BEFORE IT HARDENS

BY EDDIE JOYCE

Annadale

His parents called it his graduation barbecue but Mikey knew better. This was their party, their chance to show off their oldest son. So he stood there, in the tiny fenced-in backyard, and answered the same questions over and over. Yes, he was glad that school was over. Yes, he was excited to go up to LeMoyne. No, it wasn't a full scholarship, just half. Baseball was different than basketball. The coach only has a dozen scholarships to divide among twenty-five players. He wasn't sure what he would major in. No, he probably wouldn't start freshmen year.

After a few minutes, his cheeks started to ache.

When they were done congratulating Mikey, the well-wishers—neighbors, old friends, twice-a-year cousins—walked over to his father, cooking burgers at the grill, and slapped his back, or they sidled up to his mother, standing on the small brick patio drinking Chardonnay, and kissed her cheek. They all said something and then glanced back at Mikey. Something like Good job or Great kid, like it was all his parents' doing, like Mikey had played no role at all. His graduation party. Right.

Sure, Pete and Benny were there. Jenny, of course. And Jenny's best friend Amy. But that was it, as far as his friends went. Mikey didn't even mind because these were the only people he might actually stay in touch with when he went away to college. At graduation, all the kids around him were crying and hugging, promising to hang out this summer, swearing they would keep in touch. But Mikey just smiled and shook hands and wished them good luck. His life, his real life, was in front of him, not behind him, and he saw little sense pretending otherwise.

As soon as he could, Mikey retreated to the picnic table in the back of the yard.

"Dude, how long do we have to stay here? This is boring as balls."

"Benny, do you have to use 'balls' in every sentence?"

"Yes, Amy, I swear on my hairy balls that I do."

Amy stuck her tongue out at Benny, who gave her the finger in response. They'd been flirting all year; nothing had happened. Mikey sat down, picked at a plate of pasta salad. He looked back toward the patio and saw his uncle Tommy letting himself in through the chain-link gate at the side of the house. His uncle—squat, mustachioed, and grim, raising three kids on his own—was wearing construction clothes. He'd come straight from a job, on a Saturday.

Tommy plucked two tall boys of Bud from the enormous white cooler stationed near the grill and walked over to their table. Every stiff-legged, achy stride pushed a wince across his face. He handed Mikey one of the cans and took a long, foamy pull on his own.

"Congrats, Mikey." Tommy brought his beer can down, knocked it into the one he'd put in Mikey's hand. He looked around the table at the others. "Having fun?"

Mikey cracked his beer, took a surreptitious sip.

"Yeah, I am now."

Tommy laughed. "Good. Well, enjoy your day. Enjoy your day."

He turned away and then turned back, a quick pirouette that caught Mikey in the middle of rolling his eyes at Jenny.

"Because a week from Monday, you come to work with me. Gonna teach you a little something about hard work before you head up to that country club."

He walked over to the other adults huddled on the patio. Benny started to laugh. Mikey told him to shut up.

"Sorry, bro. That sucks. That really sucks."

Pete shrugged his shoulders. "At least he gave you a beer."

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mikey got up early and went down to the kitchen. His mother was cooking bacon and eggs. A white box from Galluccio's bakery peeked open on the kitchen table, the red and white twining already cut. He walked up beside his mom and kissed her cheek. He glanced out the window above the sink to the backyard. Already clean. The chairs folded, the trash collected in four tidy white bags.

"Mom, you should have waited. I would have helped you clean up."

"It was nothing. Took no time at all."

With her spatula, she lifted a few pieces of bacon out of the hissing pan and dropped them on a plate covered with a paper towel. Mikey grabbed a piece of bacon and put it in his mouth.

"Christ, Michael, at least wait for it to cool off." She laughed. "You know, I saw that beer Uncle Tommy gave you yesterday. I let it slide but don't get used to it. You're still living under my roof."

"Jesus, Mom, it was one beer."

"I don't know what my brother is thinking sometimes."

Mikey reached for another piece of bacon from the plate. His mother put the last of the bacon in the fat-filled pan and it crackled before fading into an agitated sizzle.

"Yeah, Mom, about Uncle Tommy, I don't know about this construction job. I thought I'd work at the CYO camp again."

"Michael, the pay is great. You'll make three times what you did at the camp. You'll have some pocket money at school."

"I don't need money for school, Mom. I have a scholarship."

"That doesn't cover everything. You want a bike to get to class? Or some CDs? Or what if Jenny comes to visit, you want to take her out to dinner? These things cost money." She pointed the grease-coated end of the spatula at him to accentuate each point.

"But Coach Whelan said I need to gain weight this summer. He said I need to gain ten to fifteen pounds of muscle."

"This job will help. You'll be lifting things all day."

Mikey knew he wouldn't win. He retreated to the kitchen table and flopped into one of the chairs.

His mother talked at him over her shoulder, her voice raised so he'd hear her above the frying bacon. "Michael, you know how things are right now. Money is tight. This will really help."

She turned off the burner, brought the plate of bacon over to the table. She sat down next to him.

"And look, you have a week before you start. Go and have some fun. No moping."

Mikey's pout eased into a reluctant smile. He knew he was being selfish but he couldn't help it. He'd worked hard for four years. He hadn't slacked off his senior year like most of his friends. He'd kept his grades up even though it didn't come easy, had never come easy. He'd busted his ass, in the classroom, in the batting cage, on the field. He'd earned that scholarship. He figured he was due a breezy summer.

Mikey's dad walked into the kitchen, took a crumb bun out of the bakery box. He'd probably overheard their conversation and waited things out in the living room. Left all the heavy lifting to Mom. As usual. He stood there for a minute, taking small bites out of the crumb bun. He'd been on furlough for four months. Not sure when it would end. Money was tight.

"Tommy told me that you'll be working out at Shea Stadium. That'll be cool, right?" Powdered sugar stuck in the corners of his father's mustache. He said this seriously, like it made up for the fact that Mikey's summer was ruined.

Mikey stood up, put on his baseball cap, and stared straight at his father. He was already a few inches taller and now he was actually taking his father's place, bringing in money for the family. He pointed to the emblem on his cap, filled his voice with sarcasm. "Yeah, it'll be cool. Except for the fact that I'm a Yankees fan and except for the fact that Shea is a fucking dump."

Mikey didn't wait around to be reprimanded. He walked out the side door into the bright morning sun. He didn't see his father turn to his mother for an explanation, didn't see his mother shrug her shoulders in response.

 

* * *

 

Mikey did what his mother suggested: he tried to squeeze a whole summer into one week. Went down the shore with Pete to his parents' house for a few nights. Took the 4 train up to the stadium and caught a Yankees game with Benny. Bought a twelve-pack of condoms and made his way through them with Jenny. Picked her up from work in the afternoon, went straight to her house, up to her bedroom, her parents still at work.

One night, he took Jenny into Little Italy for dinner. Mikey ordered a carafe of red wine. The waiter didn't react, didn't give him the once-over or ask for ID. He just brought over two glasses and a full carafe. They giggled at their good fortune. Mikey poured some for each of them and made a toast, like a big shot.

On the ferry back, they sat outside looking at the long, graceful span of the Verrazano, lit up against the night. Jenny's head was on his shoulder, her hand rubbing his leg, just above his knee. Her fingers were tucked inside his shorts, touching the inside of his thigh, the spot that drove him nuts. His face felt hot, flush with wine.

"Mikey, have you thought at all about what we're going to do when we go away to college?"

He hadn't. Not really. They'd be dating for six months. He really liked Jenny, maybe even loved her. He wasn't sure. How could he know? He loved it when they were alone together, the way she made him feel. And he got pissed when he thought about her with another guy. Not just kinda pissed. Rip-your-head-off pissed. Can't-hold-a-thought-in-your-head pissed. Maybe it was love. It was definitely intense.

He still thought about other girls. Wanted to do with them what he did with Jenny. But that was normal. Everyone had thoughts like that.

When he'd started dating Jenny, he asked his dad what he thought of her. They had just picked up bagels at the Annadale Deli and they were back in the car, his father driving.

"She's nice, Mike, she's really nice. Cute girl."

That had made Michael happy, his father liking Jenny, approving of her. And then, a few minutes later, the car parked in their driveway, his dad had ruined it. He turned to Mikey.

"You're young, Mikey, you're very young. And just remember: even if you're banging Miss America, you still wanna bang the runner-up." He got out of the car quickly, embarrassed by what he'd said.

Mikey was furious. Just like his dad to taint something good. But that's what he thought of now, with Jenny's hand on his thigh and the question about their future hanging there, unanswered. He thought about his dad's stupid advice and the fact that he was gonna be in Syracuse and Jenny would be three hours away in Albany.

"Yeah, kinda."

"Well, what were you thinking?"

"I thought, like, that we'd stay together but also, you know, see other people. Still be together but be allowed to see other people."

Jenny didn't respond for a little while. Her fingers kept massaging his thigh.

"Why? What were you thinking?"

"I mean, I don't really want to see anyone else. I just want to be with you."

The warm feeling from Mikey's face crept down into his chest. He felt bad and he was pissed that he felt bad. He didn't want to talk about this now. He didn't want to explain. He was about to say something when Jenny continued.

"But I guess that makes sense. I guess."

That was enough for Mikey. He didn't think about it again, not on the ferry, not on the train, and not when they got back to Jenny's house and used the last of the condoms on the couch in her basement while her parents snored two floors up.

The week drew to a close. On the Sunday before he started working, Mikey went with Jenny to Amy's house. It was hot and muggy; Amy had a pool, a small above-ground number, but it did the trick. They took dips then dried themselves in the sun on the small wooden deck next to the pool. Jenny wore a one-piece blue swimsuit that accentuated her compact figure; she had small, pert breasts and a pleasantly thick rear. Amy wore a halter top green bikini, displaying a voluptuousness Mikey hadn't realized was there. His eyes kept wandering to Amy's hips, her bare stomach, her large breasts. He hoped Jenny didn't notice.

When Jenny went inside to call her parents, Amy turned her entire body to face Mikey. She brought one hand above her temple to shield her eyes from the sun. She'd gotten out of the pool just a few minutes earlier. Droplets of water trickled across the goose bump–covered flesh of her stomach.

"When do you head up to school, Mikey?"

"Week before Labor Day."

"Oh, that's late, right? Isn't Jenny leaving in the middle of August?"

Mikey nodded, a slow, uncertain movement. Amy wasn't going away to school. She was staying home, going to CSI.

"We should hang out. If you want to come over and jump in the pool or something. You know, after Jenny goes away."

Mikey couldn't see Amy's eyes under the cup of her hand. He nodded again, less uncertain. He raised his right knee and shifted his towel over his groin. With his left hand, he guided his developing erection flat against his thigh. He tried to keep his gaze on Amy's forehead.

He heard the porch door slide open, then the pad of Jenny's bare feet on the deck. She sat down on her lounger, her sunglasses perched on her head.

Amy completed her rotation onto her stomach, her face turned away from Mikey. "What did your parents say?"

Her voice was a lazy slur. "Nothing. Same old stuff."

Mikey stood up and slipped into the pool in one quick motion. He turned back to Jenny, pushing himself right up against the side of the pool to stifle his erection. He felt it bow against the wall of the pool and slowly recede.

"My father said good luck tomorrow. Ame, his uncle is picking him up at four thirty in the morning. Can you believe that?"

Mikey smiled. He'd managed to keep the job out his head most of the week, even though it popped in here and there.

"How bad can it be?" he said. Then he bent his knees and dropped his head below the water's surface.

The next morning, Mikey waited outside his parents' house in the predawn blue. Per Tommy's instructions, he wore jeans, boots, and a long-sleeve T-shirt. He stood there half-asleep until his uncle's battered gray van turned onto the block and cruised to a stop in front of him. They drove in silence to a deli near the expressway. Mikey ordered a ham and egg sandwich on a sesame bagel. His uncle paid the tab, handed Mikey a tall coffee as they walked back to the van.

"Thanks, Tommy, but I don't drink coffee."

The driver's door creaked open, slammed shut. Mikey could hear the words before his uncle opened his mouth.

"You will."

Tommy was so predictable.

The highway was empty. They flew across the island, the complaints of sports fanatics drifting out of the radio. The Yankees had blown two games in the ninth inning over the weekend. The callers were apoplectic; they wanted a new closer, a new manager, a new owner. Mikey took a few sips of coffee. It wasn't terrible but he'd rather have a Coke. Or a Snapple. Something cool.

As they ascended the upper level of the Verrazano, the sun crept into the sky. A soft yellow haze spilled out over the whole city. Mikey could see the rides out on Coney Island, the skyscrapers at the base of Manhattan, a pair of yellow ferries passing in the harbor.

Mikey let out a long, silent yawn that pushed his chin down to his chest.

"You should sleep now."

The van descended into Brooklyn and the highway thickened with cars, buses, and trucks. The callers had moved on from the Yankees; they were decrying the Knicks' latest draft pick.

Mikey closed his eyes and nodded off.

 

* * *

 

"What do you think, has the kid gotten a taste?"

"I don't know. Ask him. Kid, you gotten your first taste yet?"

"He hasn't gotten a taste. Look at him. He's all skin and bones."

"Kid, stick out your tongue. Let us see if you've gotten a taste."

"Nicky, take a look at the kid's tongue. Tell us what you think."

Big Nicky strode over to Mikey. He was huge, a colossus.

"Let me see your tongue, kid."

Mikey stuck his tongue out. He already knew that you didn't say no to Nicky, even for something this stupid. Nicky leaned down and inspected Mikey's tongue. He took his time, rotating his head so he could examine the sides. He stared down Mikey's throat. The other guys were laughing, enjoying the performance. Mikey felt ridiculous, standing there, tongue extended, but he couldn't show it. Nicky lifted his hands from his knees, delivered the verdict.

"This kid has definitely gotten a taste."

The others broke into hysterics. A few even cheered. Nicky thudded a hand on Mikey's shoulder, lowered his voice.

"Kid, young pussy is the best fucking thing in the world. Enjoy it while you can."

His uncle piped up, ending the party: "All right, all right, you've had your fun. Enough fucking around. Back to work."

The guys shuffled off, their bodies tilted one way or the other by the pails of concrete they carried. Nicky reached down and lifted two of them with ease, one in each hand, like they were cans of soup. He walked down the ramp and winked at Mikey as he passed. Mikey retrieved another bag of dry cement and carried it over to the mixer.

His uncle slapped him on the back. "Having fun yet?"

Mikey tore the bag open. A chalky gray mist rose into his nose and then down to his lungs. He coughed; the spasm knocked a dose of sweat off his face. He felt an ache in his lower back, in a spot he never knew existed. He glanced at his watch. It was just past nine. The day wasn't even half over.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the shift, Mikey was whipped. He'd spent the whole day mixing cement. Eight hours. A rushed half-hour for lunch. His hair was caked with tiny flecks of concrete and his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were heavy with sweat. His forearms throbbed and his legs hummed with nascent cramps. Two oysters of ache lay tucked behind his shoulder blades. He sat on the asphalt of the enormous parking lot and waited for his uncle. The other guys split into groups of three or four and piled into cars, except for the handful of Mexicans who just walked out of the lot into the bustle of Queens. Mikey closed his eyes, fell into a grimy half sleep.

Tommy flicked Mikey's ear, waking him. Mikey pushed himself up and lurched toward the passenger door of his uncle's van. Tommy laughed and tossed him a set of keys.

"You slept on the way in."

Then Tommy climbed into the emptied-out back of the van and laid down. He was asleep before the van left the parking lot. Mikey was terrified. He'd never driven in traffic like this. It was chaos, every man for himself, stop-and-go speeding up to a harried group crawl before reverting back to stillness. Sudden explosions of movement, cars swerving across two lanes, the noses of yellow cabs butting in everywhere.

And Mikey's eyes were shutting on him, despite the fact that it wasn't even three o'clock and the van was beset on all sides by hostile, honking drivers. When the van settled into line for the toll on the Verrazano Bridge, Mikey engaged the cigarette lighter. He pulled it out, and when the concentric circles had faded from orange to brown, he singed his left forearm. The pain jolted him awake and he drove the rest of the way home watching a blister form where the lighter had touched his skin.

His house was empty. He took a quick shower, turned on the fan in his bedroom, and slipped under the sheet. He'd just rest for a half-hour, an hour at most, and then he'd go the gym and lift or take some swings in the backyard. The phone rang but he didn't have the energy to get it.

Mikey heard his mother calling him. He opened his eyes, looked at the clock. It was almost eight. He'd been sleeping for three hours. He was still sore. He threw on shorts and a T-shirt and staggered downstairs. His mother and his brother were waiting for him at the kitchen table. He gorged himself on chicken cutlets and rice for twenty minutes and then excused himself and went back upstairs to sleep.

Later, he heard his mother yell something up to him but he didn't answer. He just rolled over and went back to sleep. When the alarm clock sounded at four a.m., he sprung awake, reinvigorated but miserable, astonished that people actually lived like this.

 

* * *

 

The week took forever. Every day was a marathon of dust and toil. Mikey stopped showering in the morning, slept the whole way in. He started putting names with faces. A few of the guys were all right. They joked around, they made him feel welcome. A few of the guys were assholes. They didn't like him, could never like him. This was their life; he was just visiting.

The Mexicans didn't joke or judge. They just worked.

On the drive home every day, he stopped at a deli near Shea and bought a liter of Coke. It kept him awake but overfilled his bladder. One day, he pissed right into the empty Coke bottle as the van sat in traffic on the West Shore Expressway. The sound woke his uncle, who peered in from the back, laughed, and went back to sleep. It wasn't ideal but it beat the cigarette lighter.

At the end of his first week, Jenny offered to cook him dinner. He hadn't seen her all week. He'd been too tired to do anything but sleep, eat, and watch television. Her parents were away for the weekend. Tommy dropped him off at her house.

He was going to take a shower and then maybe a nap but within two minutes, he was on the floor bare-assed and Jenny had him in her mouth. He was in ecstasy, the job a distant memory, when she said she wanted to feel him inside of her. She told him it was safe because she had just finished her period. She crawled up his torso and lowered herself onto him, slick and easy. It was different with nothing between them, primordial and elemental, the mystery finally revealed. He felt out of time, alone in the world with Jenny. After a few minutes of euphoric thrusting, they came together. She collapsed onto his chest, breathless.

He fell asleep right there on the hardwood floor with his shirt off and his jeans and underwear clustered at his ankles. When he woke up, Jenny was setting the table and the air was thick with the smell of homemade tomato sauce.

Mikey took a quick shower. A bolt of anxiety rippled through him as he loosened the grains of concrete in his hair. They were always careful; they'd always used condoms before. He hadn't even used the "pull and pray" method that Pete joked about. Jenny had just slid down on him, hadn't even really asked. Sure, it was fantastic, but it was too risky. She shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have let her. He wouldn't let it happen again.

When he got out of the shower, dinner was ready. Spaghetti and meatballs with her grandmother's gravy, a simple salad, a fresh loaf of bread from Galluccio's. Jenny stood at one end of the table, a kitchen apron around her midsection, a satisfied smile on her face. In that light, in that pose, she looked like her mother. Mikey sat down. Jenny brought the platter of food over to his plate and loaded it with pasta and meatballs.

"Isn't this nice?"

Mikey didn't answer. He ushered a large meatball into his mouth and tried to ignore the dry aftertaste of cement that lingered in the back of his throat.

 

* * *

 

The summer droned on. July was brutal but fair; blistering heat but no humidity. The sun baked them in the still air of the empty stadium. Mikey understood why they started work so early: the mornings were bearable, the afternoons hellacious. After lunch, time hit the brakes. Mikey's legs grew sluggish and his stomach swelled with bread and meat from lunch. The air stung like lava. Nothing to rush the day. A nerve-wracking drive home on the horizon.

Most days, Mikey worked by himself, mixing load after load of cement. The other guys would arrive in groups. There'd be a few minutes of companionship as he shoveled concrete into their pails. Fucking brutal today. See the Yanks last night? Look at Mikey, his tongue's hanging down to his chin. Mikey, you up all night eating pussy again? Mikey didn't mind. He'd stick his tongue out, reach it up to his nose, wink at Nicky. I can still taste it, he'd say, and the guys would laugh. The same jokes every day. Jokes you could lean on.

He tried out his Spanish on the Mexican guys, all the dirty words he knew. Coño. Pendejo. Tengo grande pene. They laughed, maybe with him, maybe at him. He didn't care. It passed the time. A few minutes of fun in the soup. A flutter of camaraderie. Then he'd be alone again, for an hour at least, maybe longer.

When he was alone, his mind drifted to the Sunday before he started working. Jenny and Amy lying by the pool in Amy's backyard; Mikey nestled on the lounger between them. He thought about his conversation with Amy, what she'd said to him about Jenny leaving for school early. He thought about some of the looks Amy had given him. Looks that said all things were possible. He thought about her green bikini, all the flesh it covered and all the flesh it didn't. He thought about these things until his groin stirred, until he felt half alive again in the scalding gray haze.

 

* * *

 

Jenny called him every night, complaining that they weren't spending any time together. When he hung out with one of his buddies or tried to slip in some batting practice or a lift, she protested, whining into the phone that she was leaving in a month, in three weeks, in two weeks. Did he even care? While she pestered him, he cursed her silently. He cursed his parents for making him take this job. He cursed his uncle for making him drive home every day.

And he cursed the weather because his uncle had told him they couldn't work if it rained and it hadn't rained a single fucking drop the whole summer.

 

* * *

 

In August, the weather turned diabolical. A humid front squatted over the city. The air swelled thick. Every night, the weathermen predicted thunderstorms and downpours that never came. The sweat came off Mikey in sheets. It was too hot to even laugh. Even the Mexicans slowed.

Mikey barely saw his parents or his brother. He woke before them, got home before them, went to bed before them. When he did see them, he floated past, a ghost stuck between two lives, not fully there but not yet at college. He counted the days. Just a few more weeks. Then he'd never mix cement again.

 

* * *

 

One day, a week before Jenny left for school, his uncle sent him and one of the Mexicans, Renny, to knock out some cement in the ceiling above the concourse. They had to stand on a platform and use a mini-jackhammer. The motion was awkward and painful; Mikey had to switch shoulders every few minutes.

Renny was the hardest-working and happiest guy in the whole crew. He spoke no English. He smiled constantly. They fell into an easy rhythm. A few minutes of attacking clatter, thirty seconds of rest. The same exchange filled every silence.

"Renny, yo quiero muchas cervezas? Coño-faced."

"Coño-faced?"

"Yeah, coño-faced. Shit-faced. Borracho."

A big laugh from Renny. Then back to the jackhammers.

One time, Mikey pulled the trigger a second too early, while he was still looking at Renny. The jackhammer's blade spurted to life, found something metal, recoiled, and popped him below his left eye. Mikey stumbled back and his feet slipped off the platform. He had a moment of complete terror, like dropping into a dark cave, until his right ankle found the ground and buckled. The rest of his body followed, pain reverberating through him as his right knee, elbow, and shoulder impacted. He flopped over onto his back, throbbing everywhere. Ten feet above, Renny looked down, surprise and concern on his face.

Mikey closed his eyes, tried to assess what hurt the most. His ankle was screaming; the bone below his eye felt like it had been pushed back into his mouth.

He heard Renny climb down from the platform, heard the scamper of his boots on the concrete, and heard his uncle name's being yelled in a panicked Mexican accent.

 

* * *

 

His uncle drove home, annoyance slowly losing out to compassion. Mikey wasn't really hurt. No permanent damage. He had a sprained ankle, a skinned knee, and an ugly black eye; his ribs and back were tender and sore, but he was otherwise fine. An ice pack dangled over his bare ankle. He held another up to his eye.

"Renny thought you were dead."

"I did too."

Tommy chuckled. "I'm glad you're not. Your mother would've killed me." He glanced over, gave Mikey a tight smile.

He does this every day, Mikey thought. Then he goes home to three kids.

They drove the rest of the way without talking. The incessant heat had sapped the whole city of energy. Even the callers on sports radio could only register mild complaints; their quibbles were swatted away by an aggravated host.

Hot air rushed in through the open windows of the van. Mikey peered out on the highway and watched the blurry lines of heat rise. Every bump renewed the pain in his joints; still, his eyes fell shut.

A gentle flick on the ear woke him.

"Keep icing your ankle, Mikey, though I don't think we'll be working the rest of the week."

Mikey was still groggy, didn't understand. He followed his uncle's gaze until he saw a fat drop of rain land on the front windshield of the van. The sky had darkened during his snooze. The temperature had dropped a few degrees. Mikey hobbled out into a sudden downpour, feeling better than he had all summer.

The house was empty. Mikey checked the weather report. Rain for the rest of week and through the weekend, bringing much-needed water to the drought-plagued tri-state area. He felt renewed, alive for the first time in many weeks, despite the pain all over his body. His thoughts turned to Jenny. He wanted to be with her right now, wanted her to fawn over his wounded, tired body.

She answered on the second ring. She sounded like she'd been sleeping.

"Hey, it's me."

"Hey."

"Looks like I won't have to work tomorrow or Friday. Maybe we can go to Denino's tonight, stop at Ralph's afterward. We can hang out all day tomorrow."

"I'm sick, Mikey. I've been nauseous all day. I didn't even go into work today." She sounded awful.

"All right. Well, I'll come over then and we can just hang out in your room, watch a movie or something."

"Right. Or something. I don't feel good, Mikey. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow."

This was bullshit. She'd whined all summer that he wasn't spending any time with her and now she was too sick to hang out? A nasty thought popped in his head.

"Okay, Jenny, maybe tomorrow." He softened his voice, tried to sound spontaneous. "Hey, do you know if Amy's around?"

He could just imagine the look on her face. He waited.

"What do you mean?"

"No, I just figured if you're not feeling great, maybe Amy would be up for some pizza."

"What do you mean?"

He'd hit his target. He could hear it in her voice.

"Well, I've been so busy all summer, I haven't seen anyone. I just thought maybe I'd—"

"Why would you say that?"

"Forget it, Jenny. I was only asking."

"Why would you say that?"

"Jenny, just forget it."

He heard her start to cry. A dose of guilt shot through him. Then he felt something fierce and explosive, an anger that shook his hands. He screamed into the receiver.

"You're not the only one who had a shitty day, Jenny!" His face was burning. "My whole summer sucked. And all you did was make it worse!"

Jenny was sobbing. Mikey wasn't even sure whether she'd heard him. He repeated himself.

"All you did was make it worse!"

Then he hung up.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't serious about calling Amy. Sure, after he had a shower, he took out his address book and turned it to the page that held her number. He looked at it for a long time, imagined how the conversation would go, and thought about what would happen if she said yes. But he wasn't really serious. He just wanted to try it out in his head. He ended up calling Benny, who he hadn't seen in weeks.

Mikey'd heard about the place. It was a few miles over the Outerbridge in Jersey. Benny had gone a few weeks earlier with his older brother. He described it to Mikey on the drive over. They had split a six-pack in the basement of Benny's house and were feeling pretty good

"What if they don't let us in?"

"Relax, Mikey. They don't care. They just want your money."

"Shit, I hope we get in."

"We will. Wait till you see these chicks, bro. Wait."

The big neon sign out front read, Molly's. The lot only had a few cars in it. Benny parked near the entrance. The rain had thinned to a drizzle.

The doorman, a hulking figure in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, didn't even want to see ID. He just took their twenties and waved them in.

Inside, a few customers sat at a rectangular bar that surrounded a stage. Soft light filtered through the room, dying in the corners. At either end of the stage, a scantily clad stripper was wrapped around a pole. The woman nearest Mikey was topless. She titled back, hands around the pole, bare legs stretched up to the ceiling. Her breasts hung back toward her face. Blond curls of hair dangled down to the stage floor. She flashed Mikey an upside-down smile.

The bartender—an older woman, all business—interrupted their reverie. "Boys, what are you having?"

Benny stepped forward, put a crinkled ten on the bar. "Two Buds."

The bartender put two bottles on the bar, flicked them open. "Try not to fall in love."

 

* * *

 

Mikey had never been inside a strip club. He was overwhelmed; his eyes flitted around the room, trying to take it all in. There was flesh, a cavalcade of it: curved rears, hardened nipples, bruised thighs, lithe necks. It was all on display and you were supposed to look. The dancers wanted you to ogle them, to desire them. They cavorted and gyrated and contorted. They took the stage and stripped down until only a sliver of fabric remained between their legs. They pulled and tugged at that fabric until what was behind swelled into relief.

After they danced, the strippers walked straight up to you, unabashed, and pulled their tits apart so you could place a dollar bill between them. Most of them weren't beautiful, most weren't even cute, but it didn't matter; their appeal was primordial.

After a few hours, it was time to leave. They'd had their fun, slipped a single between the tits of every dancer in the place three times over.

Mikey was drunk; all the beer had dulled the pain in his ankle and the soreness everywhere else. He took a difficult piss in the bathroom and when he came back to the bar, the blond dancer was seated on his stool and Benny was whispering in her ear. Mikey saw Benny slide a twenty into her hand. She was wearing a see-through white teddy and she extended her hand. Mikey shook it.

"I'm Mandy. Looks like you had a rough day."

She brought a soft finger to the cheek below his left eye. She was younger than the other dancers. Less worn out. She had a pretty face that was somewhat familiar; she looked like a friend's older sister, someone you once pined for. She scooted from the stool and took his hand.

"Well, you are certainly tall and long. Bet you're long in all the right places."

No one had ever talked to him like this. This was the talk of porno movies. This wasn't real. Benny was leaning onto the bar, a sleepy grin on his face.

"Your friend wants to give you a little going-away present."

She led him over to a little side lounge, darker than the bar area and separated by a sheer black curtain. He was unsteady on his feet, a mixture of the beer and his swollen ankle. She pushed him down on the couch and removed her teddy. She started dancing, brushing her bare tits across his face. She smelled like perfume and sweat. She placed Mikey's hands on her hips. She turned, grinding her bare ass into his groin.

This was a real woman with full tits and an ass you could mount. Jenny might be like this some day but she wasn't yet. Mikey was excited and embarrassed and trying to hold himself back. After a few minutes with her ass rubbing against him, he was ready to go. He tried even harder to hold back. But when Mandy turned again and slid her legs over his hips and lowered herself onto him, the whole throbbing bit of him, he came right in his boxers.

Mandy relaxed in his lap as she felt him retreating. The euphoric feeling faded and left Mikey feeling hollow. Mandy smiled and kissed his forehead. He thought he might vomit.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mikey woke to the sound of rain pounding outside his window. The end of the night was a blur, just vague unconnected bits: a hasty exit from Molly's, Benny's car drifting across the narrow Outerbridge, Benny faking sobriety at the toll, Mikey sneaking under the covers as his alarm clock pulsed 2:57.

His head throbbed. His body ached. At least he didn't have to work. He could sleep for a few more hours. He looked over at the alarm clock. Just after nine. The hostile red digits reminded him of the sign in the strip club's parking lot. He tried to ignore the guilt that was gathering in the back of his head. Better to sleep it off. It was just harmless fun.

The door to his bedroom creaked open and his mother peered into the grayness, concerned. "Michael?"

"Yeah, Mom, what's up?" He didn't open his eyes, hoped his nonchalance would throw her off.

"Tommy called. He wanted to see if you were feeling okay. Why didn't you tell me about the accident?"

"It was nothing, Mom. Just a sprained ankle and a black eye. It happens."

He could tell she wanted to come in, to inspect him and confirm that he was fine.

"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Mom, I'm fine. I just need some rest. Can I just get some rest?"

"Okay, Mikey." But she didn't leave. A thin slice of light from the hallway lingered on the bed. "Jenny's downstairs."

"I'll be right down."

He swung out of bed and gingerly placed his swollen ankle on the floor. It was twice its normal size and bluish streaks were visible on the swell. He threw on a T-shirt and the jeans he'd worn the night before and hobbled downstairs.

Jenny sat at the kitchen table, still wearing her yellow rain slicker. His mother was at the sink, washing dishes but attentive. Jenny stood and he could tell that she had been crying. She looked like a little girl lost in a mall; she couldn't contain the panic on her face.

He knew right then, knew before they left the house without a word, before she drove a few blocks away and pulled the car over. He knew before she started to cry, before the crying turned into great heaving sobs. When he reached over to comfort her, she blurted it out.

"I'm pregnant, Mikey. I think I'm pregnant. I missed my period and I feel sick in the mornings. Mikey, what are we going to do?"

Now it was solid, in the world. It was spoken fact. Desperation flooded through Mikey. LeMoyne was a million miles away, its campus sliding away in the rain. He saw his future harden into something ugly, something clichéd. The summer and its miseries had smothered the memory. A few thrusts on a hard wooden floor. One time. It wasn't possible. He started to cry.

They drove to a pharmacy and Mikey bought a pregnancy test. They chose a sleepy diner on Hylan as the place for her to take it. Mikey's skin hummed, his stomach churned. This would not happen. He would will it not to happen.

No, it would. He was powerless to stop it. His life was ruined. He was soaked to the bone, shivering despite the month. Jenny was a zombie, gliding through the streets, all cried out.

They parked the car across from the diner and Jenny dashed inside. Mikey waited in the car, making promises to God if He would only let Mikey escape this. He could not shake the image of Mandy on top of him the night before, smiling at him; his jeans were still seeped with that betrayal. This was punishment.

No, this was Jenny's fault. She wanted to trap him.

Fifteen minutes ticked by, an eternity.

Mikey left the car and hobbled into the diner. An older man was mopping behind the counter and there was a solitary customer reading the paper at the far end of it. The customer looked at Mikey and then pointed to the bathroom door.

Mikey heard Jenny sobbing. He opened the door to find her sitting on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the wall. The test was facedown on the mopped linoleum, a few inches away from her splayed feet. Jenny reached for Mikey. He reached for the test.

A single pink line. Negative. He tucked it into his rear pocket. He helped Jenny to her feet and they floated out of the diner into the rain. He checked the test again as they crossed the street. Negative. He placed her in the passenger seat. He didn't care about the rain. He was floating. He was free.

When he got into the car, Jenny was still crying. She reached over and hugged him. She said she knew he hated her, she knew she'd lost him. She asked Mikey whether he loved her. Rain pounded onto the car.

Mikey said that he did love her, that he would always love her. He said it because it didn't matter, because she was already in his past. The whole miserable summer was just concrete that had already hardened and he had somehow escaped it and he would never let it touch him again.