Blue Whiskey

Sometimes I forget how sick he looked before he died. It wasn't how I imagined sickness would look, or maybe that's just because his eyes were closed, so there was a beauty to it. A beauty like Velcro, one I could catch hold of like a star and it would scrape my skin raw from the wire loops, but I wouldn't have to be afraid of letting go.

***

“I want a beard like dads,” he said to me, staring into the mirror on the back of the closet door. I am laying on my bed, arm curled under my stomach as I look through a magazine meant for old men who missed having sex. I look up at him in disbelief.

“You shouldn't want to be like dad, Jimmy,” I say in a bitter tone. “He doesn't deserve that.”

“Oh stop. Dads trying as hard as he can. We both know that,” Jimmy responds, rubbing his empty haired chin. He leans backwards, still staring at himself in the mirror when he ruffles his slicked back hair. “I hate when mom does my hair like that.”

“I think it looks okay,” I mumble absentmindedly, when I flip to the picture of a tall blond woman in a light fuchsia bikini.

Her skin is smooth, the color of wet sand and allspice. I wipe my tongue across my chapped lips, the fat muscle prickling at the dry cavity of my throat. I know I am too young to be aroused by pictures like these but I can't help it. I like looking at them because both Jimmy and I know there is no one like her around here. Jimmy is two years older than me, sixteen, with broad shoulders and shaggy brown hair like dad. I got moms genes, short legs and lanky limbs with dirty blond hair that I always keep in a ponytail. I sigh heavily, my eyes criss crossing as I imagine the woman on the page being in the room with us, on the bed naked.

“Give me the magazine,” Jimmy ordered, walking up to me and holding out his hand expectantly. I glared at him for a minute or two before pushing the magazine towards him. Because we shared a room, I got to look through his prized magazines, under the condition that when he said I was done, I wouldn't argue. I wasn't sure whether glaring at him for a few minutes counted as arguing.

“You can't get distracted by that right now,” Jimmy said angrily as he tossed the magazine into the cabinet where the others were kept. He locked it with a tiny silver key kept on a cord around his neck. I scrunch my nose, wishing I could make a copy of the key, but he never took it off.

“I don't want to go with you guys,” I whined, tossing myself onto the pillows at the head of the bed. I lay may arm over my eyes, wanting to fall back asleep.

Jimmy grabbed my arm and pulled me off of the bed. I yelped when I hit the floor. Jumping up to my feet, I tried to grab for his hair but he dodged out of the way.

“Damn you!” I say through clenched teeth. Jimmy laughs and tosses a pair of jeans to me.

“Get dressed. I don't care if you wanna come or not. I want to introduce you to my friends. Don't worry, there won't be much to drink anyways,” Jimmy tries to reassure me.

I grumble to myself as I reluctantly pull on the dark blue jeans that are ripped at the knees. I drop a plain black tee-shirt over my bare chest and grab a pair of gray socks. Outside in the hall, I follow Jimmy to the front door where our boots are waiting. We throw on our identical army boots and spent several minutes tying them. I finish before Jimmy and took his hat down from the wooden coat pegs next to the door.

“Thanks,” he said, plopping the gray newsboy cap over his messy hair. “Here.”

From behind him he grabs a dark brown corduroy newsboy cap, the same style as his. He holds it out to me with a wide smile splitting his lips. “I got it just for you, Gabe.”

I take the hat from him and fit it over my ponytail. It is a perfect fit, covers my head comfortably without itching at my scalp. I match Jimmy's smile. “Thanks, bro.”

He blushes for a quick second before walking out onto the porch. I close the door behind me and follow him down the stained, broken steps to the yard covered in dirt and random plots of withered grass. I know what the house looks like behind us; paint peeling off a single story building with the river rushing next to it and the tree house hidden in the trees to the left. Jimmy runs through the woods, dodging tree trunks and I follow him as best I can, though I'm not as agile as him. I don't want to make a fool of myself so I concentrate on the forest floor, covered with browned pine needles and wet oak leaves.

“Come on!” Jimmy calls out, several feet in front of me.

We cross the creek using the old fallen log layered with sticky moss and Jimmy tosses a rock into the reddish water as we pass over it. Past the creek sits the abandoned car skeleton, a 1940's Plymouth Coupe whose tires are gone and whose belly has sunken halfway into the ground. I stare at it as we run by, wishing I could sit in it and listen to my CD player like I used to before I started middle school. I can hear the highway off in the distance and I wonder where Jimmy is leading me. I have my suspicions, the train tracks to the East, or maybe the abandoned playground on the edge of Graysonburg. Neither place sounds safe, even though I know Jimmy carries his knife with him any time he leaves the house. It's never far from his hand at home either.

The sun is starting to lower, casting ribbons of vermillion light through the trees onto the mud stained ground. My calves are aching, my breath is more labored than I wanted it to be. By the time Jimmy starts to slow his pace, I know we are headed to the playground. I can see the outline of Graysonburg through the brush, a mile or so away down the hill. The playground is dead ahead, its massive wooden structure rising up in the middle of the woods. No one plays there anymore, not since the new plastic one was built in the center of town. I once heard a parent at the Graysonburg elementary school talking about how the plastic was safer for the children to climb on. I remember laughing but I don't remember why.

Jimmy stops and hides behind a tree when the playground is close enough. He pulls me next to him, holding his finger to his lips. I shiver, the air getting colder than I thought it would, and I wish then that I had brought a jacket. Jimmy is watching the playground. There is nothing for a minute, only the windblown wood chips that cover the slide and the yellowed weeds wrapping around the teeter totter seats. The places creeps me out. I almost wish I could turn around and run back home, past the car and over the creek, but Jimmy would laugh at me. I would look like a coward. I clench my teeth, set my jaw straight, and wait to walk out until Jimmy sees his friends and waves to them. I walk a few feet behind him, giving him the space he needs to greet his high school friends. One of them is a redhead, with freckled cheeks and baggy waterproof camping pants. He has a goofy look to him, wild eyes and a crooked smile. The second has shaggy hair like Jimmy, but his is black. He has blue eyes and pale skin that stands out against the brown and green forest background. In his hand is a paper bag in the shape of a bottle.

Jimmy gives them each a weird handshake before turning towards me, his arm resting on the redheads shoulders. “Guys, this is my little brother, Gabe.”

I swallow my hesitation and give them a confident wave. “Nice to meet you.”

The black haired guy looks me over before he straightens his back. I bite my lip, unsure of what else to say. A quick glance at Jimmy tells me I am fine. I try to relax, keeping track of my breaths and wringing my hands together to try and disperse my anxiety.

“My names Scout,” the black haired boy says, then he nods towards the redhead. “And that goof is Richie.”

“Come on, lets drink,” Richie whines, grabbing for the bottle. Scout pulls it away from him, shaking his head.

“Uh ah. Newbie goes first,” he says, and Richie looks crestfallen. Jimmy laughs loudly and slaps Richie on the back of his head, making the red curls bounce back and forth.

“No, its okay, let him go first,” I say as I hold up my hands and shake my head. Jimmy grabs the bottle from Scout and holds it out to me.

“Come on, Gabe. Don't be a scaredy-cat,” he pushes the bottle towards me. I try not to take but when Jimmy goes to drop it, I have no choice but to grab it to keep it from falling and breaking open. I don't want Scout to get angry with me for wasting the alcohol. I don't know what kind it is but it doesn't matter, once Jimmy steps back and watches me expectantly. The pressure is mounting and I can't just stand here holding the bottle like a coward. All of their eyes are on me, making my skin itch. I unscrew the lid and put the bottle to my mouth, taking a swig before I can change my mind. The liquid burns my throat as it runs into my stomach. I cough but, thankfully, the liquid stays down. As much as I hate what I just did, I like the taste, and I like the slight warmth rising in my chest. I take a second swig and make a sour face as it goes down, more intense than the first sip.

I realize then that I don't trust myself to drink responsibly with Jimmy. I hold out the bottle and Scout takes it after he congratulates me with a slap on the back. I smile sheepishly.

“I like your little brother, Jimmy. He ain't afraid of getting drunk,” Richie says as he grabs the bottle from Scout and takes a long sip. When he pulls it away from his mouth he makes a whimpering noise, then smacks his lips together and sighs with obvious pleasure.

“That’s good stuff,” he says as he lets Jimmy taking a swig. I find it strange watching Jimmy drink. Part of me is wondering what he would be like when he is drunk. The other part of me is disgusted that Jimmy could love something that messes with his mind. Of course, I shudder when I remember how much I had liked it. I get the urge to take another sip. Scout hands it to me and I down another gulp before I hand it back, careful not to let it slip through my shaking hands.

The four of us go to sit on the swings, the rusty chains squeaking while we move them back and forth. The rest of the night, I let the older boys share the bottle, and soon Richie is completely drunk. I try to ignore his immature comments on my new hat and my lanky arms. Several times, Jimmy stands up for me, hitting Richie on the head whenever he pokes fun at me. The more Jimmy drinks, though, the more he lets the jokes slide.

I sit quietly and watch the three of them get wasted together. There are thin shadows of tree trunks stretching across the playgrounds structure. The wind has gotten heavier, and wispy clouds move quickly across the starless sky. I've given up listening to their meaningless conversations: there is no order to it, too much chaos for me to understand. I let their words trail into the wind that pulls on my ponytail. I feel my insides gurgling and I burp. Scout pats my back and leans onto my shoulder.

“That’s alcohol for you!” his words are slurred and I raise my eyebrows in surprise when his head falls into my lap. We sit on the ground, Scout staring at the night sky with his head hanging across my thighs. I am uncomfortable but I push it away for the sake of Jimmy. I don't want to seem hesitant to his friends, who I decide I like more when they are sober.

“Here,” Jimmy pushes the bottle towards me again. I take it and look at him with pity. I take another sip. The bottle is a lot lighter than it was before. For a split second, I think about pouring the rest of it onto the ground. I know it is bad for Jimmy to be drinking so much, even if he is used to it. I also knew that there would be hell if our dad found out. I don't want Jimmy to get in trouble again. Before I can empty the bottle, Richie grabs it and drinks more.

“Damn it,” I whisper. Scout lets loose an airy laugh, accidentally poking me in the cheek. I swat his hand away angrily.

From across the playground, I see flashlights scouring the ground. My eyes widen and my breath quickens. “Jimmy, look.”

Jimmy squints in the direction I'm looking in. When I see the look of terror on his face, I want to cry. “What do we do?”

“Who's there?” an older, gruff voice calls out. “If it's you damn kids again, I swear I'll throw you in jail for a month!”

Richie, Jimmy and Scout all try to stand. At any other time, I would have laughed at the spectacle. “Gabe, run,” Jimmy says as he pushes me away from them.

“I won't leave you,” I argue, stubbornly. The flashlights are flickering in my peripheral vision. Jimmy shoves me towards the woods once I'm standing. I don't remember standing.

“Don't stop until you're home,” he slurs, then I am running back into the woods where we came from. I am tumbling past tree trunks and stepping into puddles of mud, hoping no snakes bite me and no branches knock me out because I am blind from the darkness. I think I am crying, too.

***

I'm pretty sure I don't know what it feels like to let go. He died a few months ago but I still see his face in the pies our mom bakes and sometimes in the clouds. His eyes are always closed when I see him, so I can't remember their color. Maybe they were gray-blue, or a light grass stain green, but I like to imagine they were gold. I know he had his own problems, addictions he always tried to force on me, but I prefer to think of him as perfect. I don't understand how I could think bad of him now that he's dead. It would be selfish.

***

Its snowing outside, the river is frozen over and the kitchen window reminds me of a kaleidoscope made from ice crystals. I sit at the table, working on English homework as my mom bakes cookies for my dads birthday. The smell distracts me, making my mouth water and my mind wander from Shakespeare and his strange plays to the food my dad doesn't deserve. I blink once, twice, then clench my hand and snap my pencil in half. My mom jumps and lets out a little yelp from surprise.

“Gabe!” she exclaims.

“Sorry, mom,” I apologize, then blurt out, “Why do you spend time trying to make him happy when we all know it won't work?”

She leans over the sink and shakes her head. “Gabe, your father is a good man.”

“I'd beg to differ,” I murmur.

“Watch your mouth,” she says sternly as she looks over at me with acid in her eyes.

“Yeah, Gabe, watch that babbling mouth of yours,” Jimmy walks into the kitchen, happier than normal. He spins across the tiny kitchen and pecks our mom on the cheek with a quick kiss.

“Whats with you?” I ask him, watching as he floats around the room with a giddy smile on his face. My words make him stop and shake his head. He appears crestfallen.

“Can't I just be happy?” he says, hurt by my comment. I chuckle to myself, closing my English book, tired from trying and failing to understand Shakespeare. Our mom pulls the first batch of cookies out of the oven and places them on the stove to cool. She crosses the room and grabs the second tray of uncooked cookies and puts them into the oven. When she opens the oven door a third time, my mouth waters again and Jimmy's eyes widen.

“Can I have one?” Jimmy pleads, staring at the tray on the stove. He moves to grab one but mom slaps his hand away. I can't help but laugh and Jimmy glares at me.

“These are for your father. Don't touch them,” her eyes are playful but her hand is poised to slap him again if he tries for the cookies. Jimmy holds up his hands in defeat.

“Fine,” he says as he walks out of the kitchen. I sit, watching the backyard as it piles with a light dusting of snow. Past it stands the woods, with ghostly trees whose branches are covered with ice and heavy accumulated snow. Here and there a pine tree pops out from between the snowy branches. I smile, remembering that somethings don't die in winter. I lay my head in my cupped hand, knowing my eyes are getting clouded from staring at nothing for too long.

“If you aren't going to do your homework, go out and shovel. And tell Jimmy I said he needs to help you,” mom says to me, breaking me out of my absentminded daydreaming.

“Okay,” I say complacently. I gather my homework and bring it to my room to dump them on my bed. Jimmy is there on his bed, reading a magazine with a brunette cover girl wearing only a black lace bra and a thong. His eyes flicker up at me, then back down at the book.

“Shoveling?” he asks.

“Yep,” I answer as I pull on my snow pants and my ugly Christmas sweatshirt covered with reindeer that light up red and green. I slip my coat on over the hideous sweater and grab my boots from the front door. Out in the garage I find the shovels and grab a random one with a blue handle. Jimmy joins me a few minutes later, in jeans and a light jacket.

“Dude, you;re gonna freeze,” I exclaim, thinking him crazy.

“We aren't gonna be out here too long, Gabe. I'll be fine,” Jimmy answers as he grabs a green handled shovel. He comes to stand next to me and we work together, our movements synchronized as we make our way down what little driveway we have. The truck is gone, dad having left for work earlier in the morning. Moms beat up jeep was surrounded by a foot of snow that Jimmy and I shoveled away after the rest of the driveway was finished. The snow made my hair wet, and it got worse when a snowball barreled down the back of my neck. I turn around and see Jimmy working quietly, shoveling an already shoveled section of the yard.

I stick my shovel into a snowdrift behind moms car and sneak up behind him, lifting it and pouring it over his head. He half screams, half laughs and breaks into a dance, trying to fling the freezing powder off of himself. He comes after me with another snowball and I run from him. My snow pants are baggy, though, and I trip and face plant in the yard, on top of a pile of another snowdrift. Jimmy has too much momentum and flies over me, laughs as he lands on his behind a foot away. I spit snow out of my mouth, unable to breath from the laughs coming from my gut. Jimmy is laughing where he is squatted and I climb up from the snow, ungracefully doubled over from laughter.

“You're getting a little red, Gabe,” Jimmy pokes fun at my blush, making me turn a shade brighter. I use the car to balance myself until the hysteria subsides. Jimmy is next to me, leaning against the car. He looks concerned, but he isn't looking at me, he is looking just past my right ear.

“Dad is gonna come home late tonight,” he says. I nod, already aware of dads patterns for the past few weeks. “Can you stay up and be there for mom?”

“Why can't you?” I ask, out of frustration. I was always the one comforting mom when dad treated her like dirt. Jimmy was never there for her. I hate being frustrated with him, especially when he is the one dad focuses on whenever he's angry. But Jimmy uses it as an excuse, and it can't be like that forever. I know that.

“I'm not good with emotions,” Jimmy lies.

“Bullshit, man. You gotta grow up soon. I'm not always gonna be here to protect her,” I say to him. He looks away and walks inside, slamming the door behind him. I toss the shovels into the garage and strip my snow-covered clothes before I head inside. For a moment I think about going after him. Instead, I sit down on the ugly floral pink and lime green couch and flip the TV to the national geographic channel. I fall asleep at some point, dreaming of nothing but geese flying in circles, unable to find their way back home. Dream worlds are quiet, which helps to quiet my anxiety. When I wake, mom is sitting in the kitchen with the light flickering on and off. It is dark outside, the yellowed moon just visible through the trees in the backyard. The house is cold and when I exhale there is a puff of silver smoke that escapes through my clenched teeth. There is a blanket on me, most likely placed there by my mom. I stand and walk into the kitchen. Mom is sitting with her head in her hands, I can't see her eyes but my instincts say she is crying. I wonder what time it is. I want to say something to her but I don't know what to say, and I'm sure that there is nothing that would change the way she feels. I slide the blanket off of my shoulders and onto hers. My hand lingers on her shoulder, then I walk away towards mine and Jimmy's room.

Behind me, I hear the door jingle open as my dad stumbles inside the house. He follows me down the hall. My fists are clenched, I tell myself I am ready if he tries anything. Outside the room, I see Jimmy waiting. My chest is heavy, like there is a weight pulling me towards the floor. I pass Jimmy and walk into our room. He shuts the door for me and I feel sick to my stomach that I'm hiding behind a door while Jimmy deals with our dad.

“Time for bed, dad,” Jimmy says, his words confident.

There is shuffling in the hall, shuffling that slowly makes its way down to mom and dads room at the end of the hall. I don;t hear anything for a while. I want to get up and get ready for bed but I can't will myself to move once I sit down on my bed. I let my head fall backwards onto the pillow and lie awake until the door opens and the room is flooded with light for a second. The light is gone then and his bed creaks. I want to say something to him, but I don't know what to say. My fists unclench and my jaw goes slack and finally I can fall asleep but I don't. Jimmy's breathing keeps me awake through the night because it's labored and I spend hours imagining the bruises he will hide from me tomorrow.

***

Once, he called our dad selfish. I remember because the next day, our dad decided to divorce our mom. It wasn't out of the blue, I had seen it coming a long time before it happened. But he never wanted it to happen. He had this crazy notion that someday our parents would learn to love again. I hear his voice sometimes when I'm working, or when I'm on my morning run across central park. Sometimes he says things like that, then sometimes he says sorry, or that he wished he had listened to me more. Once, he swore I taught him how to love.

***

I stand by the side of the road, leaning on the top of an orange fire hydrant. It's Spring, the ground muddy and covered with deteriorating leaves and garbage leftover from last fall. I twiddle my thumbs together, waiting for dad to pull up in front of the school with his old, beat up pick up truck. There is a single red traffic light blinking on and off at the corner of the road. I count the second in between the blinks to pass time. My toes absentmindedly dig at the mud under my feet. My legs hurt from standing so long. School let out two hours ago and still my dad had not shown up. I could appreciate lateness, but not when it keeps getting worse the more responsibility the latecomer is given. I decide to take the motorcycle Jimmy left behind to school from now on, when my dad drives up to the curb, scraping the side of the truck on the concrete. I roll my eyes and open the drivers side door.

“Move over,” I order him with a measure of confidence. He smells like whiskey. There are obvious alcohol stains on his shirt and his hands are shaking. He glares at me before grumbling and scooting over to let me take the drivers seat. I've just gotten my license, and I'm still getting sued to the feeling of driving a car with so much meat on it. I still feel like the truck is a giant hunk of metal, just asking to be tipped on its side while my drunken dad is trying to drive it.

We make it home easily with my steady hands on the wheel and my large feet poised over the brakes. I jump out of the truck, landing in a puddle of greenish brown water that soaks into the bottom of me jeans. I swear under my breath and slam the door shut, making my way into the house and leaving the door ajar for my dad. In the kitchen I see our sink is full of empty plates and beer bottles and I am disgusted. My dad stumbles through the door and I point him to the couch, where he plops down and throws his arm over his face.

“I'm gonna clean the kitchen, then I’ll make us dinner, okay?” I say to him. I stand over him waiting for an answer. When he doesn't give one, I take a pillow from the end of the couch and hit him with it. He makes a move to catch it but his arms are working slower than he thought and he misses by a foot. I look down on him, refusing to pity him.

“Your mother can cook,” he mumbles after turning away from me. I humph and toss the pillow on top of him.

“Mom's gone, remember? She and Jimmy moved out,” I remind him for the hundredth hundredth time. I walk into the kitchen and pick his beer bottles and empty whiskey containers out from the sink, stacking them on the counter. I turn the water on high and hot and I start to wash the dirty dishes that have been sitting there for days.

“I want spaghetti,” dad calls from the couch in the next room.

“You get whatever I cook,” I call back, hearing him mumbling to himself. He does that a lot now, talk to himself when he think I can't hear him. I chuckle to myself as I wash the dishes. He thinks I don't notice a lot of things.

When the sink is empty, I make a few trips to the recycling bin outside and deliver the beer bottles to it. I fight to grab the broom from behind the fridge, then I sweep until there are no more hair balls and broken glass in the corner of the room. I do a quick run through of the cabinets and put everything in its right spot, in the places mom taught me before she left. I stop and look out the window. I thought I saw Jimmy waving from the road, but a second glance revealed it to be nothing but my imagination and maybe the wind. Leaves were blowing across the yard, sometimes getting stuck in the patches of mud interspersed with the flat grassy areas. I have a urge to bake cookies like my mom used to, but she never taught me how and she took all of her recipes with her. I remember sitting at the table, waiting for her chocolate chip cookies to be done cooling off so I could steal a few before bed. I shake my head and tell myself to live in the moment. Wishing is a dangerous business, I've learned, since mom and Jimmy left. Sometimes I wish I had left Jimmy with dad. We both knew Jimmy was better dealing with dad and I was better with mom. I realized just before we left that I couldn't leave Jimmy with dad and not feel guilty. All of us, even dad to some degree, knew it would be safer for Jimmy to go with mom. When he refused, I had to manipulate him, I had to be the trickster for once and I will always regret what I did, but it worked.

Dad comes in and sits down at the kitchen table while I am cooking dinner, a simple chicken and rice casserole. He leans his chin onto the table and stares at me while I work. I try my best to ignore him as I place the casserole dish into the oven and set the timer for twenty minutes. I sit across from him and look him right in the eyes, my own face emotionless. He is sobering up, I can tell by the slight recognition that crosses his face while I inspect him.

“There is something I need to tell you, Gabe,” he begins, just before the doorbell rings and my gaze falters.

“Who's that?” I ask sternly. Dad smiles and jumps up from the chair, rushing to open the door. My eyebrow raises when he tries to smooth the hairs of his mustache. He opens the door. A tall blond woman walks inside the house and throws herself onto my dad. They smack lips for a while before he pries her off and closes the door. The woman is young, with an obvious fake tan and obnoxious silver jewelry and white blouse tied around her flat belly. Her hand is clasping my dads, dragging him over to where I sit. When they are standing in front of me, I stand slowly, unsure of what this is, or what to expect.

“This is Becca,” my dad introduces her. She holds out her hand and I don't take it.

“How long have you two been seeing each other?” I ask.

“A few months,” Becca answers with a husky, smokers voice. She leans her head onto my dads shoulder, giggling as she continues, “We're getting married.”

I recoil.

“What?” I say coldly, whipping my head to my dad, whose face is innocent, cheeks pulled up like a child who has told their first lie. “How long after mom left did you start seeing her?”

“Oh I don't know, maybe, a month?” my dad answers hesitantly. He is hoping it is a good enough answer for me but it isn't.

“You aren't getting married,” I say, prying Becca off of my dads shoulder. She doesn’t fight my grip, instead seems to like it when I touch her. I scrunch my nose and quickly take my hand off of her shoulder, rubbing my fingers to clean them off as well as I can. My dad grabs my forearm and pulls be to face him. We are close together and I don't trust him.

“I promised you I would do better. I'm changing. I'm moving on. Don't you see? That's the best thing we can do, Gabe,” he explains. My eyes go wide.

“The best you could do is try to get mom back. To treat her like she deserves. She said she will wait for you,” I argue, pulling my arm away from him.

“She isn't worth my time anymore. Becca is,” he leans over and sticks his tongue inside Becca's mouth and they start groping each other in front of me. I push past them, having made up my mind to walk out. I realize now, he was never going to change. I don't know where I'll go, just anywhere away from here.

“Where are you going?” dad calls as I make my way down the hall. I throw some clothes into a dufflebag, along with my toothbrush and my computer. When I turn, my dad is standing in the doorway, Becca not by his side.

“You choose, dad. Her or me. If you are going to forget mom like that, there is no reason for me to hang around,” I give him an ultimatum, but I already know where it is going to end up.

“But I love you,” he says in as best a sincere tone he can muster. It does not convince me. I push past him.

“Lets agree not to lie to each other,” I say on my way to the door. I throw my shoes and notice Becca taking the casserole out of the oven. There is a hand on my back and I turn violently, tossing him back a few feet. He honestly looks hurt but I know I can't let that keep me here. If I stay, I'll be stuck forever. I open the door and walk out into the muggy Spring air.

“She'll be a great wife for you,” I call as I jump onto Jimmy's motorcycle, start it and pull away from the house without looking back as I wind down the twisting roads, intending to drive until the gas runs out.

I stop driving around midnight when I see motel lights flickering ahead. I pull into the lot and turn off the bike, and when I do I feel dried tears in my eyes. I flip open my phone and dial Jimmy's number. My hands shake when I hear his voice.

“Gabe?”

“Can you come meet me at the Motel Six on route 29? I'll text you my room number,” I say, my throat closing from the need to sob.

“Yeah. I'll be there in a few,” he agrees. I hang up the phone, take the duffel bag with me into the tiny room where the owner of the motel sits watching a soccer game. We have a quick conversation that end with a key in my hand to room number 13. I walk down the line of motel rooms until I reach thirteen. Opening the door, I toss my bag onto the floor and text Jimmy the number 13, then I face plant on the bed, waiting for him to get there. It isn't long before a knock comes at the door and I mumble for them to walk in. Jimmy bursts in and comes to my side. I sit up, looking over him. He is wearing jeans and a Greenday shirt. He is wearing his signature gray newsboy cap and I start crying when I realize I forgot to grab mine back at the house. Jimmy leans into me and lets me cry on him. His shirt is itchy and scrapes at my cheek but I find I don't care. My sobs come as quick breaths and soon the tears are all gone. It is the most I've ever cried in front of him.

“What happened?” Jimmy asks when we part.

“Dad's getting remarried. Doesn't give a shit about mom. Never did. So I left,” I say as I try to pull myself together. Jimmy stays quiet like usual, not knowing what to say to make me feel better. Having him there is enough, I convince myself.

“Gabe, you okay with me smoking some weed in here?” Jimmy asks.

“Since when did you start smoking pot?” I ask, confused.

“When I left with mom. I found some new friends who have an easy supply of it, so I get it a lot. It really calms you down. You want some?” he asks me. I bite my lip because I don't want him there anymore. I shake my head and he shrugs.

“Could you do it outside? I don't think they allow smoking in here,” I say to get him out of the room. I think about going with him because as much as I don't want to smoke, I don't want to be alone, either.

“Only if you come with me,” he sighs heavily. I follow him out the doorway to stand in the parking lot of the dark motel. All of the lights are turned off, making it easy to see the clouds passing over the half moon. There are a few stars out, shining through the layers of night that make it so hard for me to dream. There is a slight breeze coming from the left, and I stand in its way to avoid the smoke rolling out of Jimmy's mouth.

“How's mom?” I ask quietly.

“Very good. She's got a boyfriend.”

I look over at Jimmy and he senses me. “Don't worry, she only met him a month or so ago.”

His voice is monotone, so I can't tell if he is lying or not. He was always good at lying. On the black pavement there are flattened worms, some still alive and wiggling, trying to get back to the dirt across the lot. The air is heavy with the smell of old rain and dead worms, makes my stomach flip. I wish I could help the poor creatures, but there are too many of them already dead and it makes me want to cry again. I hold back my tears as best I can. When the wind changes course, Jimmy's smoke rolls over my face and I cough and sputter.

“God, man, that stuff smells terrible,” I say with my arm over my nostrils to block out the stink. Jimmy laughs.

“I know,” he replies, taking another puff from the joint.

“Does mom know?” I ask.

“No.”

I roll my eyes. “You should tell her.”

“She doesn't need that kind of stress,” Jimmy says, refuting what I am telling him. It is a lost cause, but I decide to try again.

“She should know.”

“Yeah, she should. But she won't. She already has too much on her plate, with her plans to move to New York City.”

I raise my eyebrows and shuffle my feet. I have an image in my head of mom standing on the corner of a street in a city, getting mugged by a man with a black mask, unable to defend herself. I think of Jimmy and the knife he always keeps in his pocket. “You gonna go with her?”

He is quiet for a minute, exhaling a miniature cloud of yellowish smoke. This time, it flies off towards the treeline across the lot and we watch it disappear into the shadowed leaves. The wind catches the down turned leaves, making a soft rustling noise that sparks a shiver down the back of my legs. “I don't want to, but I will.”

“Can I come?” I ask quietly. I feel Jimmy's eyes on me and I grimace.

“Of course you can. Mom will be happy to see you,” he says excitedly as he slaps me on the back. I am relieved when he takes another puff from the joint and tosses it to the ground, flattening it with his foot, making it blend into the pavement like the worms bodies do.

***

He loved the vastness of stars. He would lay with me on the roof of our tiny New York City apartment, staring up at the sky, calling out excitedly whenever he saw the tail of a shooting star. Now, I sit out on my roof with Anna and I pretend he is there with us, maybe drunk, maybe high, but always awake enough to point at the ghostly image of mars off in the distance, just a little red pinprick in the sky.

***

I leave the office early, my coat hung over my arm and my briefcase tucked under it. In the briefcase is an assortment of papers I need to sign when I get home later, and I dread the hour I will spend reading the fine print at the bottom of the stark, white sheets. It is mid afternoon and the sun is shining in through the wide windows lining the front lobby of the building. The closer I get to the doors, the louder the sounds of the city get, tires scraping across the streets and homeless men trying to get money from tourists, then the chatterbox hot dog carts set up at the corner of each street. The grates on the sidewalks give breathing room for the Subway tracks running under them. I never walk over the grates, they give me too much anxiety. Past the massive glass doors waits traffic light, where I cross the street while waving down a taxi parked on the other side. I slide in, tossing my coat and briefcase to the side, and tell the man to drive me to 37 North Terrace Avenue in Mt. Vernon, right outside Manhattan.

It takes an hour and a half to drive there. I dish out the money for the taxi driver and he drives away, disappearing down the busy little side street. I turn to face the yellow and white house and take a deep breath. I haven't seen mom in a few weeks, haven't seen Jimmy in a few months because I've been too busy with work.

I walk up the stairs and wait on the porch after I ring the doorbell. For a few seconds, I wonder if no one is there, then the door opens and I see mom in a short yellow dress covered with a lavender colored star pattern. Her hair is long, up in a messy pony tail like mine always is. She opens the screen door and hold out her arms.

“Oh, Gabe, why do you always wait so long to come visit me?” she exclaims as she pulls me into a tight hug. I am careful not to crowd her swollen belly. She leads me into the house and shuts the door behind me. I am taller than her now, by a foot and a half.

“When is she due?” I ask, ignoring my moms earlier question.

“Few weeks from now,” she says, rubbing her hand over her massive stomach. “I'm going to miss the weight, I think.”

“Have you picked a name?”

“I want to call her Virginia,” mom says as a matter of fact.

“Its a good name,” I say, nodding my head in acceptance of her choice.

“Jimmy is upstairs, repainting the guest room for the baby. Why don't you go help him and I'll make us some cookies,” she suggests. I make my way up the stairs, getting distracted by the pictures that line the walls. They are pictures of Jimmy and me, only a few of them have dad showing, and only because mom couldn't pass up the faces Jimmy and I were making in them. I smile, remembering back to the days when Jimmy and I would play our CD players in the skeleton of the 1940 Plymouth Coupe just past the creek. I loved that car so much and I still do, but there were never any pictures taken of it, so it only rests in mine and Jimmy's memories. I know someday we will forget what it looked like. Someday I will forget the creek and the hallway in the old house, and I will forget dad. I've already started.

I knock on the open door to the old guest room, where Jimmy is busy painting the far wall a shade of light purple, almost lilac. He turns, his face splattered with dollops of purple paint. A smile spreads across his face.

“Gabe! Long time no see. Why don't you change out of that suit and help me paint? You can borrow some of my clothes,” Jimmy says while tossing me a handful of clothes that were piled in the corner of the room. I change in the bathroom, taking off my jacket and tie and throwing on a ratty white tee-shit with the Jack Daniels logo on it. I replace my nice pants with a pair of gray sweats.

Back in the room, Jimmy is using the rolling pin to cover the white primer with the purple. I take a small paintbrush and start working on the trim. There is tape laid down so I won't be able to mess up the nice white trim with the purple paint. I make my way around the room and by the time we are done, I realize Jimmy and I have barely spoken. We clean the paint brushes in the bathroom sink and head downstairs to sit with mom in the kitchen. I stop him on the stairs.

“Remember the old car?” I say quietly. He is looking through the pictures.

“And the wooden playground?” Jimmy laughs softly. “Feel like so long ago.”

“You still drinking and doing pot?” I ask hesitantly, waiting patiently for his answer. I want him to be truthful with me.

“Hell yeah,” he says confidently. I am relieved he didn't lie, but I find myself worrying for his safety.

“Just don't go overboard with it, Jimmy, okay?”

“That ship sailed a while ago,” he answers before he jumps down the rest of the stairs and leaves me alone to wonder what he meant and if he was going to be okay. Sometimes he doesn't talk to me for weeks at a time, and I am starting to wonder what he does in those free moments he seems to have so often.

I make my way downstairs and join mom and Jimmy on the couch in the living room. The house smells like cookies and my mouth starts to water. I realize I haven't eaten all day. When the timer rings for the cookies, mom makes to stand. I wave her down. “I'll grab them,” I say.

She smiles sheepishly, “Thanks, honey.”

I go to the oven and pull the tray out, laying it on the stove to cool down. When I join them in the living room again, they are talking about me.

“He seems lonely,” mom says when I walk in.

“I'm not lonely,” I argue, sitting down with a loud plop. I grab a pillow to lean on.

“Oh stop denying it, its obvious,” she says sternly and Jimmy laughs. I feel myself flush red. “So Jimmy and I set you up on a date with a friend of his.”

I roll my eyes. “Guys, I don't have time to date. I have work to concentrate on.”

“You don't have a choice. You're meeting her in Central park today,” Jimmy says. I sigh heavily, annoyed that their attempt to set me up for the third time. I've never had a girlfriend and I am content to keep it that way, at least until I find myself more financially stable.

“Tel me about her,” I say offhandedly.

“Her name is Anna and she is slightly chubby, but still very beautiful. She has short brown hair that curls at the bottom. She likes to wear skirts and boots. She is obsessed with trains and reading books,” Jimmy gives a quick description of the girl.

“And she's a writer,” mom adds. I try to imagine her, but by now I've learned that it isn't a good idea to have an idea of who she is in my head before I meet her. I did that for the first girl but she didn't live up to the woman in my head that I thought she was, so it didn't work out. I tell myself I didn't hear what they just told me. I only know her name, I tell myself. Anna.

Jimmy looks at his watch. “Time to go, Gabe. Go get dressed, but lose the coat, it makes you look boring as fuck.”

“Watch your language,” mom snaps at Jimmy. Jimmy grumbles to himself, reminding me of dad. I run upstairs and grab my stuff, leaving the coat hanging on the bathroom door. Mom will send it to me later at some point. I skip down the stairs and snatch a few cookies. At the door, I see Jimmy has waved down a taxi, and mom is waiting for me. She hands me a bouquet of flowers and a piece of mint gum, then she pull me in for a hug. We stay like that for a bit, until Jimmy calls for me to hurry up.

“Good luck,” mom says with a thick throat as I walk out of the tiny yellow house. Her belly felt more bloated than earlier and I pray that nothing is wrong as I sit in the yellow cab and wave goodbye to her as we speed away down the street. Jimmy slaps my arm to get my attention.

“What?” I snap. He doesn't have to hit me to talk to me.

“Here is some money for you to get home whenever you and Anna are done,” he hands me a wad of three twenty dollar bills. When I don't take them from him, he stuffs them into my shirt pocket.

“You don't have to do that,” I say, cocking my head to the right.

“Yeah, I kinda do. You've made it farther than I ever will. Your life means something, mine doesn't. This is the most I can do,” he says, showing me an extremely vulnerable side of himself. I am confused why, and I know there will never be the right time to ask why. He is more emotional than I ever gave him credit for.

The rest of the ride we spend in silence, staring out the windows at the city passing by like a mirage. Both of us are daydreaming and I wonder what his are about. When the taxi rolls to a stop, I open the door and step out onto the dirty sidewalk covered with old gum and oil splatters. Jimmy calls to me from inside the cab. “She'll be waiting for you at Belvedere Castle, wearing a red scarf. And Gabe? Have some damn good sex with her. She needs it!”

I laugh and close the door on him. I'm unsure where Belvedere Castle is, but I ask a few people and they point me in the right direction. When I see the massive stone structure, I am awestruck by its beauty. It makes me think of those castles that are in Irish and English documentaries. This is the closest I will ever get to a real castle, and I'm glad for the opportunity. On the edge of one of the walls I see a girl wearing a red scarf, the closer I get to her, the more beautiful she gets. Her body is average, not skinny but not fat. She is wearing a white blouse with a multicolored skirt that hangs to her knees, with the red scarf tied around her neck. She has a leather purse hanging over her shoulder. I walk up behind her.

“Anna?” I ask, scared to meet the girl in front of me. Every time I talk to girls, I freeze, I never know what to say. She turns to me, her smile cute and crooked across her full, pink lips.

“And you must be Gabe,” she holds out her hand and I take it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” I swallow hard, nervously. My heart is fluttering and I half-wonder if I'm having a heart attack. Anna laughs.

“Don't worry, I don't bite,” she says. I find her voice soothing, not quiet melodic, just soft enough for it to make my ears ring in a good way. She takes me by the arm and leads me around the castle. “I love this place. Such amazing architecture and the stones just make me shiver. Imagine the hands that had to put this castle together. Imagine all the feet that have stepped where we are stepping. Isn't it just magical?”

We spend the evening in the castle. Anna does most of the talking while I sit and listen to her, wide-eyed. Its like she is a storyteller and I am a child listening to her words as she builds a world so unlike our own for us to spend the night in. When the sun is gone, and the castle stones are cold, she asks if I want to go home. I look at my watch and I find the spell has broken. I am back in the world, not wanting to go to work the next day, dreading the hour of paperwork I have to do.

“Do you want to come home with me?” I ask her, trying to sound excited and lustful. She turns to me and puts her finger over my mouth.

“Don't offer something you don't want to do,” she whispers. She starts to walk away. I let her go a little ways then I blink once, twice, and call her name.

“Anna?”

“Yes?” she answers, turning to face me while walking backwards.

“Do you want to get coffee with me tomorrow?” I call out.

“Of course!” she yells back, far away now. She leans over to grab a stick and writes something onto the ground. She reminds me of a fairy without wings, not perfect but perfect for me. When she finishes writing she calls goodnight to me, then grabs a taxi and I watch it drive away down the busy city street. I miss her already as I run to where she wrote in the dirt and I laugh, seeing her phone number etched between the blades of grass. Tiny lavender flowers grow around the numbers, as if they were meant to be written there by her this night.

I enter the number into my phone, and notice that Jimmy had called me twice earlier. He left a voice mail and I click it, putting the phone close to my ear because the cars on the street behind me make a ruckus.

“Mom lost the baby,” I hear. I am crying, then.

***

The idea of death used to scare me. Our Grandpa died when we were little, and when he saw our Grandpa's dead body in the casket, he touched it. I couldn't bring myself to do the same, I just remember mumbling a prayer and leaving as soon as I could. When I saw his body, at his funeral a few months ago, I pretended he was sleeping. It made it easier. I know he would have laughed but I think I wouldn't have cared. I didn't want to let go of him. Sometimes when I'm hugging Anna, I imagine I'm hugging him instead.

***

I sit at the bar, swirling the blue whiskey around and around in the little glass cup. I down it in one gulp, the way Jimmy taught me to when we were younger. My hand flies up, getting the fat man to pour me another glass of blue whiskey. It is my favorite alcohol, I've decided. It was dads favorite too, and once, I called Scout to find out what the drink was that we shared on the playground the night they got arrested. He said it was blue whiskey. I wonder what Jimmy would say, seeing me drinking at a bar because he's dead. Maybe he would roll his eyes, maybe he would laugh but I think he would join me, getting a shot for himself because he didn't want to be dead yet. I imagine he would say that it would be for the better.

The bell on the door jingles. Anna's face appears next to me. Her hair is curled and she is wearing a short black dress and high heels. I am in a suit with a black tie, a black shirt and black pants. I hate wearing the color black because it reminds me of death. Anna takes my clean shaven chin in her hand and presses her lips against mine softly. When she pulls away, the ring I put on her finger a few years ago is slipping. I push it back to where it is supposed to be. She nods and helps me up from the seat.

The funeral parlor isn't too far away, and when we get there, mom is crying. I don't move to hug her and she sees me and understands. In the corner of the room I see my dad, head down on the pew in front of him, no Becca at his side. It looks like he is crying and I don't care. The casket is on a table in the front of the room. I walk up to it and Anna leaves me, giving me a moment alone with Jimmy. Looking down into the box, he looks like he is sleeping. I tell myself that he is, that true loves kiss could break it. He never fell in love, though.

There is nothing I can say to him, just like all those years when I never spoke up after he led our drunken dad to bed. I wring my hands together and sit back down with Anna. The funeral rolls by in a blur, a mirage like the city was whenever I took a taxi. I felt like I wasn't really there, Anna's hand in mine felt like play dough and I couldn't remember how to cry. I make my speech and people clap but it all feels meaningless. Anna tells me that he will always be a part of me, but that the pain will need a lot of time to fade. She says even then, it will be like a thorn in my side, always there and unable to be pulled out.

After it is done, and people are filtering out to drive to the cemetery, mom stops me in the lobby. The door is open, blowing cold, autumn air against our skin. Leaves tumble across the floor as the casket is carried to the black funeral car.

“He would have wanted you to have this,” she says softly as she pulls his gray newsboy cap from her purse. She hesitates, then places the cap over my hair. In the process, the band holding my hair in its pony tail snaps and drifts to the floor. My hair sprays across my shoulders and I find that the cap is itchy but I don't mind the itchiness anymore.

***

Anna had twins a year after the funeral. It didn't take long for us to pick the names, Virginia and James. Sometimes when I talk to them, I pretend I am talking to you. I think once a few years go by, you will slip away, be only a memory, just like the old 1940's Plymouth Coupe in the forest past our creek.