August walked nervously into Ruckus expecting to see Spider behind the bar, all black ringlets and shiny white smile. He hoped Spider would still be smiling after he saw the likes of August standing before him, three months to the day after his disappearing act. August had a head full of words to say to Spider, the first two being “I’m sorry.”
As the door closed behind him, the midday sun was blocked out and the interior of Ruckus looked like it always did, no matter the time of day: dark walls glowing dimly in the light cast off of the felt pool tabletops under long, stained and broken beer light fixtures. The bar and barstools were silhouettes of black on black.
One of the unseen bathroom doors slammed shut and a figure came around the corner to the bar. It wasn’t Spider. She was a buxom blond woman with dark lips and no smile. August recognized her, the platinum hair, eyebrow piercing, dirty silk blouse with the top two buttons fastened and none of the others, allowing occasional breezy glances at her bra lace.
“Hey,” she said, with no particular affection.
“Megla, right?” She went by the name Megla Maniac.
“That’s right. Can I get you something?”
“Is Spider around?”
“Not yet.” She put her hands on the bar ledge, steadying herself.
“Is he working tonight?”
“No, but he’ll be here.” She turned to the register, twisted a dimmer knob and the four corners of the bar came alive with Depeche Mode blasting through black cubes.
I’m not going down on my knees,
Begging you to adore me—
She turned back to August and smiled cynically. “That’s better.”
August returned the smile, put his spiral notebook on the bar, rested a knee on a barstool.
“Do you want something, or are you just waiting?”
“I’ll wait,” August said. “—No, I mean—I didn’t mean to say that.”
Megla lit a cigarette.
“I’ll have a Tom Collins,” August said with a smirk.
She wrinkled her forehead. “Oh, shit. What’s that?”
He stammered out the ingredients as they came to him, “Gin with club soda…lemon juice…sugar…cherries and orange.”
“I don’t have like half of that stuff,” she said, puffing.
August shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like anyway.”
Megla lifted her eyebrows slightly, rested the cigarette on an ashtray and got to work, singing along with the song.
Here is a plea
From my heart to you
Nobody knows me
As well as you do
You know how hard it is for me
To shake the disease
That takes hold of my tongue
In situations like these…
August sat, took a pen from his pocket, opened the notebook, but thought better of it as Megla poured the contents of a metal shaker into two plastic cups and splashed some of it on his blank page.
She sat the two cocktails in front of him. “Three dollars.”
August closed the notebook. “But I only wanted one.”
“It’s happy hour. Two for the price of one. The second one is the free one.”
He picked one up. “Do you want it?”
“Ew, no. I’m a bourbon girl.”
August gave her a five, told her to keep the change and shuffled out the side door onto the patio with the two cocktails.
Megla said, “Thanks” in a monotone, dropping one dollar into two empty pickle tip jars. As August pushed backwards out of the bar, she was reaching for the bourbon.
The patio was a fenced in yard of cracked concrete enclosed in graffiti. Picnic tables, barstools and milk crates randomly decorated the space. It was three o’clock on a bright, beautiful April Fool’s Day. August picked this day on purpose; he thought it would help him say what he came to say to Spider.
The sweating plastic cups were slippery in his hands so he set them on the first picnic table he came to, glanced around the space then sat with his back against the fence, sipping and considering the conversation to come.
He hadn’t had a Tom Collins since New Year’s Eve, the night before he disappeared. He had only drunk two that night, but it wasn’t the drinks that got to him, it was the joint someone passed him. Not Spider – it was one of his friends – but August remembered everything going haywire when Spider turned to tell him something and his features melted. Spider laughed his machine-gun laugh as August slowly lowered himself to the picnic table then to the ground.
He woke up on New Year’s Day 1988 at Spider’s apartment, in Spider’s bed, with Spider. Both of them naked. Spider was August’s best friend, but this was a new development. August was scared, mostly because he didn’t remember anything about the night before.
Spider assured him nothing had happened. He explained that someone had laced the joint with angel dust, and when August freaked out, Spider had taken him home, to his apartment (he was too high to take him all the way to Southwest Houston). And they were naked because August had vomited all over both of them.
No sooner had August felt comforted by the explanation than Spider dropped the bomb: He had been struggling with it for a while, but realized he was gay because he was in love with August. This new development was more than August could handle. He dressed and left swiftly, saying he needed time to think.
Three months later, his thinking done, August returned to Ruckus. Since the last time he had seen Spider, he had dropped out of art school where they met, had moved out of his mother’s house (where Spider knew to find him), and was working at a club in the Heights that Spider had never been to. August was ready to talk, ready to figure everything out. He had several versions of what he wanted to say written in his notebook, which he was looking over when a sound across the patio pulled his attention.
A sinewy man, his long glistening brown hair in a ponytail, was sitting at a distant picnic table. He wiped his face like he was splashing it with water, up over his head and down the ponytail. He took a deep breath, blew out slowly through his nose while he extracted a slender red pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He slid a long brown cylinder out of the pack, pinched a metal lighter from his pants, lit the cigarette with a lot of clacking. August stared. The man with the ponytail smiled.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“How’s it goin’?” The man’s accent was from Arkansas; it reminded August of his father.
“Okay.”
“I’m a cripple,” the smoking man said. “I can’t walk. Can you come over here?”
August climbed out of his picnic table. “Sure.”
“Bring your stuff.”
As August approached, he noticed ink lines at the stranger’s wrists peeking out from his long-sleeved shirt. He held out one his drinks. “Would you like a Tom Collins?”
“Yeah, sure,” the stranger said, taking it. “Thanks!” He took a gulp. “Sit down.”
August put his notebook and the other cocktail on the table and climbed in across from the man. They drank, watched each other, smiled. August blushed.
“I’m Paul.” He held out a hand and August saw more of the tattoos, lots of thin lines.
“Hi, Paul. I’m August. Nice to meet you.” They shook.
Paul gave an extra squeeze as they pulled apart. “Tom Collins, huh?”
“That’s my father’s name.”
“This drink was named after your father?”
“No. It’s just a coincidence.”
Paul took another sip. “Fruity.”
August said, “What?”
“It’s fruity.”
“Oh, the drink. Yeah.”
“Did you think I was callin’ your father fruity?”
“What? No!”
“I’ve never met your father, so I have no idea if he’s fruity or not.”
“Well, he’s not. Trust me.”
“No, I guess not. But it takes one to know one, if you catch my drift.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Do you smoke weed?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
August sipped. “But I don’t mind if you do.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Paul said, “I’m fresh out. I was hopin’ you had some!”
“Oh. I don’t.”
Paul flicked his cigarette over the fence, slid a slender green pack of cigarettes from the shirt pocket opposite the one with the red cigarettes, took out a cigarette and the lighter and lit it; the butane and cigarette smoke scented the air.
August leaned in. “What are those?”
“What? –Oh, my cancer sticks?”
“Yeah.”
“Mores.”
“Red ones and green ones?”
“Regular and menthol.”
“Mm. Why are they brown?”
Paul took a big drag. “Because they suck. I ended up with a bunch of ‘em in the divorce, and I don’t like either of ‘em, so I alternate.”
“You’re married?”
“No.”
“I mean—you’re divorced?”
“You’re sure nosy!”
August sat back. “I’m sorry.”
Paul chuckled. “That’s all right. I’m nosy, too. –I’m probably nosier than you are!”
August continued, “So?”
Paul echoed, “So?”
“You’re divorced?”
“Oh. No, not really. But I used to work for a married couple who are gettin’ divorced. Because of me.”
“Because of you?”
“Uh-huh. I just got fired.”
“What’d you do?”
“I was their cook and their lover.”
“What?”
“Yep.”
“How?”
“Which part, the cookin’ or the lovin’?”
August laughed, “Both!”
“Don’t you know about lovin’, August?”
As delicately as possible, August said, “But you’re handicapped.”
“What?”
“You can’t walk, right?”
Paul fell onto the table in what August feared might be some sort of a seizure. Paul rolled under the table. August didn’t know what to do. He bent down, reached toward Paul; Paul slapped him away. August tried again, more purposefully, and somehow wound up flat on his back under the table, his legs poking off the bench toward the door to the bar with Paul on top him. Paul’s hair tickled August’s lips. August spat at the hairs; Paul drew back quickly and banged his head on the beam supporting the tabletop. His head fell on August’s chest.
Instinctively August patted Paul’s head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Paul said into August’s chest. Then he mumbled something more.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
Paul said it again.
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you.”
Paul lifted his head and his eyes poured into August. “I said yes, I’m all right, and I feel really bad because I’m not a cripple.”
“What?”
“I’m not a cripple.”
After a second, August said, “Get up.”
“I’m sorry, August.”
“It’s okay. Just get up. Get out from under here. I don’t like being on the ground like this.”
Paul climbed up to the bench apologizing. August climbed out and stood, dusting his clothes.
“Really. I’m sorry,” Paul repeated.
“It’s okay,” August said.
“No, man, that was fucked up. I told you I was a cripple so you would come over here and give me a drink.”
“I didn’t want it anyway.”
“Well, it was rude. But I like you, so let’s shake hands and make up.”
August didn’t say so, but he liked Paul, too. He took his hand briefly. “Were you telling the truth about any of it?”
“Everything except the part about bein’ a cripple. I swear.”
“You worked for a married couple as their cook and their lover.”
“Best job ever, man!”
August chuckled. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m serious, Gus. We split up because Jake wanted me all to himself.”
“What?”
“He was gonna leave Jodi so the two of us could be together.”
“Now I know you’re lying!”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s absolutely true. Men can’t resist me! That’s why you’re still standin’ there!”
“What?” August smiled and shook his head. “I’m going to get another drink. Do you want something?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re havin’. –But, wait.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it and put a twenty on the table. “My treat.”
“That’s all right.”
Paul picked up the twenty. “I insist.”
“But you just got fired.”
“I’ve got money, Gus,” Paul came back, “more money than I need.”
“How do you know I won’t run off with your money and never come back?”
“I don’t.”
After a moment, August snatched the bill and smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
By the time he returned to the picnic table, August’s head was no longer full of things he wanted to say to Spider; it was full of Paul. He was mesmerized and wanted to know everything.
“So, you had sex with the woman and the man?”
Paul lit another cigarette. “Full service!” He winked.
“That’s wild…”
“Jake fucked up a good thing by wantin’ me all to himself. Poor Jodi!”
“What did you say to him?”
“I said no fuckin’ way. I mean, I enjoyed havin’ sex with him – men definitely have some things to offer that women don’t, you know? – but I gotta have snatch, too!”
August laughed, “Snatch?”
“And tits,” Paul said. “Oh, man, I’m totally a tit man!”
“But you like guys, too?”
“Yeah. Sure. Don’t get me wrong, dick is great! I certainly love mine! I wish it was bigger so I could give myself a blowjob! Then I wouldn’t need a guy! –Dick is power, Gus.”
August laughed, “Dick is power!”
Paul pierced him with his eyes. “I bet you’ve got a big one.”
August blushed. “What?”
“You’re a big boy. What are you, six-two?”
“Six-four and a little more,” August answered; it was his funny little thing to say.
Paul repeated it and laughed. “Well, I bet you can give yourself a blowjob.”
August sat silent, embarrassed.
“You can, can’t you? –You totally can, man! Look how red you are!”
August dropped his face into his upright palms on the tabletop.
Paul said, “Have you tried?”
“What?”
“I know you have! Tell me you haven’t!”
August mumbled through his hands, “I haven’t.”
“You’re lyin’! Aren’t ya?”
August rocked his head back and forth.
Paul put one hand on each of August’s shoulders. “Man, I’d like to see that!”
August had in fact not tried to give himself a blowjob; the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. But it was in there now, and in that awkward silence he was thinking he would definitely like to try, particularly if Paul was there to watch.
“Do you know Spider?”
Paul lit another cigarette. “Spider? No. I don’t think so. Who’s that?”
“He works here.”
“I haven’t been here in over a year. –Is he a friend of yours?”
“Yeah, kinda. I haven’t seen him in three months.”
“Where have you been hidin’?”
“Up in the Heights; I work at Ruby’s.”
“The r&b club?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw the Band there; they were great.”
“There are lots of bands there,” August said, mistrusting, “different ones every night.”
“I’m talkin’ about the Band, Gus. Levon Helm, Rick Danko. They rocked Ruby’s!”
“Oh. Don’t mind me; I don’t know anything, I’m just a barback.”
“So, is there some bad blood between you and this Spider man?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Sort of. It’s a long story.”
Paul took out the red pack of Mores. “I’m not goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”
“Well, I have to warn you, it’s not a very happy story.”
“Neither is my story, Gus.”
“Which I still don’t believe, by the way.”
“That doesn’t make it any less true!”
August finished his cocktail; he tipped the cup back and ice hit him in the face. They both laughed as August wiped himself. “Anyway…”
Paul said, “Anyway!”
“So, there’s this guy.”
Paul climbed on top of the picnic table and lay down.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m listenin’. Go ahead.”
“His name is X.”
Paul wiggled a finger. “To protect the innocent!”
“No. That’s really his name. Well, Xavier, but everybody calls him X. He’s my boss’ boyfriend. Or was. Or is one of many.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Ruby. –But I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
Paul smoked and shook his head. “She’s got nice tits.”
August whacked his fists on the table playfully. “Are you gonna let me tell the story?”
“I’m sorry, Gus. Tell me all about X.”
After a moment, August said, “Last Sunday was dead, more dead than usual for a Sunday. There’s a rockabilly band that plays every week, but they don’t draw a crowd anymore. Ruby wasn’t there because she hates rockabilly.
“So, anyway, at the end of the night, as I was stocking, X showed up. For some reason, he wanted to hang around me. He said he was in the doghouse and then talked me into doing a line of cocaine in the liquor closet – which I never do; it gives me nosebleeds – and the next thing I know we’re on our way to Galveston in X’s little red Corvette with a bottle of tequila he stole from the liquor closet. When we got to Galveston, we skinny-dipped then came back to Houston totally trashed and X came up to my apartment to use the bathroom and then he came onto me.”
Paul sat up. “Whoa! Your boss’ boyfriend came onto you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get it on?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No, it’s not, Paul. Ruby would fire me. She might fire me anyway, for the tequila.”
“You should offer to fuck her.”
“What?”
“You and X together.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Oh, it’s great, Gus, one in the snatch, the other in the trunk. You can feel your dicks slidin’ against each other inside of her!”
“She’s my boss!”
“Well, I’m just sayin’, if she fires you, maybe it would be a good way to get back on her good side.”
“You don’t know Ruby at all.”
“No, but she’s got nice tits. I’d fuck her with ya!”
August laughed. “You are crazy!”
“So, did you or did you not fuck her boyfriend?”
“I did not. Nothing happened.”
“How do you know he was comin’ onto you then?”
“We made out a little bit.”
Paul flicked his cigarette butt over the fence and reached for another. “Well, that’s somethin’!”
“Yeah, I guess. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go all the way.”
“Couldn’t decide if you were gay for X?”
“I guess so. I’ve never had sex with a man.”
“Have you had sex with a chick?”
“Yeah, quite a few. Girls are always picking me up at Ruby’s.”
“I bet they are!”
“But here’s the thing,” August said, “I’m always thinking about Spider while I’m having sex with them.”
“Pretendin’ they’re him?”
“No, just feeling bad because I’m not in love with them.”
Paul shrugged.
August explained, “I always told Spider I wasn’t interested in having sex until I was in love.”
“So, that’s why he told you he was in love with you!”
“No—I don’t know. I think he really does. Or did. I didn’t know he was gay until he told me.”
Paul rolled onto his side and stared at August. “Sounds like you’re dealin’ with the exact same shit I’m dealin’ with, Gus.”
August was lost in Paul’s eyes until Deb’s cackle broke the trance. Deb was Spider’s long-time best friend, a six-foot tall black chick with blue hair and piercings up and down both ears. She was outside of the Ruckus patio fence, unseen but approaching. Spider’s distinctive laugh joined hers.
August said, “Oh, shit!” and jumped up on the picnic table and flew over the back fence.
Paul sat up. “Hey, man, what’s goin’ on? Gus!”
August poked his head over the fence. “Don’t tell anybody you saw me here. Please.” And then he disappeared.
A month-and-a-half later on a Thursday morning, August was doing his laundry like he did every two Thursdays at the washateria next door to his apartment. After more than a month and several washings, his pale green pillowcase still had the bloodstain blob on it from the nosebleed he got after the night of snorting cocaine with Xavier, who was no longer in the picture at Ruby’s. August had thrown the pillowcase in the dryer anyway, and was now examining it, trying to decide between folding it and throwing it away, when knuckles hit the window.
August jumped. It was Paul on the sidewalk, smiling, arms outstretched.
“Paul!” he shouted, waving him inside.
“If it isn’t the mystery man,” Paul spouted as he opened the door. He embraced August. “What are you doin’, Gus? –I mean, obviously you’re doin’ laundry, but how are you doin’?”
“I’m doing fine,” August said, tossing the pillowcase into the garbage can. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped in next door for some butane and saw you in here and just had to drop in and say hey.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.”
“You need help?”
“No, thanks. I’m all done.” He packed his folded laundry into the plastic basket.
“You need help gettin’ it to your house?”
“I just live right next door.” He pointed, “Right up there.”
Paul said, “That’s convenient.”
August picked up the laundry basket. “Yep.”
“Can I at least get the door for you?”
“Sure, okay. Thanks.”
Paul held it open, August exited.
There were two cars in the parking lot. The hatchback August recognized as the one the daytime clerk at the Circle K drove. The other was a vw bus, tan, a little rusty, cluttered on the inside. “Is that your bus?”
Paul sang, “Yes, sir, that’s my baby!”
“I could tell. It looks like you.”
“You wanna check her out? She’s got a great bed – the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in – and a little kitchen. Everything but a toilet.”
“Maybe later,” August said, indicating his basket of clothes.
Paul lit a cigarette. “Sure, sure.” He followed August around the dumpster and chain link fence to the rickety two-story house next to the washateria.
August paused. “Do you wanna come up?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” Paul took a drag, tossed his cigarette into the street.
“It’s the door on the right. It’s unlocked.”
Paul said, “I’ll remember that!” He opened the door to a set of stairs. “Up here?”
August walked past him and went upstairs. At the top, there was a small kitchen on the right and a slightly larger room on the left, outfitted with a twin bed, kitchen table, straight-back chair and a few huge oil paintings leaning against whatever wall and floor space was available.
Paul stopped at the door to the room. “Whoa!” He stood transfixed by the striking image, a close-up of a young girl, one big, vacant eye, one nostril, half a mouth, a delicate ear with a big garish clip-on earring hanging from it.
August set the laundry basket on the bed, loaded the laundry items on shelves in the small closet over the staircase.
“Did you paint this?”
“No,” August said without looking, “that would be Dar’s work.”
Paul said it like it was one word, “Darzwerk?”
“Dar. My mom.”
“Oh, your mom is an artist.”
“She’s more of an administrator now. I wish she still painted. She’s good.”
Paul tipped the front canvas and looked at the one behind it. “I’ll say.”
August tossed the empty laundry basket into its place on the floor of the closet and shut the door.
“What’d you say she does now?”
“She’s an art administrator.”
“What’s that?”
“It means she tells people how to run their lives.” He laughed unconvincingly and plopped onto the edge of the bed. “She’s very good at it.”
Paul said, “Did you inherit your mother’s talent?”
“Nope; I inherited my father’s colorblindness.”
“That’s harsh.”
“What’s harsh is my mom doesn’t believe it. I’ve taken all the tests, which prove conclusive that I have deuteranopia.”
“What’s that?”
“Colorblindness. But still she pulled her strings and got me into Glassell Art School.”
“You could be a painter anyway, couldn’t you? Surely there are colorblind painters in the world.”
“Probably. But the other problem is I don’t want to be a painter!”
Paul shook his head. “Well, there’s that!” He moved around August’s room like it was a gallery, taking everything in, which, besides Dar’s paintings, was knickknacks, silly little things August and Spider had collected from thrift stores, and a watercolor of a rainbow August had done when he was young, with the colors in the wrong order: green / yellow / red / orange / purple / blue.
Occasionally, Paul made a comment about something, a noise of curiosity, but August didn’t feel a need to respond. He leaned against the frame between the two windows alongside his bed and watched silently.
After a while, Paul asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, sure, go ahead. I’ll get an ashtray.”
August went to the kitchen for a saucer and when he returned, Paul was kneeling on the bed, his head out the window, his shirt hiked up to reveal brown and blue ink lines on his lower back, tattoos that seemed to mimic wood grain.
August stood at the doorway staring, embarrassed but unable to stop himself.
Paul pulled his head back into the apartment holding a joint. “Hey.”
“Hey,” August said.
Paul held up the joint. “You mind?”
“No, of course not.”
“You want some?”
“No. –Well, I don’t know, maybe just a hit.”
“You want me to give you a shotgun?”
August said, “Okay.” He tried to sound calm, but his heart was racing.
Paul patted the bed next to him. “Sit.”
August did.
Paul put the burning ember into his mouth and leaned toward August, taking his chin delicately in a hand to guide him. He blew a thin stream of smoke and August inhaled, leaning closer. Their lips touched briefly. August leaned back on the bed and held his breath. Paul took a couple of hits then placed the joint on the saucer, the saucer on the windowsill, spun around on the bed and put his head in August’s lap. His thick hair spilled everywhere.
August exhaled. “What are you doing?”
Paul exhaled. “Gettin’ comfortable. Is it okay?”
“Yes, of course. –Should I put on some music?”
“No, no,” Paul said, “just kick back, man, get comfy, enjoy the weed, enjoy the sounds of nature.”
August said, “The sounds of White Oak Drive?”
Paul made a happy little noise. “Yeah!”
August leaned back but wasn’t comfortable. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his arms, with his hands, with anything. He didn’t know what he was going to do with Paul.
Paul wrinkled his nose, “What are you doin’, Gus?”
“I don’t know.” He tucked his left hand under his thigh and perched his right hand awkwardly on the windowsill.
Paul took it and put it on his chest and laid both of his hands on top of August’s. “Can you feel that?”
August could feel so many things – the pressure of Paul’s hands, the button on Paul’s shirt, the fabric, the bones beneath, the expanding of his lungs. “Can I feel what?”
“My heart.”
August wasn’t sure if he could distinguish between Paul’s heartbeat and his own. “Oh. I think so. Yes.”
Paul said, “I have an irregular heartbeat. Can you feel it?”
“I don’t know.”
Traffic swam past; Paul lessened the pressure and played with August’s hand, touched the skin, massaged the muscles beneath it. August laid his head back and closed his eyes. He could feel an erection coming on and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Paul shifted; August looked down at him; he was smiling up at August.
August played dumb. “What?”
“Do you have a boner?”
August blushed. “Oh, jeez. How embarrassing. I’m sorry, Paul.”
Paul sat up. “Sorry? You don’t have to apologize! It’s sweet.” He looked down at August’s crotch. “And huge!”
August moaned and rolled face down on the bed, his head at Paul’s feet. Paul crawled over August and nuzzled his backside like a human spoon. August kept his eyes closed tight as Paul put an arm over him, pressed a hand into his chest. They stayed like that for a long while. Eventually Paul’s hand went slack and his breathing grew deep. August joined him in sleep and dreamed they shared a long, passionate kiss.
Two weeks later, August’s sister June turned sixteen. Paul picked August up that afternoon and drove them to Southwest Houston. They stopped at Kroger and bought all of the ingredients for June’s special birthday meal – Chicken a la King, macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, June’s favorites dishes – which Paul had agreed to prepare. August bought a bottle of champagne and decorations; Dar was providing the cake.
When they got there, June was gone with her mom to the zoo to give August and Paul use of the kitchen and time to set up the house for the surprise party. The girls arrived home at four-thirty, a little earlier than expected, but Dar remembered to honk as she pulled into the garage. August and Paul took their hiding places behind the plants on the patio.
They could hear Dar in the garage, “Something sure smells good, doesn’t it Junie?”
June said, “I’m hungry!”
They came into the house through the kitchen door. Dar opened the door to the patio. “Oh, Junie, look!”
June stepped into the patio room delighted by the paper streamers and balloons everywhere. August and Paul jumped up; they all sang, “Surprise!”
June ran to her brother. “Oggie! Oggie!”
August said, “Happy birthday, June!”
She buried her face in August’s chest.
“Hey, June, I want you to meet somebody.”
She shook her head nervously.
“Mom, this is Paul.”
Dar held out her hand. “Since when am I ‘mom’?” She took Paul’s hand, “Call me Dar.”
Paul said, “Gus, why didn’t you tell me your mom was so sexy?”
August made a face. “Because she’s my mom. –June, meet my very good friend Paul.”
Paul said, “It’s great to meet you. You’re like a famous model!” He looked up at Dar. “The paintings are incredible. Seriously.”
Dar shrugged. “Thanks. I’ve been thinking about getting back into it.”
“Oh, you should.”
August said, “June, come on!”
She rolled around but stayed pressed against her brother. “Hi. I’m June Collins. Today is my birthday. I’m sixteen years old.” She said all of the information kind of mechanically, which threw Paul a little bit, but he covered himself.
He took her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. Happy birthday. I hear you like Chicken a la King.”
She looked to her mom. Dar said, “It’s her favorite.”
“And green bean casserole,” Paul continued.
“It’s my favorite,” June said.
“And macaroni and cheese?”
June looked up at her brother, then back to Paul. “They’re all my favorites!”
“Well, tonight you’ll have all of your favorites.”
June looked up at August again. “I like your friend, Oggie!”
August laughed. “Me, too! –Hey, and champagne.”
“What?”
“So we can do a champagne toast with June!”
June said, “Champagne toast?”
“Not toast like bread,” Dar said.
“I’ll get it,” August said. “Is the food ready?”
Paul stood up. “Whenever.”
Dar said, “We really need to wash up and change. We’ve been to the zoo! Actually, I could use a shower!”
June suddenly remembered the zoo. “Oggie, I saw an elephant and a giraffe and a lion and a girl lion and a snake!”
“Oh, yeah? All in one place?!”
Paul said, “Take your time, Dar, do what you gotta do. This is a party; we aren’t on a schedule.”
She patted him on the shoulder as she headed inside, “I like your friend, Oggie! –Come on, Junie.”
Dar and June went upstairs; Paul and August went into the kitchen. When they were alone, Paul whispered to August, “Whoa, Gus! I didn’t know your sister was…retarded.”
“She’s not retarded.”
“Huh?”
“She’s autistic. It’s not the same.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“But please don’t talk about it in front of Dar. She’s in denial.”
“Sure thing, buddy .”
June had her first alcohol that evening, first champagne toast, first glass of wine with dinner. After seconds of everything, she laid her head on the table next to her plate and said, “I’m yummy…”
“Oh, Junie, darling, we haven’t had the cake yet.” Dar bragged to the boys, “I made a chocolate cake!”
Paul said, “Yummy.”
August leaned close to June. “She’s asleep! Poor thing.”
“She’s really tired from the day,” Dar said. “And it’s probably past her bedtime. And mine!”
“I’ll take her upstairs and put her to bed,” August said. “We can have cake for breakfast! If you want to stay, Paul.”
Paul turned to Dar, “Do you work in the mornin’?”
“Nope. I took a personal day.”
Paul said, “Sounds good to me. Do you mind if I smoke?”
Dar said, “No, sure, go ahead. I’ll get an ashtray.” She stood and took some plates.
“I’ll help with that.”
“No, Paul, you relax. I’ll get these.”
August said softly, “Wake up, Junebug, you’re too big for me to carry.”
June sat up. “I’m as big as an elephant!”
August gathered her up and walked her up the stairs as Paul picked up glasses, ignoring Dar’s protests.
Once she was tucked into bed, August sang June a lullaby their father used to sing to her:
I know a girl named June,
She dances under the moon
As the crickets sing a happy junebug tune…
She was out before he was finished. He kissed her on the forehead and went to join the others.
Paul and Dar were stretched out on the couch at the bottom of the stairs. Paul was lighting a joint.
Dar laughed. “August! Come join us! We’re getting high!” Her hand was on Paul’s chest.
He headed down the stairs. “Shh! What are you doing?”
“Paul has an irregular heartbeat!”
August said, “I know.”
“So anyway,” Paul said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Continue your story.”
“Oh, that was it. Just if my labor hadn’t gone on so long, we would’ve named her May Collins!”
Paul patted the couch next to him; August sat on the opposite side of Paul from Dar.
“Now, August,” Dar went on, taking a quick toke and passing the joint back to Paul, “If he had been born twenty minutes later we would’ve named him September!”
August took the joint from Paul. “Ha, ha, that’s so funny. But it’s not true.”
Paul said, “It’s not?”
Dar waved August silent. “Don’t listen to him!”
“I was born at 8:35 a.m.”
Dar shrugged. “Whatever. It’s a good story anyway.”
Paul nodded, “It is.”
Dar kicked her legs up into Paul’s lap, her feet landed on August. He pulled away and made a sound of annoyance.
“Come on, August, don’t Bogart the joint!” She and Paul laughed.
“Here. Paul. Take it.”
“August, honey, would you massage my feet?”
“No.”
“Why not? I’ve been on my feet all day with your sister, to the lion cage, to the snake house, to the polar bear pool. I tell you what, those bears looked hot!”
Paul took a hit. “Aw, come on, Gus, give your mom a little foot rub!”
Dar smiled evilly, “Thank you, Paul.”
“Mom, you’re drunk.”
She sat up a little bit. “Okay, first of all, everybody stop calling me ‘mom!’ And secondly, I’m not drunk, I’m stoned. –Or I’m more stoned than drunk, anyway. And I want a foot massage.”
Paul took a foot in his hands. “I’ll rub your feet, Dar.”
“Thank you, Paul.”
August said, “Oh, brother!” He stood up. “You know what? I’m gonna go upstairs before this gets uncomfortable.”
Dar said, “Uncomfortable?”
August corrected himself. “More uncomfortable.”
“August!”
“Paul, can I have a cigarette?”
“Sure, Gus; red or green?”
“A cigarette?”
“Green, please.”
“You’re smoking?”
August glared at the joint pinched in his mother’s fingers. “You can’t say anything right now.”
Paul handed the pack to August. “Sorry, Darry, you can blame this on me.”
August took a cigarette and handed the pack back. “My room is up the stairs, to the left, at the end of the hall.” He headed up.
Dar called after him, “August, please don’t burn my house down.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious.”
He came back down the steps. “Paul, can I borrow your lighter?”
Paul pulled it out of his jeans and handed it up. August took it with him.
Dar said, “And open a window!”
August stopped. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, honey. Thanks for the party.”
Paul said, “I’ll see you in a little bit, Gus.”
August assumed that meant in bed, in his bed. That was the understanding they had about the situation that night, wasn’t it? August remembered clearly telling Paul he had a double bed, in case they decided to stay the night; Paul had made a remark that meant that that was the understanding.
August said, “Yeah,” as he went on to his bedroom, a little unconvinced and not really sure what he was answering to.
It didn’t matter anyway. Paul didn’t respond. He and Dar were already deep in the story of where her name came from: Dorothea Alberta Roach, d-a-r. –Fascinating!
August woke up naked because he had gone to bed that way. He was also alone. Paul had never come to bed.
August looked out of his bedroom window at the vw bus parked in the cul de sac.
Something inside moved.
“Of course,” August said aloud.
After he dressed and peed, August descended the stairs. He smelled coffee. In the kitchen, Dar’s lopsided chocolate layer cake was in the middle of the island with a big chunk missing. August looked at the clock: seven a.m.
“What?”
He poured a mug of black coffee – for him – and carried it out into the warm, moist, Southwest Houston morning. He walked slowly, keeping his eyes simultaneously on the sidewalk and the coffee at the lip of the cup, so he didn’t see it until he was right upon it. The tattoo Paul had hidden under his clothes was revealed. He was lying facedown on the floor of the bus with his arms as straight out as they could be.
Wood grain. A cross. Paul had a cross tattooed on his back, down his arms and legs. He crucified himself! In the center, between his rippling shoulder blades was a crown of thorns dripping blood.
Something sparkled in the center of Paul’s back. August was staring, a bit bleary-eyed. There were more sparkles, then some of the blood drops dripped slowly down Paul’s back. August feared he was having an angel dust flashback, until the drops of blood clutched Paul’s ass cheeks and the sparkling things revealed themselves to be rings. Dar’s rings, on Dar’s fingers!
And then he heard his mother’s voice. It was making a sound August had never heard come out of her mouth before, but it was definitely her mouth making the sound, just as surely as it was her body under Paul’s naked body on the floor of the bus.
August dropped the mug of coffee in the grass next to the curb; hot liquid scalded his feet. He jumped back but didn’t make a sound. He just kept moving, back into the house, up the stairs, to his bedroom. He put on his socks and shoes, put his wallet and change in his pockets, grabbed the Sony Walkman on the bookshelf next to the light switch and left. He walked across the landing and looked into June’s room. She was still asleep.
As he went down the stairs, August pulled the headphones over his head; when he opened the front door, he pressed play, walked down the sidewalk, into the street, close to the van without looking in or hearing anything but the song on the cassette album he had been obsessed with the month before he moved to the Heights:
Can’t stop now
Don’t you know
I ain’t ever gonna
Let you go
Don’t go…