jacket pockets and he’s staring toward the scarred goalpost as he lets one of the assistants put the team through warm-ups.

He doesn’t acknowledge you when you walk past. When warm-ups are over and he finally turns around, he does just what you expected. He gives you one glance then spits in the dirt—Coach doesn’t like having a hardened ball-bobbler on his team—and tells the other guys to get in a circle. He tells you to go stand in the middle. Just like you knew he would.

You pull on your helmet and head into the middle all those eyes.

Coach stands a few feet outside the circle, hands in his pockets. “I got some news for you boys,” he announces. “This is football. And in football, you’re going to get hit. Some of y’all don’t seem to be able to get that idea into your heads.”

When he takes his hands out of his pockets, there’s something in them. It’s a long torn strip of towel. “I got variation that’s going to do you some good, Reid,” he says. “This works wonders for receivers. Take your helmet off for a second.”

You obey, and he walks toward you with that long cloth. “Anybody on this team wants to listen for footsteps—that’s all they’re gonna do, is listen.”

He uses the piece of towel for a blindfold. The thing you see before he ties it on is Curtis looking like smells something bad, and then the thing is on so that the terry cloth bends your eyelashes.

All the things you do wrong, all the moments—and still everybody thought you were the Pride of the Panthers. It’s only right that you should the one to get pounded. It should have been you all along.

You fumble your helmet back into place and stand, waiting. You hear how all the other guys are dead quiet, hear how birds are squawking in a tree across the track. You can hear your heart beating thinly inside your chest.

And then something else—a faint snapping sound, followed by a hollow thud on the grass near your feet.

“Hightower?” That’s Coach.

But you don’t hear Curtis answer.

“Hightower,” Coach grunts, a little louder.

No sound from Curtis.

And then you hear Coach say grimly, “Whatever. Let’s get to work.”

He blows the whistle.

You hear pads creak; you even think you can cleats gripping grass, in the moment before something smashes into you and then the ground slams up to crush what’s left of your breath from your lungs.

Suck more air in. Struggle to your feet.

The whistle blows again.

Coach must be taking it easy since you can’t see. It’s the first time all season he hasn’t called them on two at time. And he gives you enough time to get up, between.

Eventually you’re lying there and no more whistles sound and you hear Coach say, “All right. Looks like could use some sled practice. Get moving, ladies.”

Your tailbone is hurting, and the back of your skull where it meets your backbone. But you get up, and, like Curtis, you don’t complain.

When you remove your helmet and reach up fumble at the knotted towel, Coach’s fingers are there, untying it for you. “You’re a good player, son,” he’s saying quietly. “Don’t let your imagination keep you from being a great one.”

When the knot comes loose and the blindfold disappears back into Coach’s pocket, you immediately look around for Curtis.

He’s not there. Not heading out toward the sleds with everybody else. Not running laps, like he should be Coach is mad at him. He’s not anywhere that you can see.

“Go get some water and hightail it back out here.” Coach’s face is set in tired lines as he turns away. “Dobie,” hear him say. “Get that thing out of my sight.”

That’s when you see the lone empty helmet lying the grass.

Dobie lopes over to it. Coach is already bellowing
somebody else. “Baker!” he calls. “This ain’t bumper cars—wrap ’em up, you hear?”

Dobie bends, loops his long fingers through Curtis’s face mask. You watch as he slowly takes the helmet the field.

Nobody you know has ever just walked out of football practice. Failed to show up, yes. Pretended to be sick, Back in ninth grade, Dobie even went to the counselor and got his schedule changed to regular PE. But nobody’s ever just walked out, right in the middle of a drill.

Leave it to Curtis to decide he didn’t like the view from this particular tunnel.

Heather shows up right before the end. The sight of her doesn’t lift you up the way you thought it would.

You wave at her, anyway, and try to smile.

Later, when you come out of the field house clean and dressed in street clothes, Curtis’s car is nowhere to seen. Dobie stands on the sidewalk, shading his eyes, looking around the parking lot.

Poor forgotten Dobie. Stranded here because of you and Curtis. “Need a ride home?” you ask.

Dobie peers at your pickup. Heather’s visible inside it; she’s probably running down the battery by listening the radio. “You sure it’s okay?”

“It’s okay.”

“Well. All right. ’Preciate it, Austin.”

The two of you walk side by side across the parking
lot. But when you’re about to reach the cab, Dobie heads toward the bed of the truck.

Good old Dobie.

“Come on up front, Dobe. Heather can sit in middle.”

“It’s okay. I’ll ride in the back.”

“There’s plenty of room.”

Dobie hesitates again, with a glance at the window—at Heather’s blond head. It’s the same look has when he passes the show window of the local dealership, of longing being quickly nipped in the bud. “I’ll be fine back here,” he says with dignity, and puts booted foot on the trailer hitch to hoist himself up.

“We’re giving Dobie a ride home,” you tell Heather as you slide in, and she stares at you for a moment before looking quickly over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she says. “For a moment I thought you’d meant I was going to have to be all squished up next him. The gods of dating are kind, after all.”

“He’s a nice guy,” you tell her.

“Maybe so, but I’d rather walk through Kmart in sponge rollers than have to rub against him around every corner.” She glances at Dobie in the rearview mirror, then gives you a smile. “This way, he can dip tobacco if he wants, and I can be alone with you, and we’re all happy. You are going to take him home first, aren’t you?”

That means a trip out 171 and back, but you nod anyway.

You let Dobie off at the road in front of his house like you always have. You don’t get to say good-bye because he doesn’t come up to the window—he never does—thumps on the fender like he’s dismissing a horse with pat on the flank. Then he goes to check the mailbox before heading up the dirt driveway to his family’s small frame house.

All the way back to her house Heather’s talking you, fooling with the radio. She doesn’t say a word about your phone call this morning. When you pull up in front of her house you don’t get out right away. She scoots closer and nestles against you, talking on and on about how in sixth period Mrs. Henderson hates her and is desperate for a chance to flunk her.

All the while she’s talking, she’s also playing with your right hand, testing its size against hers, tracing the outlines of your fingers.

So finally you give your full attention to Heather, bright and beautiful and curled up against you, and understand that in order to make this connection you going to have to put yourself on the line.

“I wasn’t even enough to make my own father want stick around,”
she said. You’ve got the missing pieces to puzzle—you can start by pointing out that she’s been look at her dad with tunnel vision. That she doesn’t see the whole picture. That she can’t take other people’s suicides personally. And if she asks how you know, well…

“I’ve been thinking,” you begin. Only when she stops talking do you realize you interrupted her, but now you’ve got the momentum and you’re not going to stop “About your father,” you add.

You can’t tell any reaction. She’s fingering the design on your class ring.

“I’ve been thinking,” you repeat carefully, “that your mom could be wrong about that manipulation stuff. Because it could be that he just didn’t want to lie there for a long time without being found. Maybe that’s why he did it right when your mom was pulling up. So it might not have had anything to do with revenge.”

Heather is silent, leaning against you. “I really don’t want to talk about this,” she finally says.

“I know. But just listen for a second. You said he was bitter. I was thinking that maybe he just didn’t see any point in being alive anymore.”

“No point.” Her voice is muffled against your shirt. “Just me.”

“He probably felt pretty low, pretty unimportant. Like everybody would get over it real quick.”

Heather sits up and moves away a little. “Is this why you woke me up this morning? Well, you can just drop it. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. He was selfish,” she adds, her mouth a tight line. “And a liar.”

“A liar? What did he lie about?”

“Everything. Calling me Pumpkin. The hugs. The
kisses. Everything.”

“I don’t think he was lying. I think he cared about you a lot. And selfish—well, maybe he was. But maybe he couldn’t help it. It could be that he didn’t really want to die, he just wanted to stop feeling bad. But he couldn’t any other way—”

“Why are you even bringing this up? You don’t know anything about it. You have no clue.”

No clue? Just a razor waiting for you at home.

“But I do,” you tell her. “Kind of.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe not in some ways, but there’s still some things I see that—”

“Oh, of
course
you see. You were there, right?”

“No, but—”

“I was. I was there. Hello?—and
you
weren’t!”

“But—”

“It wasn’t my mom who found him, Austin.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in, for you catch her meaning. “Oh,” you hear yourself say, and for moment you sound like that guy from the mirror, squeezed.

“You have no clue,” Heather says again, through gritted teeth. “Well, here’s a clue. Here’s
several clues.
He lying there in his armchair, all laid back with the footrest out. There was this smell, like—when people die,” says, enunciating each word carefully. “Austin, w
people die, they lose control of everything. Like, their bowels? And the blood—I’ll bet you didn’t even know blood has a smell. Well it does, when there’s a lot of it. A thick, heavy smell. It was all over everything—the chair, the floor, the wall. And clumps of…his head. My father’s head. So don’t even
think you
know anything about it.”

In a flash the world shifts and you see yourself from some weird, outside angle where dying is not some healing, endless sleep; where it is not the relief you’ve always thought it would be—like opening a spillway eases the pressure off a dam.

It is an action that will fly completely out of your control.

It is a man sprawled in his own shit and blood.

Here in the truck, it’s very quiet. Heather clears her throat and looks away; you realize you’ve been staring at her. Now you see how pale she is.

“You’re right, I don’t know anything about that,” you tell her quietly. “But I think I know something about
why
he did it. And—I think I can help you see that it’s not what you think. That it wasn’t anything against you. Because…”

You can feel your left hand tightening, squeezing the steering wheel, trying to crush it into dust. “Because know how he felt. Your dad. Sort of. Because, I guess tend to, you know, sometimes…feel the same way.”

Heather’s voice is high, pinched. “What do you
mean? Feel what way?”

“Down, I guess. I don’t know the best word for Maybe…depressed. Like…not being…”

Your heart’s thumping so loud, she must be able hear it.

“Sometimes I want to kill myself.”

There it is. Out on the table. The steering wheel still there, uncrushed, and your left hand is still on it, you can still feel it.

And you can feel Heather staring at you.

“So,” you say carefully, giving her silence a light prod. “I guess you think I’m a little weird, huh?”

She doesn’t answer. You sneak a glance at her; she looks a little shocked. And this time you know the exact missed moment, right as it happens. It happens when says: “Don’t touch me.”

Sure enough, she’s right—your hand was reaching toward hers. You didn’t even know it. You pull it back the seat by your side.

“And don’t look at me like you expect something. Don’t act like
you’re
surprised at
me.
You
are the one who is not
normal.
”

She looks away from you and starts collecting her stuff to leave.

“I can’t believe this,” you hear her muttering as bends over to feel for her purse and books. “It’s like,
attract
suicidal people?” She gets her hands on her books, which have spread out on the floorboard, and starts piling
them back into one stack. “Or did you start out regular and something about me makes you want to blow your brains out?” She sits up, not looking at you as she pulls her books into her lap, hauls her purse up by the tangled strap. “I am not going to wallow around in your mental problems.” Her eyes are straight ahead, but her hand trembles when she pulls her purse strap up onto her shoulder.

She opens the door and slides out—but instead shutting the door, she stops. She bends to look right into your face. She’s got one last grenade to lob.