“Hey, this is nice,” he says, impressed by the big house, lots of rooms to get lost in, “real nice.” I lead him to the kitchen and find a couple of beers.
“You live here alone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, shocked by my answer. It’s true. She’s never coming back. Her clothes are still in the closets. Intimate items-combs, pins, sprays-are scattered on her dresser. Her magazines, manuals on Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens, are stacked in her bathroom. Her collectible porcelain dolls stare wide-eyed, thinking she’s going to return. But the hospital bed is gone, shipped back to the rental company. The medications have been flushed down the toilet. The milk in the refrigerator has a later expiration date than my mother. Yes, I live here alone.
“Ever get lonely?” he asks.
Wait a minute. Back down. He’s playing with me, trying to manipulate a one-night stand into an extended visit. Do I ever get lonely? How could I possibly get lonely when intimacy’s so cheap, no more than the price of a few beers? How can I be lonely when there’s always someone like him, charming me with sincere endearments that don’t have to be accounted for in the bright light of day?
“No. Not really,” I say, lying.
“I do,” he says. “I wish I didn’t.”
He asks if he can kiss me, for real this time, not like in the bar. I’m ashamed of myself. This kid, this overgrown boy who’s in way over his head, is incapable of guile. His wet lips roam the contours of my face, grazing my cheeks, eyelids, nose, finally settling on my mouth. His tongue is tentative, not sure how it will be received, and when it finds a warm welcome, he whimpers as if he’s in pain.
“Wow!” he says when he comes up for air. “Need to cool off,” he says, fanning himself. “Break time!”
We take our beers out back. He looks up at me, thick bangs falling over his eyes, Dennis the Menace shit-eating grin on his face.
“You know what?” he asks.
“What?”
“There’s nothing I like better than to do some blow and suck a big dick. Back in a minute,” he says and disappears, leaving me alone in the dark.
The buck moon casts a silver sheen on the damp, neglected lawn. Deep in the night, between midnight and dawn, when each dark hour is the same as the last, it’s impossible to tell time without a watch. Mine has stopped, suspended at 11:17. I shake my wrist, trying to revive it. The battery’s dead. Weird. How can it be? My Rolex isn’t three months old. Douglas returns and drops to his haunches, squatting like an Asian as he carefully packs a little metal pipe with powdery granules. He strikes a long kitchen match against the rough concrete patio and, guiding the wild flame with a steady hand, lights a small fire, all crispy crackles, in the bowl. He rocks on his heels, back and forth, striking a second match, then a third, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs.
I look up to the kitchen window, expecting to see my mother’s face, frowning at backyard crimes and misdemeanors, ready to toss the dish towel in the sink and rush outside to make everything right. But there’s no one there. I touch his shoulder and he grabs my leg, clinging to me like I’m the last piece of flotsam in the raging sea.
“How long can I stay here?”
“You need a place to stay?”
“Yes. Yes.” And he starts crying, really sobbing.
“Hey. Hey,” I say, sitting beside him on the concrete. “What’s going on? Who are you afraid of?”
He doesn’t answer.
Then a hoarse, tired voice is calling my name.
I tell Douglas to hide in the yard, lie flat on the grass, away from the light of the windows. Keep quiet, be still, everything will be all right. He’s terrified, not certain he can trust me, but doesn’t have a choice. He dashes into the yard and throws himself facedown in the grass. Prone, he’s well hidden, out of sight.
“Out here,” I shout. “I’m coming.”
My sister’s husband, exhausted and agitated and reeking of cigarettes, is standing at the glass door. His arms are crossed accusingly, his thick chest is heaving, and there are sweat circles under his armpits.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Looking at the moon.”
His anger and frustration escalates. Indignation gives way to murderous impulses.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he hisses, spraying spit across my face.
Who is this prick? Who does he think he is, confronting me? I don’t owe him any explanations, any answers. I open my mouth to tell him to get out of this house, this sanctuary where my sister and I grew into the miserable, pathetic creatures we are today.
“Your sister had to be sedated,” he shouts, not giving me a chance to speak. “No one could find you. Where have you been, you irresponsible little fuck?”
Lucky man. Lucky for him I don’t have a gun or a knife or brick in my hand.
“Your mother’s dead. No one could find you.”
“When?” I ask.
“Eleven. Quarter after eleven. Hours ago. I’m sorry, man,” he says, his anger exhausted, relieved he’s found me, mission accomplished. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
Douglas, his voice, tight, high pitched, scared, calls out to me, startling my brother-in-law.
“Jesus. Jesus Christ,” my brother-in-law says, realizing he’s barged into some sordid little assignation, disgusted, looking at me as if I’m an insect to be crushed under the sole of his size thirteen shoe. “Fucking Jesus. Unbelievable!”
“Go,” I say, my voice calm, under control. “Leave now.”
He doesn’t know whether to take a stand for all that’s decent or escape while he can, absolved of any further responsibility.
“Let Gina sleep in the morning. The arrangements have all been made. Everything’s taken care of. Just go.”
He pauses, straining to see beyond me, needing to have his worst suspicions confirmed.
“You sure? You okay?” he asks, wary, stalling.
“Yes, thanks for asking.”
I don’t move until I hear the front door close behind him. Douglas is fumbling around in the dark, afraid to come out where he can be seen. I wait for grief, pain, shock, some emotion to overwhelm me. I’ve spent months preparing for this moment, to gird myself for the kick in the stomach, the sharp blow to the throat, the lead pipes across my knees that would follow the final pronouncement. But the minutes pass and nothing. I say the words aloud, sure they’ll trigger an appropriate response. My mother’s dead. But here I stand, unchanged, feeling no different than five, ten minutes ago. I try to summon up an image of my mother. Her features are already vague, hazy, indistinct. I can’t remember the color of her eyes. Definitely not brown. But gray, green, hazel, pale blue? I thought I’d seared them into my memory, but they’re gone, lost forever. The next time I see her they’ll be sewn shut, never to be pried open again.
My thoughts wander back to the stoned boy stumbling in the grass. In a few hours, it will be morning and the sun will burn away the haze, the fog in my mind. There’ll be enough time to despair. But tonight, at least, I’m not alone.
“ Douglas,” I call out. “Doug. It’s okay to come out.”
He emerges from the dark, backlit by the moon, shoes in hand, hesitant, afraid to throw caution to the wind.
“Can I stay here with you?” he asks again.
“Yes.”
I mean tonight. He thinks I mean longer. I’ll wait and break it to him in the morning. The bogeyman won’t be so scary then.
He follows me into the house and up the stairs. My twin bed can’t accommodate both of us and I lead him to my mother’s big queen bed, the one she shared with my father. He slumps on the mattress and smiles at me.
“I’m so tired,” he says.
“So am I.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll just sleep.”
“I wanted to give you the best blow job ever.”
He’s slurring his words, fumbling with his buttons. I turn back the sheets and help him wiggle out of his pants and pull off his socks. He lies on his back and watches me undress. He drapes his arm across my chest when I crawl in beside him. His head droops and he is asleep. I touch the port wine stain on his shoulder and count the birthmarks on his neck.