Split (17 page)

Nick plucked the door open. “Doesn’t matter,” he said without looking back at us. “Gonna crash now. Tired.”

I watched him go inside.

Boone shuffled back to our jet. “D’you see his hair?”

I nodded.

“Oh boy,” whispered Boone with a half smile. “Mom’s gonna freak.”

Dear Bump,

Officer Di Paglio kissed Aunt Frannie on the mouth.

Right by the front door.

Right under the porch light too. What kind of a police officer kisses a girl on the mouth? I don’t believe it. Now when he comes by, he isn’t even wearing his blue uniform. Just a sweater and jeans. “Be back before dinner,” says Aunt Frannie before they slip out the door, giggling like the kids who ride the special bus to school.

Adults are so stupid. I’m going to do everything I can not to turn into one when I grow up.

I wonder what Dad is going to say about all this. Aunt Frannie said, “I might move in with Scott if he asks me to. Would that be okay, hon?”

Scott
. That’s Officer Di Paglio’s first name.
Scott.
I don’t believe it.

“I can’t stay here with your mom and dad,” she said. “It isn’t right.”

Dad is going to be back on Friday. That’s three days. On the phone, the other night, he told me he would take Mom home as soon as he sets his suitcase by the door. “We’re gonna be a family again,” he promised. “Nobody’s gonna be going nuts on my watch, ’kay?”

Does he mean me or Mom?

Aunt Frannie keeps staring out the window. Even when she’s chopping celery. “Your dad’s real upset about things Red. Real upset. No use in telling him about you know what.”

Why would I tell Dad anything about you know what?

*

Dinner at Boone’s was nothing short of spectacular.

There wasn’t an inch of spare surface on the table. Kenya had laid out all of the African continent atop it, and as I was encouraged to smell, touch, and taste the numerous dishes, my tongue came alive, as if its taste buds had been shaken out of their slumber. Kenya, who is a nurse, is a wonderful hostess and a tender woman, but she is also sharp-tongued and quick-witted. Her sense of humor is dryer than sandpaper, and she can dish out one-liners that would put Dennis Miller to shame. On many occasions, she caused near-death experiences for her guests as we choked on her delicious food.

The glasses were never allowed to empty, and by the main course, I was completely intoxicated. Part of that wonderful nirvana of the senses was the simple reverberating energy flowing around the table. It was of the healing kind.

It was of another place.

Johan slapped a bottle of Aquavit on the table, and Kenya passed the shot glasses around. The voices quieted down and I understood.

This was special.

Johan made his way around the table, going from one, to the other, filling our glasses to the rim.

Everyone was touched.

A pat on the shoulder.

A kiss on the cheek.

When he came to me, he paused. He stood behind me, drowning my soul with his paternal vibe, and simply, without pretense or exaggeration, Johan set his palm on my head.

At the touch of his hand, my heart swelled with regret.

“Welcome home,” he whispered.

Something gave inside me, expanding like some sourdough, pushing into the far corners of my very being. I could not fight it. Could not hold it back. I turned to him, and hiding my face against his stomach, wept like a lost child.

In moments, arms and hands had cradled me. Voices rose and fell. Words fused. My tears were shared, they streamed down every face. We had created a circle of flesh and salt water. Until, like a light being flicked on, Helga’s strong, authoritative voice cast the darkness out of our thoughts. “Drink!” she ordered, wiping her polar eyes. “While it’s still cold.”

The first to laugh was Lene, followed by Boone; then Nathan, who had never witnessed such emotion from me, chuckled a little, and I let my shoulders sink, leaning back into my chair.

Boone blew his nose into his napkin. “Jesus.”

I smiled. “Sorry.”

Johan plopped back down into his chair and let out an explosive sigh. “Don’t apologize. We all needed a good cry.” He raised his glass, and I witnessed a shadow move over his aging, but handsome face. “To family.”

As we all brought the deathly strong alcohol to our lips, he added, more somberly, “To Nicolai.”

The cold alcohol shot down my throat, burning through my chest, and Nick’s voice echoed through my mind.
“I’ll see you around,”
he had said, that night, by my bed.

That was the last time I heard Nick’s smooth voice.

When Nathan and I left Boone and Kenya’s home, the sky was pink at the horizon.

“We’re doing this again soon,” Boone said, leaning against the doorway with Kenya half-asleep in his arms.

“We’ll be back tonight,” I teased.

Kenya popped an eye open. “To clean, you mean.”

Our laughter rippled through the empty street.

Nathan threw the rest of his espresso back. “Okay, babe, let’s go before I lose my second wind.” He shook Boone’s hand. “Thanks for a wonderful evening.”

Boone nodded, but his gaze quickly flicked to my face, as if he couldn’t be bothered. “Come here, you,” he said, tugging on my sleeve. I fell into his grip like a rag doll. I was completely spent, but so very alive.

He released me. “Call me, okay?”

I smiled.

He then grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “Okay, kiddo. Take care.”

Boone had slipped a piece of paper inside my hand. I discreetly folded my fingers over it, and tucked my hand into my pocket. “I’ll see you soon, good-bye Kenya.” My voice was weak with fatigue and emotion. “Thank you.”

That note scorched my skin through my jacket all the way home.

As the scarlet sun inundated my room, I turned to watch Nathan. He was fast asleep.

I carefully pried myself loose from the blankets and tiptoed to the entrance, where I pulled the note out of my coat pocket.

I unfolded it as if it held the instructions to Paradise Lost.

Boone’s handwriting brought a smile to my face. He writes like he’s holding his pen with a nostril.

Split is on DuPort Street, in the Old Port. Just off Saint-Paul. Monday afternoons are quiet for Nico. I haven’t told him about you. Thought you’d like to surprise him.

Maverick

*

Dear Bump,

Boone broke his arm.

He was taking a nap and fell off his bunk bed. He says he was dreaming about punching Johnathan Dupuis in the mouth. Johnathan is the jock taking Kenya to the Valentine’s dance.

When it happened, I was in the living room, changing the shoelaces on my new running shoes. The ones that came with the shoes were white, so I was replacing them with the black ones from Dad’s old army boots.

I’m tired of my clothes.

I look like the boy in the Sears catalog.

The one from 1985.

Wish we could go shopping somewhere else. Aunt Frannie bought me a new jogging suit. All white. But that’s not the worse part. No. She had Corey Hart’s face printed on the sweater. “Thought you liked him,” she said, flapping the sweater around like a flag. “You’re always running into the living room whenever they play his video.”

I wasn’t in a very good mood, lacing my new shoes.

I heard some commotion, coming from the Lunds’ side of the building. As always. I didn’t make too much out of it because it was around dinnertime, and that’s when things get really crazy in their home. I kept sliding the lace into the holes, thinking about Dad coming home. About being a family again. Then I heard Boone screaming. Something something,
skade skade.
It sounded like someone was pushing thumbtacks under his nails. I pricked up my ears.

Watched the walls.

Aunt Frannie tumbled in. “Oh my, do you hear that?” She clutched her heart, wide-eyed.

I nodded.

Then, I heard their front door open. I sprang to my feet and shot to the window. Johan had Boone strapped over his shoulder, like some Norwegian sack of sweet potatoes, and a few steps behind, Mrs. Lund followed, wearing nothing but her pink dress and ballerina slippers. Johan pulled the back door open and struggled to slide Boone into the backseat. Mrs. Lund hovered over them both.

I threw my coat on and opened the front door. “Is Boo-boone okay?”

Mrs. Lund didn’t acknowledge my question. She climbed into the front seat, and Johan bolted the van out of the driveway, whipping snow and ice with the tires. I watched them turn the corner, shivering in the doorway.

“Fuckin’ Bunny boy.”

Nick’s voice.

To my left.

I shifted, but kept my eyes on the street.

“Could wallpaper the whole Parliament with that kid’s hospital record.” Nick’s tone was flat. There was no smile in it.

I tried to catch sight of him out of the corner of my eye, but couldn’t.

Aunt Frannie had come up on me. She wrapped her hands around my neck, and I jumped a little. “Hon,” she said, “come inside. It’s too cold.” She poked her head over my shoulder, glancing left at the Lunds’ front porch. “Oh, hello, Nicolas.”

My heart leaped inside my chest. Could she feel it against her palms? I hoped not.

“What happened to your brother?” she asked.

Nick cleared his throat. “Well, Ms Saint-Jacques—” Against Aunt Frannie’s crystalline timber, his was low, full of depth. “He fell out of his bed.”

How could such a simple, basic explanation sound like someone recounting a religious experience on the church steps?

I wasn’t the only one feeling it. There was a subtle change in Aunt Frannie’s breathing, talking. “I see,” she said, her voice thickening like molasses. “Didn’t hit his head, I hope?”

“No ma’am. He wasn’t making any sense, so looks like he’s just fine.”

Aunt Frannie’s laughter shook my shoulders. “Where’s your little sister?”

My stomach tightened.

Something in her tone was causing my face to harden.

“Inside. Painting ma’am.”

Aunt Frannie’s hands left my shoulders. “Oh. Did you guys have supper?”

“No ma’am. But—”

“Well, then, come on over. I insist. Your mom’s gonna feel a lot better if she knows you guys are looked after while they’re away.”

Why would she do this to me?

I cringed, hoping Nick would decline her offer.

“Sounds nice,” he said.

My mind raced. Nick Lund was going to be sitting at our kitchen table.
Eating
. And Lene was coming too.

There had to be a way to avoid this cataclysm.

Aunt Frannie pulled me inside. “Go get cleaned up.” She hurried to the kitchen. “Why don’t you put on the new jogging suit I bought you? You’d look so sweet.”

I would rather stick my head inside a jet propeller.

“Do you think Nicolas likes meat pie?”

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

She cocked her head. “What’s wrong, hon?”

I chewed on my lip, feeling my eyes blaze.

“Derek?”

My face tingled. My cheeks were hot. “Why did you-ou have to invite them?”

Aunt Frannie’s features softened, and her gaze roamed over my face for a moment, then she tousled my hair. “Thought we could try to get to know him better. He’s so exciting, don’t you think?”

We?

She spun around and went to the fridge. “Now, go and get washed up and bring back some ketchup from downstairs, please.”

We?

I shuffled off, padding down the stairs, grumbling.

I pulled on the string that dangles from the bathroom’s ceiling, and white light flooded the small room. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself.

The bruises on my face are faded yellow.

I look like I have jaundice, but only half of it.

I sighed and washed my face. I shot a breath into my hand. It smelled okay, but I brushed my teeth anyway, making sure I didn’t have any toothpaste on my lips or chin. I pulled my sweater off.

The cold air immediately iced my skin. Made my nipples hurt.

I’m skinny. Really pale too. My belly button sticks out a little. My shoulders are twice as big as my waist. Makes me look like an upside-down triangle.

I went to my bedroom to find something to wear. Impossible. All my sweaters are ugly. All my pants are too short. All my button-up shirts are missing a button.

I stripped my pants off and plopped down on the edge of the bed, staring at my closet. The cold and humidity sank deep inside my bones, but for some reason, I didn’t mind it so much. Actually, it felt kind of nice.

My skin had hardened, my nerves awakened.

My penis jumped inside my undies.

Like it needed to be somewhere and I wasn’t invited.

I need you. I need you. I need you.