“Why did you leave us?” Jake took a deep breath, closed his eyes, waiting for the crush of the answer. A question he had never dared ask.
“Trouble,” said Rocky. “She couldn’t stay away from it.”
“I was just a baby,” said Jake. “I don’t remember anything.”
“That’s why I left,” said Rocky. He remained silent, and began to fold the second gum wrapper. Buley nudged him with her ankle, the silver bells on her skirt tinkling, causing the twinned kittens to peer around nervously.
“Rocky,” said Buley. “He’s the only flesh and blood you’ve got.”
“Didn’t want you to remember,” said Rocky. “Couldn’t stay there and let her screw you up. Like I said. She did the same to me.”
* * *
In his bedroom, Jake unzipped the duffel bag. Four shirts left, and without the Singer, the sewing was tedious, secreted away from the eyes of Rachel or his stepfather. Counting stitches, just as he used to count rosary beads. He bit his tongue in concentration, lost in darting through the embroidery hoop, again and again. Couching. Buley called it couching, this gold work, the thread was silk and expensive, and he could not afford a mistake.
These T-shirts were jersey knit, not meant for such detail, and he tried to remain as calm as possible. One false move, and the cotton would stretch. Jake admired Rachel’s rituals of sobriety, and alone in his room, he cultivated his own spirituality. When he embroidered, he lit one candle on his thrift store candelabra, the cheap brass paint flaking off in great chunks, littering his dresser in glittering piles. He lined up the books and magazines on his bedside table, pleased at the culture: the AA books, two curling issues of Vogue from 1978, the copy of Cannery Row, and last year’s TV Guide cover of Susan Lucci, ripped and glued in a frame of construction paper. He dressed in satin pajamas, lime in color, and forced himself to ignore the missing buttons. That was a sewing project for another day. He sprayed his quilt with a bottle of Lady Stetson perfume, another thrift store find, the contents stretched with tap water. And he listened to the same song, sometimes for hours, if it was a good night, and he was left alone.
Shyanne had given him the cassette single, and that was another portent of good luck. He had gone to the Sinclair for his mother, as milk was cheaper at the gas station. Shyanne washed all the windows every spring and fall, because Martha Man Hands was sloppy and the Sinclair sisters insisted on using vinegar. Shyanne used Windex, legs so long that a ladder was not necessary. She removed her headphones when she saw Jake.
“Here,” she said, and gave him the cassette straight from her Walkman. “I already have the whole album.” It was true—Ginger could afford ten thousand copies of The Immaculate Collection. Krystal flat out refused, thwarting Jake’s Christmas list once again.
“Are you sure?” Jake tried to give her the milk money in exchange, but she refused.
“I’m sick of it anyway,” she said, and removed another cassette from her coat pocket. “Garth Brooks,” she announced.
“I’m sorry,” said Jake, and returned home with his new prize.
The cassette single was part of the ritual. “Justify My Love” was exactly four minutes and fifty eight seconds long. The B-side was the Shep Pettibone remix of “Express Yourself,” and clocked in at just over four minutes. He counted stitches, and listened to Madonna, forced himself to rise each time to flip the tape. The breaks were necessary; if he got too caught up, he got sloppy with the needle, and veered outside of the ribbing on the crew neck and sleeves. Embroidery was the work of perfectionists, and Jake the type of boy who had always colored inside the lines. He saved artistic expression for his wardrobe.
Thirty-five minutes passed, time disappeared as magically as the baby blue. Glacially, the embroidery spread, millimeter after millimeter stitched with tiny darts of gold thread.
Jake heard Bert’s truck, and leaped to stuff the T-shirt and embroidery hoop under his bed. He plucked the inch-long bits of gold thread that snaked, snagged in his carpet, at least a dollar’s worth that he snipped with every new row. He wished he could tie them back together, return them to the spool.
He managed to remove the evidence by the time Bert knocked. He was allowed to close his door now, Bert’s wedding present to his new stepson. He still entered without being asked inside. Jake stopped the cassette as Bert crossed the threshold. Jake sat down on the bed, surrounded himself with the quilt.
His stepfather looked around the room, suspicious as always. The candelabra was still lit, the only sign of possible homosexual activity. Maybe not.
“Smells like a rodeo whore,” said Bert. “Excuse my language.”