The Autobiography of Red (4 page)

Geryon straightened and put his hands quick under the table, not quick enough.

 

Don’t pick at that Geryon you’ll get it infected. Just leave it alone and let it heal,

 

said his mother

 

rhinestoning past on her way to the door. She had all her breasts on this evening.

 

Geryon stared in amazement.

 

She looked so brave. He could look at her forever. But now she was at the door

 

and then she was gone.

 

Geryon felt the walls of the kitchen contract as most of the air in the room

 

swirled after her.

 

He could not breathe. He knew he must not cry. And he knew the sound

 

of the door closing

 

had to be kept out of him. Geryon turned all attention to his inside world.

 

Just then his brother came into the kitchen.

 

Want to wrestle?
said Geryon’s brother.

 

No,
said Geryon.

 

Why? Just don’t. Oh come on.
Geryon’s brother picked up

 

the empty tin fruit bowl

 

from the kitchen table and placed it upside down over Geryon’s head.

 

What time is it?

 

Geryon’s voice came muffled from inside the fruit bowl.
Can’t tell you,
said his brother.

 

Please.

 

Look for yourself. I don’t want to. You mean you can’t.

 

The fruit bowl was very still.

 

You’re so stupid you can’t tell time can you? How old are you anyway? What a jerk.

 

Can you tie your shoes yet?

 

The fruit bowl paused. Geryon could in fact tie knots but not bows.

 

He chose to pass over this distinction.

 

Yes.

 

Suddenly Geryon’s brother stepped behind Geryon and seized him by the neck.

 

This is the silent death hold,

 

Geryon, in war they use this for knocking out all sentries. With one surprise twist

 

I can break your neck.

 

They heard the baby-sitter approaching and Geryon’s brother stepped quickly away.

 

Is Geryon sulking again?

 

said the baby-sitter entering the kitchen.
No,
said the fruit bowl.

 

Geryon very much wanted

 

to keep the baby-sitter’s voice out of him. In fact he would have preferred

 

not to know her at all

 

but there was one piece of information he needed to get.

 

What time is it?

 

he heard himself ask.
Quarter to eight,
she answered.
What time will Mom be home?

 

Oh not for hours yet,

 

eleven maybe.
At this news Geryon felt everything in the room hurl itself

 

away from him

 

towards the rims of the world. Meanwhile the baby-sitter continued,

 

You better start getting ready for bed, Geryon.

 

She was taking the fruit bowl off Geryon’s head and moving towards the sink.

 

Do you want me to read to you?

 

Your mom says you have trouble going to sleep. What do you like to read?

 

Bits of words drifted past Geryon’s brain like ash.

 

He knew he would have to let the baby-sitter go through with this in her wrong voice.

 

She was standing before him now

 

smiling hard and rummaging in his face with her eyes.
Read the loon book,
he said.

 

This was cagey.

 

The loon book was an instruction manual for calling loons. At least

 

it would keep her wrong voice away

 

from words that belonged to his mother. The baby-sitter went off happily

 

to find the loon book.

 

A while later the baby-sitter and Geryon were sitting on the top bunk calling loons

 

when Geryon’s brother surged in

 

and landed on the lower bunk, bouncing everyone up to the ceiling.

 

Geryon drew back

 

against the wall with his knees up as his brother’s head appeared,

 

then the rest of him.

 

He clambered into place beside Geryon. He had a thick rubber band

 

stretched between his thumb

 

and index finger which he snapped on Geryon’s leg.
What’s your favorite weapon?

 

Mine’s the catapult
BLAM
—

 

he snapped Geryon’s leg again
—you can wipe out the whole downtown

 

with a catapult surprise attack
BLAM
—

 

everyone dead or else fill it with incendiaries like Alexander the Great he

 

invented the catapult

 

Alexander the Great personally
BLAM
— Stop that,

 

said the baby-sitter

 

grabbing for the rubber band. She missed. Pushing her glasses back up

 

onto her nose she said,
Garotte.

 

I like the garotte best. It is clean and neat. An Italian invention I believe

 

although the word is French.

 

What’s a garotte?
asked Geryon’s brother. Taking the rubber band from his thumb

 

she shoved it in her shirt pocket and said,

 

A short piece of cord usually silk with a slipknot in one end. You put it

 

around someone’s neck

 

from behind and pull tight. Cuts off the windpipe. Quick but painful death.

 

No noise no blood

 

no bulge in your pocket. Murderers on trains use them.

 

Geryon’s brother was regarding her with one eye closed his mode of total attention.

 

What about you Geryon

 

what’s your favorite weapon? Cage,
said Geryon from behind his knees.

 

Cage?
said his brother.

 

You idiot a cage isn’t a weapon. It has to do something to be a weapon.

 

Has to destroy the enemy.

 

Just then there was a loud noise downstairs. Inside Geryon something burst into flame.

 

He hit the floor running.
Mom!

 

Tuesdays were best.

 

Every second Tuesday in winter Geryon’s father and brother went to hockey practice.

 

Geryon and his mother had supper alone.

 

They grinned at each other as night climbed ashore. Turned on all the lights

 

even in rooms they weren’t using.

 

Geryon’s mother made their favorite meal, cling peaches from the can and toast

 

cut into fingers for dipping.

 

Lots of butter on the toast so a little oil slick floats out on top of the peach juice.

 

They took supper trays into the living room.

 

Geryon’s mother sat on the rug with magazines, cigarettes, and telephone.

 

Geryon worked beside her under the lamp.

 

He was gluing a cigarette to a tomato.
Don’t pick your lip Geryon let it heal.

 

She blew smoke out her nose

 

as she dialed.
Maria? It’s me can you talk? What did he say?

 

. . . .

 

Just like that?

 

. . . .

 

Bastard

 

. . . .

 

That’s not freedom it’s indifference

 

. . . .

 

Some kind of addict

 

. . . .

 

I’d throw the bum out

 

. . . .

 

That’s melodrama
—she stubbed her cigarette hard—
why not have a nice bath

 

. . . .

 

Yes dear I know it doesn’t matter now

 

. . . .

 

Geryon? fine he’s right here working on his autobiography

 

. . . .

 

No it’s a sculpture he doesn’t know how to write yet

 

. . . .

 

Oh this and that stuff he finds outside Geryon’s always finding things

 

aren’t you Geryon?

 

She winked at him over the telephone. He winked back using both eyes

 

and returned to work.

 

He had ripped up some pieces of crispy paper he found in her purse to use for hair

 

and was gluing these to the top of the tomato.

 

Outside the house a black January wind came flattening down from the top of the sky

 

and hit the windows hard.

 

The lamp flared.
It’s beautiful Geryon,
she said hanging up the telephone.

 

It’s a beautiful sculpture.

 

She put her hand on top of his small luminous skull as she studied the tomato.

 

And bending she kissed him once on each eye

 

then picked up her bowl of peaches from the tray and handed Geryon his.

 

Maybe next time you could

 

use a one-dollar bill instead of a ten for the hair,
she said as they began to eat.

 

His mother stood at the ironing board lighting a cigarette and regarding Geryon.

 

Outside the dark pink air

 

was already hot and alive with cries.
Time to go to school,
she said for the third time.

 

Her cool voice floated

 

over a pile of fresh tea towels and across the shadowy kitchen to where Geryon stood

 

at the screen door.

 

He would remember when he was past forty the dusty almost medieval smell

 

of the screen itself as it

 

pressed its grid onto his face. She was behind him now.
This would be hard

 

for you if you were weak

 

but you’re not weak,
she said and neatened his little red wings and pushed him

 

out the door.