The Shooting (21 page)

In the laundry room, Art still there, still in his undies, sprawled in a plastic chair engrossed in an old issue of
Cosmo.
Clayton's pop shows up, rubbing his hands together, sleeves of his work shirt rolled up, glasses secured to his face as usual with the little black plastic elastic band that go around his head. The dead dryer is the one at the end. —All right, he say, putting his hands on his hips and considering the dryer. For a second, Clayton can see him as a doctor, like how he should be. It look right. Like when you're making music on your laptop and struggling to find the right beat, and then you
finally get that kick where it should be and the snare sound just right and it all settles in on itself and becomes its own little being that has lived forever and will live on forever. —All right son, he say, pointing to the unopened UPS box in the corner. —Open box and get new belt.

Clayton squat over it, pull out his keys, use one to split the shipping tape and open the box, take out a black rubber loop. —This right? Clayton hand it to him, he study it.

—That's it. It's a beauty.

—Yeah, gorgeous, Clayton say, sarcastic. His pops don't pick up on it.

—Manufacturer uses cheap belt, his pops say. —Cheap belt snap. If they make with high-quality belt, like this, these machines lasts forever. What a beauty.

—Dad.

—Mmm.

—You serious? It's a piece of rubber. It's a washing machine. Nothing beautiful about no washing machine.

—Dryers.

—Whatever. I mean, you don't get sick of pretending like you happy? Like you satisfied?

—I am happy.

—You
can't
be.

—Why not?

—Because this ain't where you supposed to be.

—Sure it is. This is where I am. So this is where I am supposed to be.

Clayton shake his head. —But you a
doctor
though.

—Was
a doctor. Now a handyman. There was purpose for me as doctor and now there is purpose for me here.

Maybe he feeling a little cocky because he got Stacey waiting tonight, but Clayton sneers, —Purpose. What purpose? To be these people's minion?

His dad ain't looking at him now. Clayton know he want to, but he pretending to be very focused on unscrewing the side panel on the dryer. Clayton feeling bad now. He want to hug him. He want to cry and he want to kiss his dad and make him feel like he given him
the greatest life anyone could have. He want to say,
I know what you mean about purpose, I do, I know exactly what you mean when you talk like that.
But he can't say it. It ain't like there a
reason
he can't say it—he just
can't.
So he don't say it. He stay where he is, standing there, watching his dad unscrew screws, the last word he said still hanging where he left it:
minion.

—Hand me crescent wrench, his dad say, all curt and weird now. When Clayton put it in his hand, he suddenly look up at him over his glasses, staring at him, and something much more serious comes into the air. —Clayton, he say. —You know how we always say,
We were not afraid of strangers, including you
?

—Uh-huh, Clayton say.

—And you always ask what we mean?

—Uh-huh.

—Well, his father say, —you probably guess there is more to our life before you than you know.

Clayton don't want him to keep talking, he don't want to hear whatever he about to tell him, he know he don't before he hear it. But Pops already saying it. He saying all kind of shit that Clayton can't believe. Horrible shit. Things that happened to his mom. —No, stop, stop, Clayton say, feeling sick. None of this making sense, it too crazy and he don't want to hear no more. But his pops keep talking. He hardly hear him, he can't be in the room with this man saying these things.

He don't know where to go, he just walk out the basement, up through the lobby, head down, past Lucien who ask what's wrong, out the front door, down the street, and he
gone.
And then he just wander, riding the subway back and forth, going from crying to laughing in disbelief to imagining giving big speeches to his parents:
Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you
tell
me this? How long were you going to wait? Why did you...? How come...? How could you...?

He go to the park. Ain't never going home again. Never. He can't. He done. Done. Everything he know is a lie. A
lie.
Why didn't they tell him? Well, now they gonna be sorry because he gone. He on his own now. They ain't never gonna see him again. Where
he gonna live now? He don't know, out here in the park. Why not? Get a tent and live off hot dogs he steal from vendors and, he don't know, fish he catch in the pond or something. They'll be sorry then. They'll come see him there in the park.
Please, Clayton,
they'll say,
please come home.
And he'll be like,
Nope. Shouldna lied. Sorry.
That's right, he ain't never going home. Never ever. Never. Over his dead body.

He go home. After a while there ain't a lot to do in the park, and he forgot his phone so can't call nobody. He tried going to Kenny's, but once he got all the way down there, he was close enough to his house, he figured might as well just go get ready for the party. When he come in they sitting on the couch waiting for him. He like that they're waiting for him. Yeah, he gonna twist that knife. Make them sorry.
Liars, man. Fucking liars.

—Just came for my phone, he mumble, all cold and steely, to make them feel it.

He walk past, not even looking at them. Lock his bedroom door, take his clothes off, throw them toward the hamper, kick the hamper over loud so they hear it. Then he crying again. Face burning. He so damned motherfucking mad. Never felt like this. A chained beast. No place to put his rage. It boil inside him. He pace back and forth, growling, hitting himself on the head. Then that start to hurt too much, so he sit on the bed, face in his hands.

His momma knock on the door. —Baby? she say.

—Go away. But he thinking,
Don't go away. Please keep knocking. Please kick down the door and hug me, please, Momma, kick down the door and hug me.

—Can we talk? She sound like she been crying. He feel bad but she lied.

—No. I gotta be somewhere.

—Where, baby?

—None of your business.

He get dressed and walk out past them again, out the front door, still not looking at them, feeling they eyes on him and kind of enjoying that. His mom don't want him to leave, just fly out into the city like this, not telling them where he going—
a party
?
Whose party?
Where? Where are the parents? I speak to them. I speak—
but his pops put his arm around her and say, —Let him go, it's okay, he okay.

Clayton go outside, he already going, it don't matter whether they allow him or not, it ain't up to them no how, they lied, they liars. He wearing his hoodie over his head because he can't stand to look at the world right now and he can't stand to be looked at by it. He go up to the train station. Crosses the street, cab honks at him to get out of the way. Cops on the corner staring him down. —Where you going, buddy? they say. He don't answer. Can feel them watching his back. He don't give a fuck, not tonight. He got all his shoe money, a big grip of cash in his pocket. He got his phone. He got Stacey Magnolia, across the river, waiting for him. He keep walking.

Three kegs, countless bottles, maybe a pound of weed spread across the kitchen counter, Adderall and ecstasy going around, a band playing Prince covers in the basement, sweaty giddy girls wiggling and bouncing all over the dance floor, no parents, no neighbors for a mile—these rich white kids know how to make a dude forget his worries. They got a half-pipe out back, kids are skating it; there a pool all lit up turquoise, kids gliding naked through it. The host of the party, Stephen, lives on a serious spread, like a farm, with its own
pond
on it. Down by the pond they got a bonfire going strong, and all around it are tattooed white boys without shirts, tattooed white girls in bikini tops with their hair tied back, and they got beer and they got guns.
God
damn they got guns. You can see all them scampering around in and out of the light from the fire, carrying this gun or that gun, bending down to load this gun or that gun, then standing upright and pointing it across the water and firing—
CRACK! CRACK!
—drawing on a cigarette and firing again, handing it to a girl, putting their arms around her to show her how to shoot it right—
CRACK! CRACK!
Clayton saw them down by the pond when he and Stacey rolled up in the backseat of her friend's car.

—They crazy, he said. —They gonna get arrested.

Stacey said, —No, they allowed.

—I'd like to see a bunch of black kids doing that. National Guard be down here.

He still feeling upset. Bitter. She ask what wrong, he say nothing. She rub his arm and kiss his shoulder.

Inside the party they make a little pretense of walking around saying hello to people, but they both have one thing on their minds. He so nervous. Mouth all dry. Hands cold. Legs trembling. They find a couch in the corner. They kissing on it. Stacey's friends keep walking by saying smart-ass shit.

—She choking?

—She need the Heimlich?

She swats at them. —Y'all need to quit.

—And
y'all,
they say, —need to
get a room.

She say to Clayton, —They so ridiculous.

He say, —I don't know, do you want to?

—Want to what?

—Get a room.

The answer is obvious, it's in the air with the weed smoke and the music and the energy of the party, she just waiting on him to stand up and take her hand and lead her up there. But before he can do it, Stephen, the rich white dude who live here, come through with no shirt on carrying some crazy-ass machine gun like it's nothing. —What up, porn stars, y'all trying to shoot dis?

—What is it? Clayton say, spooked but also kind of fascinated.

—What the SEALs used to kill bin Laden. Got it for my birthday. Dis shit's
dope.
I got an eighty-round drum on it. When thugs roll up on me, I can chill up in my position and pick them off all day long. Stephen act like he shooting it, going all,
Blatblatblatblatblat!

Clayton staring at it in Stephen's hands. He still kind of feeling like how he felt in his bedroom. Like he boiling.

Stacey laugh. —Stephen, who gonna roll up on you on your farm? They gonna steal your cow?

Stephen snorts. —Whatever. Shit's real out there. Y'all coming or what? He say it staring straight into Clayton's eyes, like he know something about Clayton. He has to struggle to meet Stephen's stare.

Stacey got herself propped up on one arm, hand in her hair that she has done special for him tonight, like it's prom or something.
She say she spent all day getting ready.
Wanted to look beautiful for you tonight.

—No, Clayton say—I'm cool.

—You sure?

—Uh-huh. Stephen leave and Clayton
relieved.
He say to Stacey, —Still want to go upstairs?

She smiles at him all shy, goes, —I don't know, do you?

—I don't know. He smiling too, he can't stop.

He take her hand, lead her to the stairs, go up, find a bedroom. Can't get her clothes off fast enough. He take in everything he see and feel, to remember it later. Outside he can hear them shooting.
CRACK CRACK CRACK!
He on top. Can't get it in at first. Hard to see what happening. Then she say hold up and reach down and do
something
, and he in. He
in.
It feel
gooooooooood.
It feel even better than he imagined.
Feel
ain't even the right word for it, it like he acquired a new sense. He kiss her. She breathing heavy. He come. —I came, he say. She smile, all gentle, and say nothing, just stroke his hair and look at him. He lie with her naked for what feel like hours, and then he tell her about what his dad say today. After he tell her, she just smile and kiss him and keep kissing him, and she just love him and it's perfect.

—Is that why you used to sleepwalk? she murmur.

And he say, —I don't know, maybe.

She quiet for a moment, then she say, kind of to herself, —Your poor momma.

And he say, —Yeah.

When they go back downstairs, they are new people, it is surprising anyone they knew from earlier still recognizes them. They find food in the kitchen and just
eat
like they high. They both
starving.
—Why are we so
hungry
? she say with her mouth full of Tostitos.

All he can do is laugh. —I don't know! He still can't stop grinning. Face hurt.

She gotta go home, her ride's leaving. He put his hoodie up, walk her out the front door, to the car. —Come on, get in, we'll drop you at the train.

—Nah, he say, —they ain't running no more.

—How you gonna get home?

—Imma just call a cab.

She looks like it blows her mind. —That's expensive.

He shrugs, casual. —It ain't bad. It's reasonable.

She laughs at him. —
It's reasonable.
Look at you, all Mr. Big Time now.

—That's right.

When she gone he sits on the curb and call a cab and wait for it, thinking about his momma some more, his pops. The night feel different now. Everything seems brighter, more vivid. But it taking
forever
for that cab to come. Finally after, like, thirty minutes it come. But it see him and just keep driving past. He call again and wait another half hour for another one and same thing. He call a third time, saying, —Yo, send someone who cool with a black teenager in a hoodie. He laugh.

Dispatcher go, —Say again?

—Black kid in a hoodie, Clayton say, —that me. I got money. Cash. I ain't gonna rob you. I just want to go home.

Dispatcher quiet for a second, then go, —Five minutes. And exactly five minutes later, a black dude roll up in a cab and Clayton get in.