32

“THINGS ARE LOOKING UP,” Brian said to him when he got home. He was tossing a tub of fake butter in the air and catching it like a baseball.

“That shit’s going to splatter everywhere, and I’m going to end up cleaning it up,” Andrew said. He unleashed Becky and put some treats in her bowl.

“Ass,” Brian muttered.

“Mom home?”

“How should I know?” Brian put the tub on the counter and tried to pet Becky. Becky shied away. “What the fuck?” he said.

“Don’t pet her while she’s eating,” Andrew said. “That’s threatening to her.”

“Fuck you,” Brian said.

“Andrew!” their dad shouted from the living room.

They both froze.

“What is it?” Brian said.

“Was I talking to you?” their father said. His voice was slurred.

Brian looked at Andrew and shrugged. Andrew walked into the living room. His dad was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“You talk to any reporters?” he said. He did not look at Andrew when he spoke.

“No,” Andrew said. He leaned against the bookshelf, exhausted. His head and heart were consumed with Laura. The last thing he wanted was to deal with this bullshit.

“Good. Brian tell you about the girl’s lawyer?”

“No,” Andrew said. He was about to add and I don’t care, but then he remembered his mantra: eighteen and out. He didn’t say anything, but he was unable to keep himself from walking out of the living room. His dad didn’t call him back. He nearly toppled over Brian in the dining room.

“Were you listening in or something?” Andrew said.

“Blow me,” Brian said.

Andrew put the tub of fake butter away and walked up the stairs. He wanted to get away from his family. He wanted to get back to Laura somehow. He picked up his Bible and leafed through it. He lacked the patience and discipline to even read his favorite Psalms. He paced the room. He thought about Karen. He thought about jerking off. He felt beyond horny, beyond restless; he felt lost. He tiptoed down the stairs. Brian and his dad were watching sports. He picked up the phone and called John, who was surprised to hear from him.

“I don’t want to go on a fishing trip. Let’s just hang out,” Andrew spoke quickly and without thought.

“Okay, cool,” John said. He sounded hesitant.

“I could get some pot or something.” Andrew felt like getting fucked-up. Would John go for that? Or would he cower and faint at the suggestion?

“Um . . . sure. You could see my place. It’s kind of a dump, but there’s beer and stuff,” John said.

“Don’t call Matt.”

John paused. “All right,” he said.

• • •

Later that evening Andrew was walking to John’s place. It wasn’t too far, and Andrew knew he’d probably have a few drinks. He left Becky at home because he remembered John saying that pets weren’t allowed at his apartment.

John lived on “the other side of town,” a euphemism for a neighborhood with less money. Some of the asshole kids at his school used to call people from the other side of town scumbags. The word had lost its trendiness, but Andrew could recall his brother using it frequently and with great relish. Not that their own family was that much better off. Their dad may have worn a shirt and tie to work, but money was always tight. A local sports store had started sponsoring Brian when he wasn’t even out of middle school. The store was graced with pictures of Brian smiling for the camera and holding up the equipment he got for free. That must have been a little weird for him, Andrew thought for the first time.

The other side of town featured several rundown apartment buildings, one of which was the one John lived in. A bunch of people sat out on their porches smoking and talking or just hanging out.

Pink chips of paint that looked like dried Pepto-Bismol were ringed around the exterior of John’s apartment building like some kind of decrepit magic barrier. John lived on the second floor. The stairs creaked and groaned and smelled like piss. The hallway, however, was relatively quiet and clean. Dim flickering bulbs gave an awful, feeble light. Despite himself, Andrew felt a little uneasy. A raucous drunken laugh erupted from one of the apartments.

When he reached the door, he hesitated and glanced down the hallway. Then his body seemed to move in two directions at once; he took a step back and his fist came up and knocked on the door.

“It’s open!” John shouted.

Andrew walked in. John’s living room consisted of a futon couch, an old coffee table, and a television. Off to the right was a half-closed door, which must have led to John’s bedroom. Down to the left was a dark, short hallway that led to a small kitchen. John had his back to Andrew and was rummaging around in the refrigerator.

“Make yourself at home. Want a beer?” John said.

“Yes,” Andrew said. He took off his sweatshirt and sat on the couch, which barely rose off the ground. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and underneath the coffee table. The walls, furniture, and carpeting in John’s apartment were all shades of beige. The walls had once been white but were faded and sun stained. The carpet was brown, as was the covering on the futon.

John came down the hallway carrying two beers and an unopened bag of chips in his mouth. With a deft gesture he tossed the chips on the table and handed Andrew a beer.

“It’s the cheap stuff,” John said.

“Whatever,” Andrew said. He drank. “So you and Laura seem pretty close,” he said abruptly.

“I used to live with them. With her family.”

“How’s that?”

“They took me in, helped me get set up with the GED program and an apartment. They even helped me get a job. That’s why I feel bad sometimes. I don’t know.” John shook his head.

Andrew decided to drop the subject. “I meant to ask you. How did you hear about Brian? Is it on the news?”

“Just around. Not from the news. Guys at work who used to know him or went to his games and stuff,” John said.

“Where do you work?”

“Giuseppe’s, the granite place.”

“Yeah, I know it,” Andrew said.

“It’s nice to be physical all day.”

“I’m at Avella.”

“Up the mountain?”

“Up the mountain.”

John tilted his head and drank deeply from the bottle. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Andrew stared at his beer, thinking about his dad and Brian.

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For—” John made a helpless gesture with his hands, then said, “For the pain. Whatever pain he causes you.”

Andrew finished his beer and belched. He didn’t really like beer and had drunk his fast to keep up with John. John seemed to sense this, Andrew realized, and it made Andrew feel self-conscious and annoyed. John’s empathy was like a wobbly bridge forever stretching out but never quite reaching Andrew.

“So what did you and Karen talk about?” John said. It seemed to Andrew that John was trying to sound casual.

“This and that. Nothing really.”

“You guys just seemed pissed at each other,” John said.

“Uh—no, it’s all good. We were just talking about David.”

“I mean, you just seemed kind of freaked out.”

Andrew put his lips to his bottle and blew softly. It made a dull, barely audible whistling noise.

“It’s nice that you’ve taken an interest in David,” John said.

Andrew gently peeled off the label of his beer. He glanced around the room. He had been looking for the remote, but his eyes rested on John’s guitar, which was leaning up against the wall.

“You play?” John asked.

“Nah.”

“I can show you a few chords.”

Andrew shrugged. This was more awkward than he’d anticipated. “Where are you from?”

“Colorado.”

“Cool. You climb or ski?”

“Some climbing, sort of. It was a long time ago.”

“My friend used to be all hot for guys with climbing gear strapped on their backs,” Andrew said, then felt stupid for saying it.

“Your friend in the coma?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I don’t know. Something Laura said.”

“What did Laura say about Sara?”

“That she was kind of boy crazy,” John said.

“What?” Andrew said. Laura didn’t know Sara at all. While Andrew fumed, John took another long pull from his beer. Then he looked at Andrew from the corners of his eyes.

“That’s the way Laura talks. She says things like ‘boy crazy’ and ‘jeepers,’” John said. Then they both chuckled. A shared laugh over Laura, and the ice was broken—sort of. John cleared his throat.

“Our service was amazing this morning,” John said. “I wish you could have been there. It was about—”

“Do you have any pot?” Andrew asked.

John raised his eyebrows and rubbed the back of his neck with one of his large hands. Andrew merely looked at him, expressionless.

“Um, well, I could get some,” John said.

“Don’t bother.”

“No, man, I can literally step out into the hallway and get some.”

Andrew pulled out his wallet, but John waved him away. “You’re my guest,” he said.

Andrew took inventory of the room while he waited for John. There were no books or magazines lying about—not even the Bible. Andrew supposed that John kept that book at his bedside. He must have gotten another one after giving his to Andrew.

He peered past the partially closed door toward John’s bedroom. He saw a bench press in one corner and a mattress in the other. On top of the mattress was what looked like a thin patchwork quilt. He wondered if the quilt had been handmade by Laura or her family. They seemed like quilty people. Andrew felt like getting up and running his hands across the blanket, but he thought better of it and stayed where he was.

“I’m not very good at this,” John said. He toed the door closed behind him and sat next to Andrew on the futon. He pulled out a small bag of ashy-looking pot and some rolling papers. “It’s been a while,” he said, fumbling with the paper as he attempted to roll a joint.

“I’m not much better,” Andrew said. But he gently took the misshapen joint from John’s hands and packed it tighter. John lit a match, cupping it from a breeze that wasn’t there, as Andrew got the joint started.

It was the harshest pot that Andrew had ever smoked. He coughed and gagged and handed it over to John just as John handed him another beer. Andrew took an enormous gulp and sat back on the couch. He looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

“This is rank,” John said, after he’d recovered from his own fit of coughing.

“It’ll do the job.”

For the next hour, by some mutual unspoken agreement, they drank and smoked a lot and spoke very little. Sometimes John got up to get more beer, sometimes Andrew. John did not attempt any more God talk. At some point a bottle of whiskey appeared, and they took shots from the same dingy glass. When he was drunker and higher and gigglier than he’d been in his entire life, Andrew started to pepper John with more questions about Laura and her family.

“So, was Laura adopted or what?”

John looked at him questioningly.

“Come on,” Andrew said. “Laura’s out-of-this-world gorgeous. Her family . . .”

John snorted. “Her mom used to be pretty. I saw some old family photos.” John frowned, then said, “They’re really nice people.”

“Relax! It’s just me,” Andrew said, clapping John on the back.

“And Him,” John said solemnly.

“Stop it,” Andrew said, shaking John roughly by the shoulder. “He forgives you. He told me so.”

John smiled at him weakly.

“How long did you live with them?”

“A few months.”

“Where did you stay?”

“In Luke’s old room. That’s her oldest brother. He’s out of the country.”

“Saving the savages?” Andrew said.

John looked at him sharply.

“I’m sorry, man, but that aspect of your faith is just weird.”

John sighed. “It’s not what you think. Mostly we just dig wells and carry shit. Stuff like that.”

“Oh.”

“Although I’ve never actually been abroad myself. Just heard stories.”

Andrew was going to ask another question but then stopped. John seemed uncomfortable, and Andrew wasn’t able to recall why he was asking him so many questions in the first place. What did it matter anyway? What had he been trying to figure out?

“To what end—” Andrew began, but then his voice trailed off into a yawn.

“Want some coffee?”

“Fuck no.”

They rolled another joint, made short work of the bag of chips, and then rummaged around in the kitchen for more junk food. John made some popcorn, and they sat munching as they watched music videos. All the videos were the same. Hordes of women were grinding up against a singer, who looked arrogant and annoyed with the fawning surge of orgiastic beauty he supposedly inspired.

“So, so exploitative,” John said.

“I told you to cut that out,” Andrew said, then yawned again.

“I’m speaking from my heart,” John said. Then he let out a long, loud belch. Someone in the apartment next door banged on the wall.

“Sorry,” John said in the direction of the wall. He picked up the remote, turned down the volume, and muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” Andrew asked.

“They’re always . . . fucking. Like, so loud, all night. And as soon as anything above a whisper goes on in here, they bang on the walls.”

“So let’s go give ’em the what for!” Andrew said. All of a sudden he felt terrifically energetic and angry. He rose unsteadily to his feet. John grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him back down to the couch.

“Let’s not,” John said.

“We can take ’em!” Andrew said, making a feeble attempt to stand up again.

“No, we can’t.”

“Surrrrrre, we can.” As he spoke Andrew took a handful of one of John’s muscular biceps. For a moment they remained in a strange one-armed embrace, John holding on to Andrew’s wrist and Andrew holding on to John’s shoulder. Then Andrew laughed and lightly shoved John away. “More beer?” he asked as he walked to the kitchen.

“I think we should stick with the whiskey,” John said.

“That stuff’s too strong for me!” he shouted from the kitchen. Two loud bangs erupted from the wall. “That’s it,” Andrew said as he marched toward the door, pumping a closed fist into his open palm. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing or saying at this point, and he vaguely realized he was making a fool of himself. As he was opening the door and shouting curses, John grabbed him around the waist and threw him on the couch.

“Chill out. I mean it. They’re, like, a biker gang over there,” John said.

“There’s a biker gang fucking all night next door?” Andrew said, and then burst out laughing.

“Shhh,” John said, but then he dissolved into laughter as well. They rolled around the couch and floor, hysterical, overturning their beer bottles and popcorn. A cacophony of bangs on the wall accompanied their revelry.

After several unsuccessful attempts at calming down, Andrew announced that he was going to puke. He dashed off to the bathroom and vomited. He stayed and rested against the toilet for a while, dry heaving now and then but not producing much else. John knocked softly on the door.

“You all right?”

“I’m okay.”

Andrew stood and gazed at his reflection in John’s tiny bathroom mirror. His eyes were watery and red. He touched his finger to his nose, which for some reason felt out of joint. He barely recognized himself. It’s not even me, he thought. He washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face, and rinsed out his mouth. John had some mouthwash, so he used that, too. When he came out of the bathroom, John was sitting in a folding chair at his tiny kitchen table, also foldable, and staring at an unlit candle. Andrew sat in the chair next to him and picked up the candle. It was smelly and heavy and so large that it bore three wicks. Its scent was sickly sweet. He turned it over in his hands and read the stickered label on the bottom.

“Heaven Scent?”

“It was a gift,” John said.

“From Laura?”

John gazed at the ceiling and sighed. “No. Not from Laura.”

“Who then?”

“Karen.”

Andrew tossed the candle back and forth between his hands. “Did you fuck her or something?”

“Did I what?”

“Never mind,” Andrew said.

“Why? Did you?” John asked.

“Well . . . yeah,” Andrew said.

“Andy—” John said. He put his head in his hands.

“Don’t you ‘Andy’ me,” Andrew said. He punched John playfully. John raised his head from his hands and gave him a masterfully blank stare. It reminded him of Laura.

“What’s the big deal? I mean, besides the obvious?” Andrew asked.

Somewhere inside his drunken haze, Andrew realized that he was trying to act cool about something he did not feel cool about, and that he was doing this because he hadn’t been able to handle his alcohol. John drummed his fingers on the counter and continued to stare at the candle.

“Light it,” Andrew said, but then he realized the lighter was in his pocket. He withdrew it, but his hands were trembling.

“Careful,” John said. He took the lighter from him and lit the candle himself. They stared at the flames.

“It’s Job, right?” Andrew said.

“What?”

Andrew stood up and grabbed the whiskey. He drank straight from the bottle, drank deeply, and then coughed back the acid that crept up his throat. He swayed and sat back down. “Job. The guy who suffers. Who is made to suffer? To prove a point or whatever.”

“Yeah,” John said.

Andrew coughed, gripped the table, and took a few deep breaths. John sat silent and still, watching him.

“Okay,” Andrew said. “Okay.”

“Andrew—”

“It’s okay.”

“Whatever you’re going to say—or do—next, you don’t have to,” John said. “Because, I . . .” John began, and his voice broke into a sob. He covered his face with his hands.

“Shut up. Sorry. I mean, we can do—you can do, one thing. If you want. But only one thing. Okay?” Andrew kept his eyes fixed on the candle as he spoke.

After what seemed like an eternal pause, John said, “Okay.”

Andrew closed his eyes and surrendered to a swirling dark of dizzy blackness. It’s like moving through darkness. Even so, he wished he’d drunk more. He thought about Laura. Or did he? He wasn’t sure what he was thinking about anymore. It wasn’t even a person. It was a nebulous creation, a mixture of every pretty thing that had ever tortured and soothed him. Marcia’s tiny hands and pale soft skin, Sara’s legs and hair and earlobes, Karen’s angry glistening eyes, and Laura Laura Laura Laura Laura. Floating spasms of beauty in front of him, just out of his reach, just grazing his fingertips. He felt John’s huge caressing hand on his thigh, then on his stomach. Andrew flinched and tightened his grip on the table. John’s hand paused, then slowly drew up to Andrew’s chest and rested over his heart. He heard John lean forward, then felt his lips lightly press on the hollow of his neck. Andrew opened his eyes and pushed back from the table.

“Okay,” Andrew said, then stood up. Without another word or glance he walked through the living room and out the door.

As he walked down the hallway, he heard ecstatic moans coming from the neighbor’s apartment. He felt unbearably aroused.