Split (2 page)

*

Dear Bump,

I plan on winning the chess tournament this year.

I’m tired of getting the second place. Jesse Chao has won first place since the first grade. His smile looks like a string of gray pebbles. Everyone in the math club knows I can beat him. I need to practice some more, that’s all. I’ve been asking Mom, but she says she can’t remember how anymore. I don’t understand, she remembered fine last month.

I don’t know who I’m supposed to play with now.

When I asked Boone if he could help me hone my skills, he laughed. “No way, Red. Gonna be way too busy. JF told me Julie wears a bra now.”

Boone said I should ask his father because Johan and Nick used to play when Nick was little.

It’s hard to imagine Nick Lund as a little kid. I try picturing his eyes on a smaller face, but can’t do it. His eyes are so different from little kids’ eyes. Little kids’ eyes look like cough medicine bottles.

Nick’s eyes look like a picture I saw of a coral reef.

Except the coral reef wasn’t as beautiful.

Boone has blue eyes too, but when he looks at me, it doesn’t feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

I’m shy about asking Mr. Lund. He’s always so busy. I think that’s why Dad doesn’t like him. “That man came to our country, hardly speaks any French or English, and he’s going around stealing people’s jobs.” I asked Dad if he wants to be a locksmith, and he just glared at me.

Dad likes Mrs. Lund, though. He’s always so nice to her. She used to be in magazines in Norway. Her hair is the color of my beige dresser and her eyes are almost bigger than her ears. They’re blue. She wears lipstick and smells like Grandma’s rose potpourri. She never wears pants, just half-skirts. She doesn’t take off her shoes in the apartment, and when she walks down the hall, they make a clacking sound I like.

She came by yesterday. She brought some cold fish, and she also had brought some kind of red soup. Her and Mom sat at the kitchen table, and Mrs. Lund made Mom eat like a baby.

Mom cried the whole time.

Some girl with a belly bigger than a pumpkin came by with some boys this morning. Dad helped them load your crib and dresser in the back of their truck. He lit a cigarette and watched them drive away. I was standing next to him, but he never said anything.

Tomorrow’s Sunday, and we’re going to church. Father Neil is going to say something about you. Everyone is coming.

Even the Lunds, and they never go to church.

I don’t really like church, except for the communion.

I like the way Jesus tastes.

*

I’ve been debating about writing again.

Really, how healthy would it be to hash up the past, or dwell on the daily shortcomings of my life? What twenty-eight-year-old man keeps a diary? Seems like an odd and self-indulging thing to do. Yet I can’t help wondering if Aunt Fran is right. Perhaps writing is something therapeutic to me, and could only provide me with some healthy introspection. Alas, only time will tell.

Let’s see. How does one sum up seventeen years?

I suppose one does not.

The Lunds moved away that same year. Johan bought a house on the south shore. Boone promised we would keep in touch, but we never did. Aside from a love note I received from Lene that Christmas, I remained without news of them all these years.

Mom never truly recovered from your death. I used to tiptoe around the apartment, even when she was awake. In 1994, she bought a piano at a garage sale. From that day on, she spent countless hours teaching herself to play. When I left for university, she could play fairly well. That piano was her lifeline. Still is today. I enjoy watching her thin fingers dance on the keys.

Only then can we really connect.

Only then does she ask about me.

*

Dear Bump,

I saw Jesse Chao in church yesterday. He said he’s been practicing every day for the last month. I haven’t played chess since June. Dad said, “you gonna let some little chink boy take first place again?”

Jesse isn’t Chinese. He’s from Australia. His mom sang opera in Sydney, and his father is a cowboy, but he used to be an astronaut until the war broke out in the west and he and Jesse’s mom had to go undercover to fight against the rebel snakes that had taken over a place called Pennsylvania.

Dad says, “That’s a bunch of bullshit, son. You just got the kind of face people enjoy lying to, Derek.”

After the service, all of us were invited to the Lunds’ for lunch. I tried to fake an asthma attack, but Mom got too upset, so I had to stop. There was no use.

I was going to have to eat around Nick Lund.

In the Lunds’ apartment, I carefully hugged the hallway wall, tiptoed down the stairs, and slithered into Boone’s bedroom.

I found him sitting on his bed. “O’Reilly. Check this out.”

Boone’s face glowed like a red party lantern.

I walked up to his bed and sat on the edge. “What?”

“Smell this.” He held something white and crumpled like an old Kleenex.

“Are you-ou cra-azy? I’m not gonna smell some old used up-up tissue.”

My stuttering has become a problem in the last year, but Boone doesn’t seem to notice.

His eyes darted up. The sun poked yellow into them. “Red, trust me. You need to smell this. Remember the fancy Italian chocolates Mrs. Bastone used to give us on Easter, the ones with the plastic cup at the bottom?”

I remember those. They were sweet and tangy all at once.

“This is how these panties smell.”

At the sound of that word, my nose met my mouth, like my face had folded over itself. “Ew! Boone, whose panties are—”

His bedroom door flew open.

And my eyes popped out of my head.

It was Nick.

Boone and I jumped to our feet.

Boone is quicker than I thought, because he had managed to stick the underwear in his back pocket before Nick had passed the threshold, but from where I was standing, I could see it plainly sticking out.

Nick cocked his head a little. “What you got there, Bunny boy?”

My heart beat hard against my ribs. Could Nick hear it?

Nick took a step toward Boone, and Boone stiffened at my side. “We were talking about Hulk Hogan,” he said in a small voice.

Nick shrugged. “Hogan’s a fake.” He looked Boone up and down, and turned around.

I tried to swallow all the spit that had gathered inside my mouth.

Thankfully, we were going to live until lunch.

But just when Boone’s shoulders dropped an inch from relief, Nick lunged at him. We both shrank back in shock.

Nick yanked the evidence out of Boone’s pocket. “What the fuck is this, you little cumstain!” When Nick unfolded the underwear, his eyes widened. “Oh man,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, “you’re so fucked. Mom’s gonna flip.”

Everyone knows about Mrs. Lund’s temper. Especially her youngest son.

“Nick, please don’t tell her.”

Nick’s eyes seem to sharpen, and he gave a little snort.

Boone pleaded harder. “I’m already in trouble for the
Playboy
, and—”

“Don’t whine. Only losers whine. Where d’you get these anyway?”

Boone seemed surprised. He squinted, and mumbled, “In your bedroom, Nico. Under your bed.”

Nick’s pale eyebrows curled. He stared at the panties for a few seconds, twisting them between his long fingers, and scoffed. “Huh. Well, shit. Guess she was right.” The hardness settled back into his face. “Bunny boy, I catch you taking stuff from my room again, I’ll make you wear these, and nothing but these. Then we’ll take a nice little stroll around the block, got it?”

Boone nodded. “Got it.”

“And one more thing, you should never touch a girl’s panties, even if she ain’t wearing ’em. Unless she lets you. Don’t be a jerk, Boone. Lunds aren’t jerks.”

From the moment Nick had stormed in, my knees had been locked. I don’t think I took a whole new breath, either, but he hadn’t even looked at me once.

Like I wasn’t there in the room with them.

Like I was watching TV.

“O’Reilly.” Nick didn’t make eye contact. “Sorry ’bout your brother.”

A river rushed through my ears.

Was someone blow-drying my face?

I opened my mouth but couldn’t move my lips, so I moved my head up and down instead, letting a sound stream out of my mouth, something half between a grunt and a moan.

Nick left the room.

My knees were roasted marshmallows. The skin around them couldn’t hold the middle. I plopped down on the bed, staring at the empty doorway.

Boone sighed, then bounced up. “Hey, my dad taped last week’s wrestling match. You wanna go watch it?”

*

Bump,

Me and Mr. Lund are going to play chess together every Saturday morning.

He has a beautiful board, and all the pieces are handcrafted, made out of pink and black marble. They’re heavy too. I think he’s happy about it. He says he hasn’t played in a long time.

I went to the dentist this morning. I was supposed to go with Mom, but she wasn’t dressed. Aunt Frannie came instead. We rode the bus together and she let me use her Walkman. Aunt Frannie works for a lawyer, and her office is on the twenty-first floor of a building I can see from my window. I don’t remember the name of it, though. Something Marie.

On the way back, we shared a peanut butter cup.

“Your mom’s gonna feel better soon. She’s got the blues, that’s all.”

The blues.

I’m not sure what that is. It probably has something to do with blood. I read that blood is actually blue. It only becomes red when it’s out in the open. That’s my nickname. Red. A lot of people call me that. Because of my hair.

A lot of people call Nick blue. I don’t know why, though. Maybe it’s because of his eyes.

They’re so blue, they make the sky look green.

Aunt Frannie says she might move in with us. Just for a while.

When I came home, I took my finger paint out of my closet. It was still pretty good, so I mixed the red and blue together.

They turned into purple. I made a purple heart and wrote Nick’s name inside.

Then I gagged.

I cut it all up with the kitchen scissors and flushed the pieces down the toilet.

*

Bump,

School starts in two weeks. I already packed my school bag.

This summer is really long. All the days seem to be wearing the same clothes; it’s hard to tell them apart. Aunt Frannie says grown-ups feel like that all the time. “Sometimes I have to check the calendar to remember what year it is.”

I think grown-ups don’t know what year it is because they don’t celebrate their birthdays.

Mom’s blues haven’t healed yet.

Aunt Frannie says, “It’s like when you empty the tub, Red. It takes a while to fill it back up.”

I wish I could fill Mom up.

The only days I enjoy are Saturdays. That’s when I get to play chess with Mr. Lund.
Johan
. He asked me to call him Johan. It’s pronounced
Yo Ann.
We play on the back porch. Mrs. Lund, Helga, makes iced tea and ham sandwiches. The ham isn’t the kind Mom buys. It doesn’t have any purple spots on it, and doesn’t sweat. The bread is almost black, but I like it. Sometimes Helga makes a fruit salad and tops it with whipped cream.

Dad doesn’t like me eating their food. “We got plenty of food in the fridge. It ain’t good enough for you now?”

It isn’t true. We don’t have plenty of food in the fridge. Since the day you didn’t come home, all we eat is
Spam and tuna. Sometimes Dad buys bananas. I had cheddar popcorn for supper last night.

Aunt Frannie lived with us for three days, but she left. She called me later that week. “Have you read
Treasure Island
?”

I haven’t.

She seemed to hold her breath, and then whispered, “Red, I’ll bring it over next time I come. Be a good boy.”

She hasn’t come yet.

*

Dear Bump,

I dreamed about you last night, but I don’t remember what we were doing, only that you were in your crib, the one the pumpkin girl took, and there was a snow storm outside.

I was in the hospital yesterday. On account of Boone, you know.

None of it is my fault. It was all his idea. I just did what he asked.

I was in my bedroom playing my records (most of them are scratched, but the Michael Jackson one Aunt Frannie got me last year is still good). I like his music, but can’t play it too loud because Dad says, “Only sissies listen to that junk.”