Heartbreaker (13 page)

What is your job? the boy asks.

I do people's taxes, he says. Do you know what that is?

Yes, the boy says.

The man watches from the corner of his eye as the boy's arm darts forward to take an envelope from a stack of unopened mail.

Here you go, the man says. The boy tilts the glass to look inside before taking a sip.

What would you have done today if I hadn't come?

Oh, the man says. Probably done my grocery shopping.

We can do that, the boy says.

You want to go to the store with me?

Yes. I want to choose what we have for dinner.

The man opens his mouth, closes, it, opens it again.

You're staying for dinner?

The boy nods, sliding his finger into the envelope and pulling out the paper inside.

You owe thirty-nine dollars to the gas company, the boy says, smoothing the paper with both hands.

The man rubs juice off his lip, twisting his head to look at the bill.

Hm. That's not too bad.

The boy thinks of a menu, makes a list. They discuss how much things will cost, how much money the man has, what coupons they can use from those pinned to the fridge.

You figured this out like a grown-up, the man says.

I'm not stupid.

Of course not.

I know what you are, the boy says, and the man sits back.

What I am?

The boy nods, his lips pulled in. Everyone knows it.

Oh, the man says. Everyone?

Well, a lot of people.

What do they know?

The boy looks at him, shrugs.

I've never done anything wrong, the man says.

The boy says nothing.

Do people know about you? the man asks.

What about me?

That you steal, the man says gently. That you break into people's houses.

The boy lifts his chin. I gave the movie back. And I asked to come in.

The man nods. Yes. You're right. You did.

Are you mad?

No, the man says. I'm not mad.

*   *   *

The man pushes the cart and the boy consults his list. They get eggs and low-fat milk and chicken breasts and frozen peas, frozen corn, frozen fish. When they get to the desserts the man stops, drumming the cart handle with his palms.

What about ice cream? he asks.

The boy peers into the freezer bin and sighs. Well, maybe we could get one kind. The small one.

Chocolate?

The boy shakes his head. Vanilla is better.

Okay, the man says, and the boy puts the carton in between the corn and the fish.

They finish their shopping, weaving through each aisle with slow steps. The man notices that some people are looking, people he recognizes and people who maybe recognize the boy. The boy seems to notice nothing.

They unload the cart together and the boy pulls out the man's wallet and pays, laying each bill out one by one.

The cashier smiles. You're in charge today, huh? she says.

I'd like plastic, please, the boy says. He folds the wallet and puts it into his own pocket.

*   *   *

Do you ever go out on dates? the boy asks as they put the grocery bags into the trunk of the man's car. The man opens the door for the boy, closes it, walks around to the driver's side, gets in.

Not really, the man says. Do you?

The boy raises his eyebrows.

No, he says. Of course not.

Oh well, someday, the man says.

Even if you don't like girls you can go out on dates with boys, the boy says.

The man's knee jerks, hitting the underside of the dashboard.

I don't think so, he says.

Why not?

Because, he says.

The man turns into the street. He stops at a light, looking into the crosswalk.

You know, he says suddenly, into the shell of the boy's silence, his hands gripping the top of the steering wheel. Right now everything is fine. Everything is how I would want it if I could choose and in life those are the moments that matter and I hope your whole life is like that.

But he doesn't say the last part. He just says, You know, and stops. The light turns green. Instead he says It's easy to talk to you about things.

The boy nods. The boy knows everything. He is not human. He is a child.

*   *   *

The man bakes chicken according to the boy's directions: white sauce and peas and noodles poured into a casserole dish. While it's cooking they watch the news, side by side on the couch, the man's arm over the back of the boy's cushion. There are stories about fires, robberies, unsolved murders; the man is surprised not to see his own face on the screen, or the face of the boy.

Are you allowed to watch this? the man asks.

Sure, the boy says.

It's very violent.

It's just the news, the boy says. Anyone can watch it.

The man sets the table. The room smells like meat and cream. They both drink milk.

It's good, the boy says.

I think so, too, the man says. Do you eat this at home?

The boy shrugs.

You haven't said anything about yourself, the man says. What grade you're in or what sports you play or anything like that.

The boy continues to eat, scraping his plate.

Do you have a favorite TV show?

The boy looks at the man. No, he says.

For dessert the boy scoops out ice cream from the small container. The boy looks back and forth between the bowls to make sure each serving is the same.

What are you thinking about? the man asks.

Your video, the boy says, his spoon slicing through the pale planet of ice cream.

Did you like it? the man asks.

Reaching over the table, his hips lifted from the chair, the boy slaps the man, and then he puts his hands on the man's face and keeps them there. The man is perfectly still. Helpless. The boy touches the man's cheeks, his mouth, his nose, his brow. Through the bars of the boy's fingers the man can see the boy's gray eyes, his unsmiling lips.

The telephone rings. The boy doesn't move his hands away.

Are you going to answer it? the boy asks.

No, the man says. They listen to the phone tap the silence to pieces, six, seven times. Then the ringing stops.

*   *   *

The man washes the dishes and the boy dries. They work without speaking, the man plunging cups and knives into the gray water, the boy twisting a towel inside the bowls. The last plate slips from the boy's hand and onto the floor, splitting into a constellation of white glass.

I'm sorry, the boy says.

It's all right, the man replies.

He takes the boy by the shoulders and steers him around the broken plate and into the living room. The faces on the television screen move quietly; the light from the lamps puddles on the red carpets.

The boy offers his hand, and the man takes it; it is like a fish or a bird, restless, small. He cannot hold it for long.

Goodbye, the boy says, pulling his bag over his shoulder. The man stands in the open mouth of his house, watching the boy step off the porch. He wants to ask if the boy got what he came for. What did you come for? But the boy is already on the lawn, his sneakers leaving tracks in the damp grass, and then he is gone.

 

STONES

At Beanie's she is filling in for the old man who usually handles the takeout orders. Kevin gives her his name; she puts his food on the counter but doesn't push it toward him or tell him what he owes. She just stands there, staring. He puts some money down and she shoves it, unsorted, into the cash drawer.

I've seen you in here before, she says in a low voice, leaning forward, her blouse bunching against the counter. She is smiling, but he doesn't see the smile; he is looking at her blouse touching the filthy countertop. His eye twitches.

You want my number? she asks, and before he can answer she is writing it across the lid of the takeout box with a red pen plucked from the cup next to the register. The Styrofoam squeaks beneath her fingers, and she slaps the cap of the pen into place, ties the bag shut, and winks.

Enjoy your lunch, she says. As she walks into the dining room he sees the deformed foot, her right one, twisting inward at the ankle, dragging behind the left.

*   *   *

He is eating the sandwich in his car, staring at the numbers on the box, when his phone rings. When he answers all she does at first is breathe.

How did you get my number? he whispers.

Why didn't you call? she replies.

I was going to, he says, checking his watch: twenty minutes since he left the restaurant.

Well it's my break now, she says, and he can tell she has her hand cupped around the mouthpiece of the phone; her breath pops against his ear. Are you listening? she asks.

Yes, he says.

*   *   *

She tells him: Drive to one of the many shitty parts of town and park on the street. A single rock on the concrete driveway means that she is home and waiting. No rock, and it means one of the boys is there, or she is gone on an errand or is working the tables at Beanie's. If he sees the stone, he is to go in through the side door, which will be open, and find her.

*   *   *

Outside of her waitressing uniform she is like a toothpick from which something has melted, her pale scanty flesh sponge-like, unmuscled. Her breasts sink, braless, beneath the thin cotton of a T-shirt. She has no pants on, just a pair of beige bikini underwear, revealing a leg bisected at the shin by a deep, thick scar flanked by a half dozen smaller ones, silver and slightly shiny. But the leg is nothing compared to the foot itself: the mashed-looking anklebone, the swollen instep twice the size of the normal foot, hideously warped.

Her uncombed hair hangs loose to her shoulders; she's leaning against the oven, makeup in the wrong colors scratched over her skinny face. He cannot stop looking at her.

You came, she says.

He nods.

Did you bring it?

He pulls the stone from his shirt pocket. It's squarish, a quarter the size of his palm, gritty, white—quartz, maybe. She lifts herself up on the counter next to the stovetop and pulls her panties aside.

Go ahead, she says.

He hesitates. Maybe I should wash it off first?

Don't bother.

It's got some dirt on it—

No, it's fine, just do it, she urges, grabbing his wrist and yanking it down to her crotch. He holds his breath.

Don't look down, just feel.

He steps in close and rubs the rock against her, the hair between her legs prickling his fingertips. Her hips move and his hand moves with them; as she slickens he relaxes, letting the stone go where it wants. When she told him about it on the phone, about this thing that she wanted him to do, it had sounded awkward, impossible, but in reality it happens without effort; the stone is between his fingers and then it's inside her.

You're so good, she sighs into his ear, her arm hanging down his back. He exhales, his mouth open against the tough button of her nipple.

Yeah? he says.

Yeah, she answers, and he feels how loose her legs go when he does it, the sound of her shirt crawling up and down the cabinet as she rides the side of his hand. Okay, he keeps saying. Okay okay.

Suddenly she grips his shoulder, every part of her going tight. He shivers. It takes her a while to focus on his face; when she does she smiles, pats his arm.

Is that—it? he asks, panting.

That's it, she replies, sliding off the counter, easing the good foot down first. Want a drink? He looks at her foot, then at his hand.

Um, he says.

She yanks open the refrigerator door, sighing as she surveys its contents. We got wine, beer, or Diet Coke.

He's still looking at his hand, not knowing what the protocol is for cleaning a woman off one's fingers: wash, wipe, or air dry? She pours them both sodas and gives him one; his fingers slide on the plastic cup.

Cheers, she says.

*   *   *

They are at the kitchen table when the boys come in, slinging their backpacks into the hallway before turning into the kitchen. When they see Kevin sipping a Diet Coke across from their mother, they freeze.

Whoa! Quasimodo!

Nicole grimaces. Cut it out, she mumbles around her cigarette.

They approach Kevin in delighted disbelief, close enough for him to smell their sour breath.

Shit, what happened to your back?

Nothing, Kevin says.

It's like a giant fucking tit under there, seriously, they say. Fucking double D!

Hey, I said cut it out, she says.

What? they say, innocent. Give us a ciggie, Nic.

Mom, she corrects them
.

Nic, they insist, grinning. She tosses the cigarette pack in their direction.

There's ham in the fridge, she says. And chips.

The boys nudge each other.
Tit
, they whisper, then guffaw hysterically as they pile food into their arms. They are much bigger than their mother, black-haired, athletic, baggy pants lashed to their hips by thick belts, the hoods of their sweatshirts up despite the heat.

Those're the twins, she says, with a smile somewhere between pride and apology.

Oh, he says.

When the boys are done raiding the cabinets they turn toward him, smirking, hands full.

Nice to meet you, Tit.

Nicole shakes her head. Kevin doesn't say anything, just looks at the wall. Somewhere inside their mother is a rock, and he thinks about all the other things that must have been inside her: cocks, tampons, smaller versions of the boys. He winces at the wallpaper. He hears her thumb on the cigarette, tipping ash into an empty Doritos bag.

They're good boys, really, she says.

*   *   *

They go from one rock to a half dozen, then a dozen. He doesn't know what it feels like for her, how it can feel good; there is something, maybe a lot of things, about female anatomy he doesn't understand, though he knows without asking how fast to go, how many stones to use, when to stop.