J.T. Warren - Remains

Of course, Kevin O’Mally was the top ranked kid going in. Like a lot of things, I couldn’t tell you why I went to watch. Maybe I went because it was important to Mr. Roger. I didn’t like the idea of boxing, and the noise made me feel uneasy the entire time. Something about the way the men and older boys were watching and yelling made me feel as if any minute, everyone was going to start tearing into each other. I could see it on the faces of most of the boys, too. All except one: Kevin entered that ring and looked around him. He was like a tiny statue for a moment; defiant and powerful. I remember wishing I could feel like he looked just then.

The only other person who wasn’t yelling and jeering was Mr. Roger, himself. He stood at the back of the room, smoking a cigarette. He was in shadow, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew, somehow, that there was something sad in them. Most of the other boy’s fathers and older brothers were there; none of them were anything even resembling adult, though. It scared me. I had to keep looking over at Mr. Roger to try to—to—what? Ground myself? Maybe.

Kevin’s match went on for longer than most of the others, but it wasn’t long before the other boy submitted. Kevin was focused; the noise and thick anger didn’t seem to faze him. There were a few times I thought I caught him smiling, but I was sure that couldn’t be. At the time, I was, anyway.

Watching him turn and walk down the corridor, though, I thought maybe he had been smiling that day. Mr. Roger hadn’t, though. I think maybe he wanted the contest to be one thing, but it turned into another. I think, maybe, it upset him to see the adults acting like animals. There weren’t any more boxing contests held at the Y as far as I know. I couldn’t say why, exactly, but I’m certain Mr. Roger was behind that.

I followed Kevin down the small corridor, but when it turned left, I stopped. Just ahead was a small nurse’s station, like the one in the lobby. Behind that desk was a dark man with a mustache. Kevin had just reached the desk, and was leaning over it. The man was smiling up at him, and they were whispering. I didn’t know what I should do, so I didn’t move. Kevin turned around, though, and motioned for me to come closer. As I walked, my knees were wobbling.

“Reggie, this is my friend Mikey. Say hi, Mikey,” Kevin said as I reached the counter. He turned his face toward me, and he was someone I didn’t recognize. There was a power there, a smug grin of something arrogant and dangerous. Reggie was dark, and his mustache was perfectly straight, which made me feel strange. None of the men back at the garage had ever trimmed their goatees and beards very well. My father, Mr. Roger, Sheriff Aiken; no one I’d ever seen other than people on television and guys at the garage had ever worn facial hair. Reggie was thick, and his shoulders stretched his smock until it seemed about to burst.

“What’s up?” he asked, not even looking at me. It all clicked, then. It made perfect sense how Kevin knew these back entrances, and why he was sure he could get me in to see Mrs. McPherson.

“Not much,” I said.

“Mikey here is studying to be a sick-oll—what do you call it? One of those guys like who looks into your brain and shit—,” he said, and I couldn’t help but stare. I wanted to ask him ‘what are you doing?’

“Psychologist,” Reggie said, and on his face, the same smug grin appeared.

“That’s right,” Kevin said, then looked at me, “didn’t I tell you how smart he is?” he looked back at Reggie, “So smart. So, anyway, do you think that maybe he could walk down and look at some stuff?”

Reggie stood up, and leaned on the counter. His arms were touching Kevin’s, and their faces were very close. I felt like I should look away, but something else was moving around inside me. They started whispering with their faces almost touching, and that’s when I figured out what I was feeling. I wanted to punch Reggie. I wanted to hurt him for ever having touched Kevin.

Reggie turned toward me, and looked me up and down. The smug grin never faded, then he turned back to Kevin and said, “Yeah. I guess while we do that, it won’t hurt if he wants to look at some charts and shit,” then he turned back to me, and his eyes roamed me again, “or you can come join us.”

Kevin put his hand on Reggie’s cheek, and turned his head back. “He don’t get down like that, baby. He’s strictly amateur.”

Reggie’s disgusting grin got wider, and he laughed in his throat, “Oh. He don’t do shit, huh?”

“Not like you like,” Kevin said, and his face matched Reggie’s. I wanted to scream and hit something. I wanted to walk out. Somehow, though, in the last five minutes, I’d begun to need to see Mrs. McPherson. It felt like some long and tedious process would all come together with that.

Kevin took Reggie’s hand, and pulled him out from behind the round counter. “Be good,” he said in a strange voice over his shoulder to me. They went into a small room right next to nurse’s station, Reggie’s grin never faded. The door closed, and I felt like crying. I wanted to go and bust down the door and scream ‘STOP!’

I needed this more, though. I needed to talk to her. That need had continued to grow, and now it was near emergency. The two feelings were so powerful that I needed to sit down; I was light headed, and my knees had yet to stop wobbling.

I sat down behind the counter. Just in front of me were six black and white televisions. Each one showed a hallway. I looked up; two hallways branched left and right from the nurse’s station. I could see that each one branched right and left after a while, too. I looked back at the screens; one camera for each hallway. It made sense. I started to look through the things on the desk.

I found a clipboard underneath a huge stack of papers. On it was a sheet of paper with a set of names, numbers, and other long words with measurements next to them. McPherson, Gwen was the seventh one down. I put my thumb under her name, and ran it along the line. It said 904, and then had a star. I looked at the bottom of the page; the star had “see doctor’s instructions” written after it. She was in room 904. I stood up, but my stomach stayed in the chair. My legs were wobbling. I could tell that if I sat still long enough and listened, I’d be able to hear what Kevin was doing. I didn’t stay still.

Each of the heavy wooden doors had a rectangular window at eye level. The glass was dull, and there was chicken wire just behind it. I stopped in the hallway between 902 and 903. I knew that the next door on my right would be hers. I stared at that door for a while, as if looking at it long enough would make it invisible.

I walked to the door, and put my fingers on the handle. The metal was cold. The lights were dim, inside. I couldn’t see anyone through the window. I turned the handle, but it didn’t budge. It clicked at me. I thought “key.” I looked back at the station. The key would have to be there, somewhere. As I walked back, I heard a muffled sound, and stopped. It was a rhythmic thumping, as if something were lightly hitting the wall again and again. I wondered what it was for a moment, before the certainty settled over me. My knees gave some. I caught myself halfway to the floor.

Just behind the desk there was a large steel cabinet. My eyes were drawn there. I walked to it, playing the song I’d heard earlier by Cash as loud as I could in my head. The cabinet had a place to insert a key. I hoped that it wasn’t locked. I reached up and tugged once, and the door came open with a small creak. The keys were on little rings with small white tags above them. Each tag had a number. I took the one marked 904. The music in my head got louder as I passed back by the doors until I got to hers.