Every Visible Thing, page 3
On their third night at Danny’s they go through his mother’s dresser, shaving off from the piles of change on the surface, pushing aside alarmingly large bras to look for her stash of pot and pills. Mrs. Gray’s underwear drawer resembles the junk drawer in Owen’s kitchen—a collection of essential and nonessential items without clearly defined categories. The same sandpaper sticks Owen’s mom uses to file her nails jostle against uncashed WIC coupons for the two-gallon jugs of milk that bow the top shelf of their refrigerator. Underneath a sixteen-tool Swiss army knife, there is a round plastic case with a rubber disk inside that looks like a cross between a miniature Frisbee and an internal organ. After encouraging Owen to whip it across the room, Danny informs him that it is a diaphragm. He is unable to tell Owen what this is exactly, except that it is involved in sex. “So’s this,” Danny says, removing a battery-operated dildo the size of Owen’s forearm. Owen, watching Danny switch the vibrator between its various humming speeds, wonders if the diaphragm and the dildo need to be used together. At the back of her drawer, wrapped in a pair of men’s flannel boxers, is a small, heavy, block-shaped handgun.
“It’s never loaded,” Danny says, pointing it at Owen and spreading his legs in a Miami Vice pose.
“What’s it there for, then?” Owen asks, trying not to flinch when Danny makes explosive noises, mimicking the kickback of a fired gun. He wonders if Danny can hear the tiny wheeze beginning to form in his breath.
“She keeps all the shit my old man left.” Danny shrugs. “In case he comes back or something, I don’t know. What a sucker, right?”
Owen nods. The thought of Mrs. Gray hoarding things in expectation of Danny’s father’s return makes him sad, but, since this is clearly not the reaction he is supposed to have, he looks away. He has an urge to wipe his hands—microscopically soiled by her slippery underwear—on his Thunderbird pajama bottoms. He says he has to piss and goes to the bathroom for a quick restorative hit from his inhaler.
During Danny’s first sleepover at the Fureys’, Owen’s father makes an embarrassing deal out of ordering pizza and letting them rent horror tapes from Videosmith. Danny follows Owen’s father’s every move with eager eyes for the first hour, then sums up and dismisses him with one phrase.
“Your dad’s a mom,” he says, sounding disappointed.
Later, sent too early to the twin beds in the room Owen once shared with his sister, Danny asks who the extra guy is in the one family picture in the hall.
“My uncle,” Owen lies easily. He does not want to juggle the sort of tactless questions most friends ask about Hugh. He doesn’t have the answers. He can’t even remember him.
It was the picture that made him forget. One picture of his big brother replicated a thousand times, posted on telephone poles, in the newspaper, the playground, said to be on milk cartons though Owen never saw one. The picture was Hugh’s school photo from the ninth grade. His hair was still brown and feathered, his shirt had a turned up collar and a tiny alligator on the breast. It was the last formal photo he posed for—his tenth-grade photo, despite the check their mother sent to school, was never taken, so no one could find a picture of his dyed black spiky hair. Hugh was the only one of them who really took pictures.
Owen’s memory, apart from the occasional flash from toddler-hood, begins when his brother is gone. He remembers vividly what came afterward, mostly his sister not sleeping. Blurry recollections of Lena upright against her headboard, clip-on lamp shining so harshly it looked like it might singe her hair. Sometimes, she was closer, leaning over his bed with an expression so unreadable he wasn’t sure if she were about to kiss him good night or smack him. Once, when he woke to her huge eyes practically touching his face, and they both yelped, he asked her what she was doing.
“I wanted to see if you were breathing,” she said.
Back then, his sister took care of putting him to bed, reading Where the Wild Things Are and tucking him in. The tucking was all wrong—she bound him so tightly he had to kick himself free as soon as she left the room. She was in charge of his bath, his toothbrushing, the clean underwear and shirt draped on a chair for the morning. Owen resented this; she wasn’t supposed to be in charge. He gave her a hard time, whining and delaying more than he would have dared with his mother, who now went to bed in the middle of the afternoon, which was why she was not there to tuck him in. His father spent most of his time in his basement office, which was usual enough, except that his piles of papers and books had been replaced with that photograph, box upon box of it from Copy Cop, with the first long word Owen had ever learned to spell printed in capitals beneath. His father had once tacked the pages of the book he was writing on the wall; now that same wall was covered with newspaper articles, police reports, lists of words hastily crossed out, his brother’s name glaring out from every page. In the middle of this collage was the original picture, enlarged and copied so many times it obliterated Owen’s real brother, wallet-sized, backed by a heaven-blue sky. The same sky appeared in Owen’s kindergarten photo, which, when presented to his parents in a package of descending sizes, made both of them leave the room, their mouths tight, white lines slashed into yielding faces.
For Halloween, Owen wants them to be Louis and Lestat, from Interview with the Vampire, and dress in period costumes. Danny declares this idea is gay, and insists on darkened eye sockets and fake blood dripping from plastic fangs. They wear black hooded sweatshirts and dark corduroys, dress shoes so their bright Nikes won’t show up in the shadows. After an initial hour of pushing their way ahead of toddlers to fill their pillowcases with miniature candy bars, they abandon trick-or-treating for the more respectable activity of vandalism. They have prepared by raiding the hair product aisle of CVS, plucking the aerosol tips from cans of Final Net and transplanting them onto cans of Barbasol. The aerosol makes the shaving cream emerge in a thin, powerful stream perfect for outlining bushes with the obscenities Owen has just begun saying out loud. Danny is an Olympic swearer; outside of the classroom and his mother’s hearing he uses fuck in every other sentence. He calls people cunts, even boys, a habit he has picked up from the construction workers from County Cork who live on the second floor, between his apartment and Mrs. Curran’s. His favorite insult, however, is to call someone a fag. He refused to watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, because Linus and Charlie Brown are fags. Mr. Gabriel is a fag, as are the fathers of most of their classmates who holler encouragement at soccer games. “I’ll bet he fucks guys up the ass,” Danny will say about a store clerk or a lone male driver waiting at a stoplight. Owen is confused by the violence of this image, adds it to his growing list of the perverted behavior of fags, wonders if it is a friendly form of punishment among them, an adult version of Indian arm burns or wedgies.
When Owen swears, he doesn’t sound as natural as his best friend. But he likes practicing, repeating phrases that would make his parents, if they heard him, blush with astonishment.
While Danny is spraying SUCK MY DICK onto someone’s garage, a side door opens and the outside light is switched on. A man in a T-shirt so thin you can see smudges of dark hair around his nipples yells to them that he has called the police. “Little faggots,” he hisses, and this makes Danny laugh so hard that Owen must pull him away from the crime scene, boosting him over the stone wall that borders the Muddy River Cemetery.
When they’re a safe distance away, Danny collapses in laughter on a grave, holding his stomach and rolling in the leaves. Owen is still frightened, mostly from the running and getting out of breath, but pretends to be mad. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says, his voice squeaking on the fuck, which makes Danny whoop. They lie there, Owen fuming and Danny giggling, until the night begins to soothe them toward silence. Owen turns his head toward Danny, who is watching him, his full mouth already hanging open with the question.
“How come you didn’t tell me about your brother?” Danny asks. Owen is grateful for the gravestone behind them, which cuts the stream of moonlight that would otherwise illuminate his face.
“I dunno,” Owen mumbles. He knew this would happen eventually. The thought of someone in school, probably a girl, taking Danny aside and telling him the story of Hugh—the statewide searches, the trained dogs, the news coverage, and the milk cartons—makes Owen both furious and piercingly lonely.
Danny is still staring, waiting for a better explanation.
“We don’t talk about it,” Owen says finally. Though this is vague, Danny nods as if it explains everything. He once told Owen that if he mentions his father, his mother will cry for hours. He made it sound as if he were bragging.
Owen cranes his head back, looking at the stone that sags unevenly into the earth. He can see the worn outline of a skull with wings, and a name, CHRISTOPHER HAVENS, carved above an epitaph. He considers briefly telling Danny everything. About how Hugh’s name is never mentioned in the house, but his things are still kept in banker’s boxes in the basement. That though he can’t remember him alive, he has an idea about what his brother has become, an idea he has never admitted to anyone, for fear that they will tell him it is impossible. But Danny speaks up first.
“I used to want a big brother,” he says aggressively, as if this wish needs to be defended.
“Me, too,” Owen says. This starts Danny laughing again. Deep, husky laughter that doubles him over and makes him moan to catch his breath. It occurs to Owen that his friend is stoned; which means he would have had to smoke before they met up, all by himself.
“Fuck off,” Owen says, but Danny laughs even harder.
Owen attacks, straddling him, squeezing him immobile with his knees and delivering a series of fake punches, making explosive sound effects in his cheeks. Danny snaps his head back and forth in mock impact, then rears up and knocks Owen over, pinning him down instead. Danny is the stronger one, and always ends up on top, demanding uncle. He holds Owen’s wrists together, pinning them above his head. With his free hand, he slaps Owen’s cheeks lightly, barely enough to sting. Owen is laughing now, too, his stomach heaving against the arc between Danny’s legs. Danny stops hitting and continues to laugh in exhausted, intermittent huffs, his face so close Owen can feel every exhalation brushing his lips.
In that moment before Danny climbs away, Owen wishes for Mr. Gabriel’s stopwatch, so he can keep a record of it all: their breathing ragged with laughter, their thin, black-clad bodies pressed into moldering leaves and against each other, creating an urgency that is as unfamiliar and as welcome as the foul words he has recently learned to sing.
3. zippo
Photography is only forty-five minutes long, and Mr. Allen has to show us every stupid step about sixteen times, so we never get much done. So far, we’ve only printed contact sheets, cutting our negatives into strips of five and lining them up together, burning the images onto eight-by-ten sheets of photo paper. These make rows of tiny photos, so we can choose the best ones to print later. I was getting impatient, so I asked Mr. Allen if I could stay after school a couple of days, and he gave me a key to lock up. I’ve printed a dozen of Hugh’s photos, all taken in the Quad, of punk kids loitering on the stairs. I don’t recognize any of these kids, but I can picture Hugh there, the center of a cluster of dyed hair and heavy boots, the sort of boy who gives out nods rather than one who feels relieved by them. My brother was always popular. I once asked him, when I was in the fifth grade and my class was dividing into cool and uncool as cleanly as a cell under a microscope, how to be popular. He had shrugged and told me to be myself. I didn’t tell him that I thought it was myself that was the problem. Popular kids were always really normal or extra special. I was neither one.
In grammar school, my brother’s best friend was Jeremy Lispet, whose yard was behind ours, separated by a low, rotting fence. Jeremy was the opposite of my brother. He wasn’t cute, or popular, or even on speaking terms with any of Hugh’s other friends. Their friendship was limited to after-school computer programming sessions or D&D games. These were the hobbies of greasy-haired, genius boys who were picked on by the sort of kids Hugh hung out with. Hugh’s friendship with Jeremy was a secret, just like I was if I passed by him and his friends in the park. Talking to your little sister and programming text adventures was not cool, not like leather jackets and chain-smoking and music played at a deafening volume and the hair gel Hugh emptied, half a tube at a time, into his dark, spiked hair. I never wondered why Jeremy Lispet put up with Hugh’s part-time treatment. Hugh was the sort of person who got away with stuff like that, because people felt lucky to be around him.
One afternoon in the darkroom, while waiting for prints to dry, I make a new contact sheet from some negatives I found in Hugh’s box. The pictures are from a long time ago. Owen as a baby, standing up and holding on to the arm of the sectional couch, his legs looking fat and unsteady in their little gray sweatpants. My parents at the dinner table, laughing and trying to hold their cigarettes outside the frame. Jeremy Lispet turning his eyelids inside out. And me by the community pool, my hair dripping onto my striped shirt and the cement steps, where we are waiting for our mother to pick us up. I remember that day. Hugh was supposed to bring me swimming, but instead he left me alone and ran off with Jeremy. He told the pool lady I was seven, the age children were allowed to swim unsupervised, when I was really only six. I was so paranoid about being found out that I burst into tears halfway through the swim session and admitted the lie to one of the lifeguards. The pool lady, so fat that her arms didn’t fall straight to her sides but splayed out, yelled at Hugh when he came back for me. I’m not smiling in this picture. My eyes are swollen from chlorine and crying, and I’m glaring at the camera. Hugh was trying to cheer me up before my mother came, but I knew it was all a bribe, because he didn’t want me to tell on him. I had no intention of telling, but I let him think I would. It was the first time I can remember ever being mad at him. It was such a strange feeling, and I didn’t know how to tell him about it, so I kept quiet and tried to look mean. It’s weird looking at the picture now. I look like some other kid. Sort of bratty and smaller than I thought I was at the time.
In class, I print a new contact sheet of Hugh’s high school photos. These were taken outside, but not of the Quad. While I’m using plastic tongs to move the paper from one tray of chemicals to another, Jonah, in line behind me, peers over my shoulder at the blooming images.
“You don’t seem like the type,” he says. His voice is soft and low, and at first I don’t understand him, but after a delay the words repeat back to me like a whisper in my head.
“Type for what?” I say rudely. I don’t like Jonah; he seems like a freak and I didn’t appreciate the groping the other day. Sometimes I think he’s trying to be friends, but most of the time he ignores me just like he ignores everyone else. I always end up acting defensive when I should be casual like I don’t give a shit.
“Type who hangs around the Pit,” he says.
“What pit?” I snap. I don’t like how superior he sounds. Like he knows so much about me, when the truth is, everyone knows his darkest secret even if he keeps his sleeves down.
“The Pit,” he says, pointing at my photo. In it punk boys with skateboards are hanging around a cement circle, a plank of wood laid against the stairs that lead down into it.
“Harvard Square?” Jonah says. That’s when I recognize the brick, the line of pay phones, the edge of the round hut that is an information booth for tourists. I’ve only ever been to Harvard Square to go out to dinner with my parents, at a loud Tex-Mex restaurant where the soda comes in plastic glasses the size of my thigh. I didn’t know my brother hung out there. He’d wanted to go to Harvard, but my father said he’d probably end up at BC, because of the price break.
“Develop your own pictures,” I say to Jonah, and he shrugs, retreating beneath his hair, looking like he never cared enough to peek over my shoulder in the first place. I rinse the chemicals from the photo, studying a handsome, older teenager with spiked blond hair and a plaid jacket. He is at the very edge of the photo, the only one looking at the camera, and he is giving it the finger. He looks mischievous, the type of kid whose job it is to teach other kids how to get in trouble. I hang him up to dry.
Just before the bell rings, one of the girls in my class asks me in a whisper if I have any tampons. I must look at her blankly, because she screws her face up.
“What, do you still use pads?” she says.
“No,” I say. When I don’t explain, she storms off, shaking her head to her friends to say that I’m as hopeless as they suspected.
When we started school this year, all the sophomores were given welcome kits, like party favors—the boys got blue cardboard boxes, the girls, pink. Inside the girls’ kits were pamphlets on depression, rape, and birth control, a sample size of Secret roll-on deodorant, a box of o.b. tampons, and Tic Tacs. Some people said the boys’ boxes had condoms in them. I threw my box out, saving only the Tic Tacs. I haven’t gotten my period yet even though I turned fifteen the week before Halloween. My mother thought something might be wrong with me, since she got hers when she was twelve, but Dr. Cloherty, our pediatrician, said I was just a late bloomer. He’s been saying that my whole life, as if it’s something to be proud of.
I go to the Pit on Friday night. I tell my parents I’m going to the movies with Tracy. They don’t bat an eye at this, although I’ve never been anywhere with Tracy before. You’d think, after Hugh, that my parents would be overprotective, but they’re not. They even let Owen walk to and from school alone.
I take the T from Longwood, changing at Park Street to the Red Line, which goes aboveground to cross the river, then dives again and squeals along the third rail to Cambridge. In the Harvard Square station, I’m not sure which exit to take. I decide against Church Street and choose the larger exit on the left, next to carts selling Mexican ponchos and maroon Harvard sweatshirts. I have to breathe through my mouth on the escalator because it smells like pee.
