Boys in Gilded Cages Read online

  Eric shook his head no, gently. “He’ll probably never…”

  Billy Joe intercepted Eric’s thought. “She’s dead now. She can’t keep you from him now.”

  Eric started to become emotional. His voice cracked. “Ah, I can be there for him. Pay for college. Probably bail him out of jail a few times...”

  Eric and Billy Joe broke the somber mood with a hearty belly laugh. “…But not knowing who I am is probably the least of that boy’s problems.”

  Billy Joe exhaled softly through his nose. “He’s been lied to his whole life. No need for it. Just somethin’ to think about.”

  Eric was eager to change the subject. “What about that new man, Frank? Thelma ever say anything about him?”

  “She only worked a couple’a shifts after she met him. I heard a bunch of details you probably don’t want to hear. I know I didn’t,” Billy Joe said. “You know how she was.”

  “Yeah. I know. Did you know Frank?”

  “Hell yeah I knew him,” Billy Joe said. “A real son of a bitch. Rough as a cob. Crazy too. You think he did it?”

  Eric thought for a minute. “Real easy to come to that conclusion, ain’t it?”

  The drive to Overland Park, Kansas was about three hours from Hawthorn. Eric considered which path to take, so as to avoid being spotted. Ultimately, I-70 proved the best option, which wasn’t saying much.

  He put on his hat and his sunglasses, and walked into a trailer park with a sign for vacancies. He entered the leasing office, ignoring the sign that asked patrons to remove their sunglasses and hats.

  An older lady greeted him at her desk. “Hi, welcome! Can I help you?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Eric muttered. “I need to rent a trailer for my son.”

  “And what were you looking for? A one bedroom? Two?”

  I need the cheapest trailer you have,” Eric said. “I’ll pay for the entire year’s lease in cash today.”

  The receptionist looked at Eric skeptically. “The whole year?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What were you planning to spend?”

  “Ah,” Eric thought for a second. “Five hundred is probably my limit.”

  “Okay,” the receptionist said with a returning sunny demeanor, “I think I have something to show you.”

  The trailer was decent enough. The bathtub was rusted out, and the smell of rat feces was evident. The receptionist wandered through the mobile home as if she was showing a house in Malibu. “Central air, fairly new appliances, cable ready. 350 a month.”

  “Why so cheap?”

  “It’s a cheap town,” said the receptionist.

  “Yeah,” Eric asked, “how big is this town, anyway?”

  “About as big as any town in Kansas off I-70.”

  “Right. Any jobs around here?”

  The receptionist obviously wasn’t expecting this many questions. “There’s a dairy farm near here. I think they’re usually looking for somebody part-time.”

  Eric nodded. “What about colleges?”

  “Uh...there’s a trade school here,” she said. “Why are you renting here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Eric stammered. “This might be a uh...getaway. There’s some huntin’ ground I’m fond of not too far away.”

  The receptionist put her hand on her hip. “For your son, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The receptionist relaxed her pose. “Let’s go back to the office and get this started.”

  The day of the funeral, Jack had all but checked out. His face was sunken, and his eyes were fixed to the floor. The Luptas family, along with Jack, walked into the half-empty sanctuary of Hawthorn Baptist Church, and all eyes were on them.

  Marcia Cruz handed out the funeral programs to people as they entered the foyer, and when she handed one to Jack, she leapt at him, bear hugging him and sobbing. Jack could have wilted up and died of embarrassment. Harris, Santos and Petor were nowhere to be found.

  Jack saw the silver urn containing his mother on top of an altar that was inscribed: “This Do In Remembrance of Me.” Above him was Father Redmond in an ill-fitting suit, looking at Jack with a mixture of disdain for being a whore’s son, and sorrow for his hell bound soul. Still, he gave a ten minute sermon.

  Father Redmond preached about forgiveness. It was, for the most part, useless.

  Jack didn’t listen to the words. He just closed his eyes. His hands trembled.

  Jack had visions of Christmas while he closed his eyes. He saw his father, pushing him in a swing. He didn’t see the series of men that came and went. He didn’t see the beatings. He didn’t see the money on the dresser. He didn’t see the drugs. He saw shiny Christmas bows. He saw happy birthdays. He saw his mother rocking him to sleep.

  Eric nudged Jack. He came out of his self-hypnosis. “Go up there!” Eric said. And so he did.

  “In lieu of testimony,” Father Redmond announced, ”Jack would like to sing Thelma’s favorite hymn with some men of our church.”

  Jack shuffled over to the microphone at the pulpit. He looked out at the crowd. A few dozen sets of empty eyes. “Um...my mom used to sing this to my brother. I hope I do it right.”

  Jack sang in a squeaky, mid-adolescent rasp:

  God be with you till we meet again;

  By his counsels guide, uphold you;

  With his sheep securely fold you.

  God be with you till we meet again.

  The swell of the backup singers, a quartet of elderly men, all but overwhelmed him. But still, he kept singing:

  Till we meet, till we meet,

  Till we meet at Jesus' feet,

  Till we meet, till we meet,

  God be with you till we meet again.

  Jack saw Nathan appear in the crowd. Nathan analyzed Jack. As Jack looked closely, he could see tears welling in Nathan’s eyes. So he kept singing:

  God be with you till we meet again;

  When life's perils thick confound you,

  Put his arms unfailing round you.

  God be with you till we meet again.

  Till we meet, till we meet,

  Till we meet at Jesus' feet,

  Till we meet, till we meet,

  God be with you till we meet again.

  Jack took a breath, gazed out at the crowd, and they were silent. Some women were dabbing their eyes with tissues, but in the forefront of Jack’s eye was Nathan, who stood up and gave a patronizing standing ovation.

  Jack looked Nathan right in the eye, and watched his body evaporate into the next dimension.

  It was over.

  After the reception, Eric brought Jack outside. There was a car Jack didn’t recognize, with Jack’s belongings from his mobile home inside. Also there, Thelma’s urn, which was apparently snuck there by Eric.

  “What is this?” Jack asked.

  “Get in,” Said Eric. Jack obeyed.

  Eric turns the engine over and starts driving.

  “Where are we going?” Jack was getting anxious, but Eric was silent. Jack repeated himself. “Mister Eric, where are we going?”

  The waking drive was excruciating. Jack stared out of the passenger side window, transfixed on its reflection, going into a familiar trance. Visions projected themselves onto the window, lulling him to sleep. Nursery rhymes soundtrack the ride there, as images of Thelma flash before him. Random images.

  His mother as Marie Antoinette, smashing the guillotine.

  Thelma as Ann Boleyn, removing her necklace.

  Thelma burning down the Cue ‘n Brew, gleefully singing the nursery rhyme Jack used to fall asleep to as a boy as she poured gasoline all around her, maniacally laughing.

  Thelma pointing a gun at the car.

  A loud, subconscious gunshot woke up Jack.

  The car stopped.

  We must be here, Jack thought. But where is here?

  Eric and Jack sat at the edge of the water, a muddy pond that not even the biggest sinner in the world would see fit to be baptized. Th
e urn – Thelma’s remains – sat between them.

  After a meditative silence, Jack asked Eric, “Why are we here?” Eric didn’t look at Jack.

  “Jack,” Eric said mournfully, “You’re gonna have to stay here for a while.”

  “Why?” Asked Jack. Eric stared at the water, the ripples moving faster.

  “Son,” Eric said, “This is a moment of honesty. I need to know, from the bottom of your heart, if you know what happened to your mother and her friend.” Jack stiffened and looked at the water.

  “She…um…she…I don’t…”

  “Stop it,” Eric snapped. “Tell me. I can protect you. I just need to know.”

  Jack wept softly. Eric didn’t look at Jack, and Jack didn’t need to say anything. He had just confirmed it. Finally, Jack said solemnly, “I need to dump the ashes.”

  Jack takes the urn. His hands tremble. Eric hesitates at first, but after a moment he puts his hands over Jack’s to stabilize the urn. Together, they dump the ashes into the water – a chalky stream of pewter dust, floating with pond ripples.

  The two men sat there, watching the ashes ever so slowly dampen, then turn to mud, and camouflage into the murky, polluted lagoon. Jack shivered.

  Eric slowly moved his gaze to Jack, and in a burst of unbearable memory, Jack sobbed so hard it appeared he might bust his temples wide open.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said through messy tears. “I’m sorry.”

  Eric stood up, and picked up Jack to embrace him. Jack shook uncontrollably, put his head on Eric’s chest, and began sucking his thumb, all the while crying oceans of tears.

  “It’s our fault, Jack,” Eric whispered into his ear. “It’s all of our faults.”

  The next morning, Eric drove home. He left Jack to sleep on the air mattress he bought for him, and didn’t say goodbye. He had another vehicle waiting for him in Overland, which he drove home, leaving Jack the clunker the drove there, with a full tank of gas.

  On the way home, Eric picked up a pack of cigarettes, and halfway home, he lit one – his first in ten years.

  He entered his home, and his wife and children were at the breakfast table. Ms. Luptas looked at Eric with sad sympathy. Eric didn’t say a word.

  “Is it done?” Ms. Luptas asked.

  Eric looked at Ms. Luptas for a second. His family was home – the family he built for the world to see. Without answering the question, Eric went to the bedroom and shut the door.

  The rest of that day was peaceful. There was nothing to be heard, except silence.

  II.

  DARYL, THE BOY WITH THE DEMON IN HIS BRAIN

  It starts with him surrounded by women. Naked women, all with tiny little flaws so they seem real. One is the same age as his mother. One has stretch marks on her ass cheeks. One has a mole by her left nipple. They’re all on the grass outside the red barn sometimes. Or they’re on the beach outside my aunt’s trailer in Malibu with his friend Scooter watching. Scooter has that stupid look on his face – the same look he gets when the boy smokes the last cigarette, or beats him at a board game.

  He’s rubbing the old one’s rib cage while he kisses another girl’s neck. The old one’s skin is kind of taut. Like, you could imagine her as a young girl, her spunk diluted by age and her routine perfected by experience. His fingers make little circle motions all over her belly and to him it feels like a cashmere blanket.

  As he starts to feel the brunette’s mouth around his cock and he gets closer to finishing, there’s a tingle in his tailbone. Well, not really a tingle, it hurt. Not like stabbing pain or anything, more like a prick or a hypodermic needle. It moved up his spine and after it reached the next vertebrate, the pain dissipated below, but became stranger and stronger upwards, rushing north.

  As he reaches the point where the orgasm becomes inevitable, the pain becomes excruciating. It rises up to his head and explodes like one of those county fair games with the mallet and the bell. He comes all over his bed sheets, and in the mess of sweat and semen he wallows and squirms in a frantic, excruciating explosion of pain in his head. You can’t imagine how bad it hurts, like his skull is splitting in half and the halves are being pulled their separate ways, but his skin is resisting and keeping his head in one piece. It wasn’t like a throbbing migraine. He pretty much heard the explosion between his ears, like his brain had been building up heat in the microwave.

  Before he would lose his eyesight, he’d quickly put on his pants and wipe his hands on the jeans, and hold back his scream by holding his breath until he could run out of my room.

  His sight would then go black and his body would throw itself onto the floor, sometimes giving his unruly head more punishment with a smack on the wood. He’d hear his mom scream in confusion and fright and his father’s silence was even more audible. What’s wrong with him, his brother would shriek. He’s got the demon inside him. He’d hear his mom regain her composure. Don’t say that, she’d tell him. Go get him a pillow and some of those Tylenol 3’s.

  She strokes his hair, knowing he is awake. Don’t worry, she whispers firmly, keeping the cracks in her voice smooth. I’ll crush it into your soda. You won’t have to swallow them whole.

  His vision always comes back after about three hours. Usually he just naps the time away, and when he opens his eyes, the black becomes a gray fuzz with purple polka dots floating around the walls, congregating around any lights that happen to be on, spritely little UFO’s orbiting around the lamp shades and the television.

  He feels a slimy heat around the back of his head, which leaks through the pillow and is really gross. His mom comes in with some type of sweet cake or candy bar; something with sugar. Every time she has a look as if he was zapped by lightning or had a stroke and might not be here much longer and she wants to savor the moments she gets with her patient.

  Does it come on suddenly or does it build? She’d ask, and the mere mentioning of the headache embarrasses him, so he usually don’t say anything. Is it a throbbing or is it kind of like a burst? Is it sensitive to light? He closes his eyes and she turns off the lights and the fan. I’ll turn on the air-conditioning, she says, closing the door behind her.

  His bike is hard to ride in the gravel, but he makes it work. Usually he rides home on a flat tire or two for about half a mile. Fatty Greer is always sitting on his mom’s porch swing, sweating and smoking a cigarette. Hey, Wire! He yells out. What up, Greer, he says.

  You hear about Hopper?

  Nah, what about him?

  He’s your cousin. You don’t know?

  I never talk to him

  But still.

  No.

  He got arrested, Yo.

  For what?

  He tried to kill his dad, Bro. He said he was fuckin’ him while his mom was at work, but nobody believes him. Prolly lyin.

  How do you know all this, Fatty?

  I was standin’ out here when it happened, bro. When he got arrested, I mean. I mean he lives right over there.

  Fatty lies a lot, so who knows. He gets on his bike and Fatty stalls him. You got a couple of flats, bro. Wanna come inside?

  And do what, he tells him. Got any Kool-Aid?

  Fatty didn’t, so he bailed. He drives past the Cruz house—Marcia and her grimacing parents. They’re a Cuban family that runs some white dude’s mulching company. Sometimes he stops and talk to Marcia, but he’s running late.

  The drive to the doctor is always quiet. His mom don’t know what to say, I guess, and he’d rather stare out the window. He sees people being happy, playing in the sprinklers, people yanking the leashes of their hyperactive dogs, being boisterous assholes like nobody’s watching what they’re doing. If he happens to lock eyes with someone, they use the split second they have together to look away, like he’ll start a fire with his mind if they keep their eyes fixed to his. If he unfocuses his eyes the weeds and the trees become a big stream of blur, discolored but one with the sky. He’d learn the value of doing this later on in life, but eventually he’d forget
how, even when things whiz by so quickly.