“That was weeks ago. ’Sides, you weren’t exactly yourself that day. I just wanted to make sure—”
“I hadn’t killed myself?” Eddie smirked darkly, considering Ben. “Nah, you wouldn’ta been dumb enough to say that. You know, Benny, if you were really concerned, you woulda sent me a pretty get-well-soon card with a nice note inside.”
A nice note inside.
The rounds of Ben’s ears grew warm. He felt sure Eddie could see the white-hot tips of Mira’s notes in the places he’d tucked them. He thought of an old movie he’d seen too young—The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, Her … something, where a guy killed his wife’s lover by forcing him to eat pages from his own books. He’d had nightmares for years. That Mira’s notes might someday end up in his belly did not seem altogether impossible. But Eddie’s eyes weren’t on Ben’s pockets.
“I was worried about you, Eddie. Not for nothing, but you were acting weird at the quarry.”
“Not for nothing, but from what I saw, you’re the one who went batshit crazy on Piggy.”
“I mean, it has to suck losing half a finger.”
Eddie laughed, first through his back teeth, then from his throat and belly, shaking his head at the floor, his one good hand on the counter to steady him. Ben thought he might be going nuts, in this house that would always be painted half-red and where Easter stayed. Finally, he held up his papered claw.
“This?” He staggered as if drunk, and waved it in Ben’s face. “This is nothin’.”
Mr. Villela shouted from the living room, and Eddie’s head snapped. He started toward the back of the house but Ben caught his good wrist.
“You gotta give Mr. Falso time to do his thing,” Ben said.
Eddie stared at Ben’s hand. “He’s wasting his time. The old man’s mad at God.”
Ben let his hand fall. “He’s got a right. Let’s go outside.” Ben headed out the front door and to the driveway, betting that Eddie would follow. He felt underneath a bush and pulled out a basketball with his fingertips. When he rose, Eddie was standing in the driveway. He tossed it to Eddie, who caught it with his good hand.
Ben grinned. “How you gonna do me now?”
“Fool, I could beat you with no arms and one leg using my nose,” Eddie muttered, managing a perfect layup with his good hand. Eddie’s height belied the fact that he was springy and nimble, like his dad scrambling across rooftops in the summer. They were opposites on the court, Eddie’s scrappiness next to Ben’s elegance, his shooting arm resembling a swan’s neck arched elegantly toward the basket. When they played together, they burned through everybody. One on one, they were well matched, taking turns dunking on each other until sweat blinded them. It felt good to run and grunt and sweat and not have to talk. Eddie was explosive, coiling and then shooting up like a spring, and he had the advantage the entire game. They went at it for forty minutes before Ben collapsed on the front lawn near the ceramic Mary on the half shell. Mrs. Villela repainted her every year, and added extras, like red lips and cheeks. Ben knew it wouldn’t be long until Mary was abandoned, like the house and the roses.
Eddie flopped beside Ben and lay in the clover that flourished across the overgrown lawn.
“Nicely played. And yet—”
“And yet?”
“I’m thinking pick-up hoops isn’t part of the chopped-off-baby-finger protocol. How’s your hand?”
“It itches.”
“Sorry, man. Stitches are the worst.”
“Not the stitches. My finger itches.”
“Can you stick a chopstick down past the bandages, you know, to scratch it?”
“No, knucklehead. It’s the missing half of my finger. It’s called phantom limb syndrome. You feel a part of your body that’s missing because the nerves are still firing. It’s your body fooling itself into thinking it’s still there, and you can fix it.”
Ben blinked into the sun. “I dunno. Maybe if you scratch it, it’ll go away.”
“That’d be a waste of time.” Eddie sat up on his elbow. He plucked a piece of clover and chewed on its stem, considering the darkening edges of his bandage. “Can’t fix something that isn’t there anymore. Besides, it bleeds whenever I try to do anything.”
“I’m really sorry. About your finger. And Connie. Connie, too. I’m really sorry about all of it.”
Eddie spit the clover to the side and gave Ben a shove. He had an endorphin flush to his face and verged on smiling. “I know you are, man. You’re one of the good ones.”
Ben bit his lip. A sound came from inside the house, aluminum clanking, kitchen noises.
“I wish things had been different between your uncle and my dad.”
“Nah. What you don’t get is that my uncle didn’t want those girls getting any extra attention, for anything, period. Can’t say I blame him. You saw the way the guys in the hood treated them, slobbered over them. Uncle Frank couldn’t stand it. It was getting outta control.”
“True that.”
Eddie fell backward and rested his claw over his eyes. “I’m probably the only guy in Bismuth who didn’t wax the dolphin for the first time thinking about them.”
“Ed…”
“Louis acting like an after-hours door-to-door salesman? Piggy breaking his toes?”
Ben laughed. “All right. You got me.”
Eddie peered at Ben from underneath his hand. “So tell me something, Benny. If they were your girls, would you give people more reasons to be talking about them?”
Ben felt the note in his pocket. He shimmied slightly on the grass. “I guess not.”
“So I think we put talk of them to rest. Starting now.” He sat up and stood slowly, suddenly aged, and wandered, slope-shouldered, back into the house.
“You all right?” Ben called.
“Hand hurts,” Eddie said, barely audible over the wheeze and slam of the screen door.
Ben sat, frozen. He could tell Eddie didn’t want him to follow, but Mr. Falso could be in there for hours. There was only one thing he wanted to do, was dying to do, but he couldn’t. He busied himself by checking his armpit stink. He grabbed a bit of clover and stuck it in his mouth as Eddie had, then spit it out. He looked over his shoulder at the house. Finally he grew sure Eddie wasn’t looking out the window. He knew that he’d been swallowed by the bowels of the house, the forever-Easter house, and wouldn’t emerge again anytime soon.
Ben hunched his shoulders and slipped the new note from his frontmost pocket. He unfolded it on the grass between his legs in the shadow made by his growing body. But before he read it, he made himself remember. Because if the note was going to be about Francesca, he wanted first to think about Mira.