Ten Thousand Saints

Fifteen





Eliza,” Harriet said, “it’s nearly one o’clock.”

Eliza rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. She was in Prudence’s bed, not the trundle, which Harriet had finally insisted on, for the baby’s sake.

“I think the lettuce is ready to be picked. Should we make a salad for lunch?”

“I’m not hungry,” Eliza said, and then cutting Harriet off, “the baby isn’t hungry, either.”

Harriet sat down on the edge of the mattress. She didn’t have the energy to do this again, to assemble the mystical code of words that would get this child out of bed.

“What do you think he’s doing down there?”

“Down where, honey?”

“Johnny, down in New York. It’s been like two weeks.”

“Should we call him?” Harriet suggested brightly.

“I did. There was no answer at Rooster’s.”

Harriet folded her hands in her lap. For years, before she herself became pregnant, she had hated the sight of pregnant women. She had imagined they were all members of the same smug sisterhood, waddling down the aisles of the supermarket, blissed out on their own estrogen. She had never known a pregnant woman who did not want to be pregnant. She wondered now if this is how Jude’s mother had spent her nine months.

“Eliza, I think it’s time we got you to a doctor. Sooner or later, your mother’s going to come for you.”

Eliza said nothing. She lay her arms across her eyes. The cat that had followed Harriet into the room hopped up onto the bed and nestled into Eliza’s armpit, and Eliza reached blindly to pet its head. Harriet did not have a pamphlet. She had nothing to leave behind.

Wasn’t there new medication? Johnny asked. Wasn’t there treatment? But Rooster couldn’t possibly afford it. Even if he could, Rooster wondered, would taking AZT weaken his straight edge credibility?

“True till death,” he tried to joke, stroking the letters tattooed across Johnny’s chest. Rooster’s cheekbone, sharp as an arrowhead now, gouged Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny didn’t laugh.

Rooster was right—it was the waiting. To distract himself, Johnny thought of the baby. Up, up, up, busy, busy, busy, that was the trick. The baby was already an angel, Teddy’s golden-winged redemption, and now maybe it would be Johnny’s, too. In three months, Johnny would be a father. His name would be on the birth certificate. John Martin McNicholas. No matter that it wasn’t true or that one-third of the name was invented. All names at some point were invented. They would invent a name for the baby. The baby would be invented, too.

Johnny rolled over onto his elbow and said, “How do you find out the name of someone’s father?”

“Someone?” Rooster said.

Johnny had been thinking lately about Ravi, where he was, who he was. He was the only other person, besides their worthless mother, who would be related to the baby. If Johnny was sick, Ravi would be the only one. Surely Ravi was alive. Why else would Queen Bea have bolted after Johnny clued her into Teddy’s plans? What staggered Johnny was that he was the one who had scared her away, as though she believed Johnny could magically produce Teddy’s father if he put his mind to it. The only useful information he remembered about Ravi was his first name and that at one point he’d lived in Miami.

But what if he could find him? Wouldn’t Teddy want him to? If Queen Bea was so scared, maybe it would be easier than he thought.

“Vital Statistics?” said Rooster.

“Vital Statistics,” said Johnny. Of course.

And the next morning Rooster and Johnny went to the Forty-second Street library and located the proper wing and the proper directory and endured the bespectacled librarians’ stares at their shaved heads and tattoos—“Can we help you?” Rooster asked one—and found the proper phone number for the Dade County Department of Health, and provided the Social Security number for Edward Alvin Michaels, birth date 5/13/72. The next day, he mailed in a copy of the death certificate, and one week later, in Rooster’s mailbox, there was Teddy’s birth certificate, an even exchange. And there was the name.

Father: Ravi Milan.

They were just returning from the clinic, where Rooster had sat next to Johnny while he received another answer he’d been waiting for.

Negative.

Now Rooster gave him a tentative pat on the back. “See? Both good news.”

But Johnny stood frozen in the lobby, the mailbox door swung open, Rooster’s heavy keys hanging from the lock as though they might drop at any second.

One of you must have seen him around. You go to school with him.”

Jude’s basement was crammed with the guys who’d stayed after practice. That’s what they’d been doing: practicing. They were ready for something bigger than BB guns and cows.

“He’s having a party after graduation,” said Big Ben.

“Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

Big Ben was going. They had to drag it out of him, but he had a girlfriend and he’d promised to take her. He hadn’t wanted them to know about the girl.

Another party at Tory’s house. He would be leaving Project Graduation early, where he had to make an appearance as Prom King. The party would be getting started around midnight.

“We can’t take him on at his own party,” Delph said. “He’ll be surrounded by all his fellow pricks.”

Jude rubbed his head. “So we’ll have to do it before he gets there.”

Everyone was in. Everyone hated the guy. He was the antithesis of straight edge—the kind of prick who was still so wasted on Monday morning that he was puking in the boys’ room. He had two DUIs. He’d grabbed Matthew’s sister’s boobs. And he thought he could give them shit?

Big Ben and Delph and Kram would tell their parents they were at Project Graduation. Everyone else would say they were spending the night at Jude’s, which they would be, eventually. Everyone except Little Ben, who was still grounded from the water gun incident. He’d have to hear about it in the morning.

Okay, this is what happened.”

“Tell him, fat boy. Start at the beginning.”

“We’re in the parking lot. Of course, right? When are we not in a parking lot?”

“Just tell him about the keg.”

“You guys, shut up and let him tell me.”

“Thank you. So there’s no one around but us. We’re looking for Tory’s car. Big Ben’s on the football field, with the walkie-talkie. He’s eating goddamn elephant ears, he’s throwing balls at the dunk tank. His lady blows chunks in the Bounce House.”

“She wasn’t drinking, Kram. She gets seasick.”

“Everyone else is looking for the LeBaron. We’re cruising around, can’t find it. Just when we start to think he’s not showing, here comes Salvatore, driving right past us, already drunk as shit, you can tell. Parks like a retard. And he and his girl go stumbling onto the field—you know that chick with the really blond hair? Bangs up to here? Missy something? So we go back to waiting. In the backseat sure enough there’s a couple empty bottles of champagne. Drunk prick never learns, didn’t even lock his door. Who the f*ck drinks champagne in high school? But that’s not all. We’re sitting around taking turns rail sliding down the steps and for fun Delph jimmies the trunk and inside is this keg. It’s full. And we’re all like, score. Jude’s on the walkie, he’s like, ‘We found the car, he’s here,’ and Big Ben’s like, ‘Yeah, I see him, he’s here,’ and then we start planning shit out. Jude parks the van next to his car, and then the two of us get in the backseat, in the LeBaron. Jude’s behind the passenger seat and I’m behind the driver. In a little while, Big Ben’s like, ‘He’s doing his thing.’ That’s when he rides in a convertible with the Prom Queen, like at homecoming. Around the field.”

“Who was Prom Queen this year?”

“Who the f*ck knows? Some chick.”

“Karen St. John.”

“So he’s riding around the field. He’s doing whatever. It seems like it’s taking forever. Finally Ben’s like, ‘Heads up, he’s coming out.’ We get in position. We all pull on these ski masks, scary as hell. It’s Delph, Matthew, and the twins in the van and me and Jude in the LeBaron. There’s this blanket that’s got this grass and dirt all over it, and we cover ourselves up with it. We wait a shitload of time. But finally, here he comes, all drunk and loud, and he’s laughing with his girl. He gets in the car and she gets in the car. We let them get settled, get a little smoochy, and then all at once we jump up and grab them from behind. They yell for their lives, like we’re going to kill them. I’ve got my belt around Tory faster than shit. Not around his neck like with the wire in Godfather—just around his chest, to keep him in place. Jude’s got his belt around the girl and his hand over her mouth, and thank God she’s stopped screaming. He stays there shutting her up while the boys pile out of the van—Green Mountain Boys, f*ck right—and help me shove Tory in there. We get the door closed and, Little Ben, we just go ape shit. Some of us are holding him down, some are just pummeling, kicking, whatever. We let the twins have some fun. They’re in ski masks—what’s Tory going to know? I got in a good lick across his shins. Who’s a p-ssy now? Who’s a faggot now? And he’s dressed up like Prom King. He’s got the furry red cape on, I’m not shitting, and Delph is going to town on him with his golden staff. p-ssy used to give our boy shit—Teddy McNicholas? That prick thinks he can give our Teddy Bear a hard time? And I’ll tell you what: it felt f*cking good. We left him sprawled across the backseat of his car. His girl’s not screaming anymore. We told her to drive the poor bastard home. No party for Salvatore. I found this tiara in the van. Isn’t it nice? I think it makes me look glamorous.”

“It’s called a crown.”

“Jeezum Crow, you guys.”

“Tell him about the keg.”

“Oh. We emptied it. Set it on a storm drain and just—fzzzt—pumped it right out. Then we put it back. That was Jude’s idea. Add insult to injury. This morning, or this afternoon, or whenever Tory can walk again, he’ll open up his trunk and take out his keg and it’ll be light as a beach ball.”

Prudence came home later that morning, storming into Jude’s room. Jude didn’t even know she’d been out. “Where have you been?” he asked her. “You look like shit.” All the guys had gone home, off to graduation parties of their own, off to church with their families.

“I hate you,” she said, throwing her backpack down on the floor. Jude was stretched out on the bottom bunk, reading Schism.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked, putting the zine down. “Getting wasted at some loser’s house?”

“I hate you so much.”

“What? What’d I do?”

“You know what you did!”

“What?”

“You put Tory Ventura in the hospital!”

Jude sat up. “Would you keep it down?” Harriet wasn’t home, but the sound of his sister’s voice made him want to clap a hand over her mouth. Maybe in the hospital was a manner of speaking. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying you and your convict friends beat up Tory. Missy Sherman told everyone. He’s got a concussion, Jude! Do you know what that means?” Prudence put her hands on her hips. “It means you’re in serious trouble.”

“F*cker deserved it,” Jude said, although his heart had begun a swift climb up into his throat. He stood up and started pacing. “I won’t get in trouble if you don’t tell Mom.”

“Mom? Mom’s the least of your worries. You know how long you go to juvie for aggravated battery?”

“It wasn’t aggravated. I didn’t lay a hand on him.” It was true. He had met Tory’s eyes only for an instant, while Kram and the others dragged him into the van. Jude had intended to be the one who led the ambush, had brought the baseball bat he’d swung so many times he’d worn it smooth. But when Tory lasered that look at him through the car window—a look of disbelief or supplication or fear—Jude stayed planted in the car.

“If you tell Mom, I’ll tell her where you were all night.”

“You know where I was all night? I was at Tory’s house with everyone else, waiting around in the driveway for his party to start. Finally someone comes saying Missy took him to the hospital.”

Jude rubbed his head again and again. Maybe the p-ssy wouldn’t report it. Maybe he’d be too scared.

“Now no one wants anything to do with me. Everyone heard what you guys did and now I’m a pariah.”

“Oh, come on. Those guys don’t even know who I am, let alone that I’m your brother.”

“They do now,” she said and sank down on the bed beside him, starting to cry.

“Oh, stop it with the baby voice. We were wearing masks, Pru. How do they even know it was us?”

“She saw Dad’s van, Jude. Everyone knows that’s your van.” Tarzan hopped into Prudence’s lap, and she heaved several sobs into his furry neck.

“You shouldn’t be at one of those lame parties anyway, Pru.”

“You should be worrying about yourself. You’re the one who’s in trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble,” he said, nearly whispering. “I’m not in trouble, I’m not in trouble. He’s all right, right? Tory? He’s not going to die or anything?”

He’d put his hand on Prudence’s arm, he realized, and now she yanked it away. They sat side by side on the bed, staring at nothing. His fingertips were warm where they’d touched the downy branch of her forearm, and suddenly he felt his hands clamped over Missy Sherman’s mouth, trapping a scream inside her head. It had rattled like the call of a far-off bird. The belt he had slipped around her ribs wasn’t his but Tory’s, the braided belt that had lain coiled in his drawer since New Year’s Eve, and it had taken little else to enclose her body in the cage of his arms and pin her against the seat—not a second, not a thought. They’d sat peacefully in the emptied car for what must have been three or four minutes, listening together to the muffled cries from the neighboring van, watching it rock. He could have done anything to her. When the guys dumped Tory into the backseat of the car, Jude released the belt into her lap, like a limp snake.

“I liked you better before,” Prudence said. She was saying that a lot these days. “Before you went around beating people up. You were gentler,” she said, “like Teddy.”

Jude looked down at his hands. On the left one, across the inside of his knuckles, was a smear of pink. Lipstick.

He got out of there fast, jumped on his skateboard and headed downhill, gulping the painfully fresh air. He couldn’t stay home and wait for a knock on his door. He’d be arrested. Or he’d be killed—Tory had friends. Either way, he was in over his head.

They’d go on tour. That was what they’d do. Di would catch up with them soon, anyway—they had no choice but to run. They’d get in the van and go find Johnny and they’d get out of here. Once again they’d get the f*ck out of Vermont. He didn’t realize how stupid it was to be seen out in the daylight until his board had carried him to Teddy’s. Three rights and a left.

The house was for sale now, and Jude felt strangely remote, as if he’d never been here before. There was Teddy’s window. There was the porch the band used to practice on. That was all. Not a flood of memories—a drought.

Slowly he made his way on hands and knees to the edge of the house and ducked under it. It was set up on cinder blocks, and Teddy and Jude used to hide out under here, smoking, drinking. Sometimes, when Queen Bea lost her keys, they’d crawl under here to push open the trapdoor that led to the kitchen. The crawl space was lower than he remembered—or he was bigger—and it was littered with unremarkable, half-buried treasures. Beer bottles, a child’s plastic shovel, a bottle cap, which bit into his knee. A blank paper card, the size of a lottery ticket, bleached white. Under where the kitchen would be, he found the trapdoor, but when he tried to push it open, it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, ramming it with his shoulder. Someone had nailed it shut.

How had he gotten so off course? It wasn’t Tory Ventura he wanted to punish. Jude sat panting in the dirt. Tory wasn’t the one who’d killed Teddy. He dug his fingers into the cool dirt. He clawed at it, the dirt coating his hands, rimming his fingernails, his tears coming in heaves, burning his face. He wiped a muddy track of snot across his cheek.

When Jude returned home, worn-out, filthy, there was no sign of anyone, but he was quiet anyway, treading softly up the stairs. He washed his hands and his face. Then he went to his sister’s room and tapped on the door. No answer. Slowly he pushed it open.

What day was it? Sunday? Monday? The bed was unmade, sheets spilling in a spiral to the floor. And what was that smell? On the floor were a pair of jeans, a pair of shoes, a towel. It took Jude a moment to realize that the things were not his sister’s, but Eliza’s. Did he smell pot?

He rifled through Prudence’s backpack hanging on the chair and the first few drawers of her dresser before he thought to check the fire escape. As he crossed the room, he thought of something Eliza had told him once. The second time she was kicked out of school, when she was caught with drugs in the pool, she had been alone. This had depressed Jude greatly. Before that, he had imagined that she’d been partying with friends, maybe skinny-dipping, maybe with a guy. Now he pictured her floating on her back in the Olympic-size pool, at sea.

He found her behind the curtain, on the other side of the open window, wearing a pair of acid-washed cutoffs, a polka-dot bikini top, her white-framed sunglasses, and her headphones. A sun-darkened line orbited the planet of her belly, plunging south from her navel. She was smoking a joint in the early summer sun, and on her face drifted an expression of overdue bliss.