John Burley - THE HIDING PLACE

“‘Here, give me that, you moron,’ he said, and I handed him the plastic-bundled painting so I could use my crutches more effectively. He didn’t say anything else, just walked beside me in the rain, the two of us looking down at the asphalt, our shoulders hunched slightly against the weather. When we got to my house I opened the door and we stepped inside. I rested my crutches against the wall and unslung my backpack, dropping it beside me. My parents were both at work and the house was silent except for the sound of our jackets dripping onto the tile floor. We stood there facing each other, neither of us speaking. His eyes met mine only briefly, and then he sort of shrugged and moved toward the door. ‘I’ll see ya,’ he said, and I panicked, knowing that this was the moment for me to say something, to do what I could to make things right between us.

“‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted out, and he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ he replied. He took a breath, his left hand raking back the wet brown hair from his forehead. He smiled a little, his hazel eyes regarding me in a way that told me we were still friends, that we’d both been acting like idiots but now all was forgiven. I thought about the years we’d spent together growing up, about the secrets we held on to for each other, about the loyalty that had been built brick by brick like a fortress around us. I wanted to tell him that it was still there, that fortress, and that all we had to do was step inside once again.

“‘I’m sorry I didn’t recognize it,’ he said, ‘what was developing between us.’ I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that I had recognized it for both of us. ‘Sometimes two people just … connect, you know?’ he tried to explain, and I nodded. ‘I mean, it’s like it’s not there one day and the next day it is.’ He shifted his stance so that his body was turned more fully in my direction, and I took a half step forward.

“‘The thing is … I think I love her,’ he said, and I froze, my mouth going dry. ‘Yeah,’ he said, more confidently now. ‘I love her, dude. I just didn’t know you felt the same.’

“I looked away from him, focusing on the stairs leading up to our living room. I could feel myself tearing up, could feel my throat getting tight. ‘I don’t,’ I told him, but he scoffed a little.

“‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at us.’

“I shook my head, remained silent, knowing my voice would betray me.

“‘Just because I’m spending time with her doesn’t mean I can’t also hang out with you,’ he reminded me. ‘We’ve been friends a long—’

“Without thinking, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his shoulder. I could feel his chest rise and fall against me, could feel the warmth of his body beneath the damp bulk of his jacket. He did nothing for the span of a few seconds, just stood there and let me hold on to him. And then his voice—alarmed, and too loud within the confines of the foyer—was in my ear.

“‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Jason, get off me.’ He pushed me away with his hands, and I had to step back onto my sprained ankle to keep from falling. I kept my eyes on his this time, and I think I was crying but I’m not sure. He looked at me in disbelief. ‘What’s wrong with you,’ he said, and it wasn’t a question but an accusation. In my mind, I could hear Alex asking me the same thing, bewildered by the sudden panic that had taken hold of me as we lay there together on the ice, her arm wrapped around my chest. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at us,’ Michael had said, assuming that the hurt and yearning in my eyes was directed at her, not him. Suddenly, the realization dawned on him, and his face changed as if he’d unexpectedly come across something pungent and revolting.

“That’s when he struck me, his arm flashing out so quickly that I think it surprised even him. I took the blow in the left temple, my head rocking back and to the right as my vision became a kaleidoscope of images in front of me. The house was quiet except for the sound of our breathing, and standing there—blinded by my tears—I remember wondering whether he would hit me again. My arms hung loosely at my sides, refusing to defend me, and I stood there waiting for it—that second blow—and however many more would follow. Instead, I heard something worse: the sound of the door opening and closing as he left. And it was only then that I allowed myself to crumple to the floor, the sobs ripping through me like bullets, the self-loathing rising in a great wave, and a vague awareness that I had uncovered something in myself that I did not want to deal with. I wanted it to disappear for a while inside me, to come out different or not at all.

“The house stood still around me—silent and watchful—and I remember feeling alone in a way I had never experienced before. I did not think about the ramifications of what I’d done, did not consider the price I would pay in the weeks ahead. That would come later. For the time being, I only sat there with my discovery, not knowing what to do with it. The palm of one hand went to my face to wipe away the tears, and when I looked down I noticed a streak of blood crossing the lifeline. I stood up on my one good leg and, situating my crutches beneath my arms, lurched to the bathroom where I inspected myself in the mirror. There was a gash just beneath my left temple—here.” He pointed to the remnants of a faint scar I hadn’t noticed before.

“My mom took me back to the hospital to get stitches, and I saw the same doctor who’d treated me for my ankle a week and a half before. When he asked me how it had happened, I gave him some lie about tripping on my crutches, striking my head on the counter. He must not have believed me because he cleared everyone else out of the exam room, asked me if someone had done this to me, if anyone was hitting me at home. I could feel my face flush at the response—a liar’s face—as I told him, ‘No, it was my own fault. I wasn’t being careful. I did this to myself.’ He studied me for a moment, then pulled out his pen and jotted something down on the chart. I remember wanting to look at what he’d written, convinced that the final diagnosis would not be ‘fall’ or ‘laceration,’ but rather the same accusatory question that had been posed to me twice over the past month. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ it would say, and for the first time I had an answer.

“I winced when the pinch of the needle entered my body. The burn of the Novocain ebbed into a strange numbness. What’s wrong with you? I thought over and over again as the sutures pulled the edges of my wound together, their futile attempt to return me into something whole. And when I began to cry, Mother squeezed my hand and whispered her own false reassurance—that it would be over soon, that I just had to be brave a few minutes longer.”

I want to know what he did,” I told Wagner, cornering him near the nurses’ station.

“Who?” he asked, glancing uncomfortably at the patients around us and signaling to me, perhaps, that it was inappropriate for us to be seen interacting like this.