Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

He moved it back, realigning it. It was a single-sized mattress on a metal frame, the kind where the two halves slide together so you can adjust the size, and it was not hard to move. The wheels fell back into the dents in the linoleum where they had always been.

He got down and glanced under the bed. There was a balled-up sock and an old condom wrapper. The pizza box had been moved under the bed for some reason. When he pulled it out and examined it, it looked to him as if it had been stepped on in the center, a detail that troubled him because it didn’t seem like something she would do.

He picked up the poncholiner and felt it. Brought it to his face and smelled it. Shook it. Nothing fell out of it. He felt through every inch of it. His heart was beating and he did not know why. He stared at the mattress. Touched it with his hand. She had been lying here. He kneeled there waiting for the next thing he would do. More than anything, he was perplexed.

He put the poncholiner back on the bed, an unconscious cleaning-up gesture preparatory to getting to his feet, and this was how he discovered her shoes. When he moved the green military blanket, it was like moving a curtain, and underneath it was a surprise. His brain had been expecting bare linoleum. He found himself looking at a brand-new pair of women’s Asics in phosphorescent peach trim. They were hers and, for a fraction of a second, it was like finding an Easter egg. He had a flash of success. Then the implications started spreading.

Why am I looking at someone’s shoes and the person who belongs in them is gone?

There was no one here to say, It’s just war, that’s what happens.

He took a long struggling breath in through his nose, lifting his chest like an asthmatic trying to prevent an attack.

Immigration? Jimmy? Either way, that motherfucker.

He had started dialing 9-1-1 while storming around the room, throwing things around, getting out his gear, his sheath knife, his lips white — throwing glances at the ceiling. Afraid of what the cops might make him say, he never made the call. He wanted to call Jake and say, I’m sitting in my basement with my gun in my hand and I’m going to go upstairs and do the guy above me. Tell me what to do.

I do not know. I do not know. This cannot be.

His hands were wet. He told himself to chill. He started hiding his weapons from himself. He did not trust himself to make the right decision, so he left his room and actually locked his door, locking himself away from the firearm. And then he climbed the stairs to the Murphy’s apartment and knocked.

There were voices on the other side and they stopped talking. He waited in the shadowed alcove for someone to answer him. His landlady spoke.

Who is it? Is that you, Skinner? Come in, it’s open.

She was sitting where she always sat, wearing her same house-dress, an unlit Slim in one fist and a Bic lighter in the other. She was in the middle of saying:

From day one, I told her they’ll never give you the entire place. The men have it all week and they’re not gonna give it up. I says do it at your place.

On the other side of the kitchen, all in black, Erin did not acknowledge Skinner. To her mother, she said:

Her house isn’t big enough.

Yes, it is with the yard. It better be. Because I’ll tell you now, she ain’t getting the hall. Hello, Skinner.

Until she spoke, he had not known what he was going to say. His voice cracked, his throat making a strange music: Is your son at home?

Is my son at home? Jimmy?

Is he here?

He might be, Mrs. Murphy said. Concerning what do you need him?

I need to talk to him.

What do you need to talk to him about?

I just need to talk to him.

You need to talk to him.

Yeah. I need to talk to him. I need to talk to him now.

Erin made a scoffing sound.

You want to tell me what this is about, pray tell?

I don’t know. I was gonna ask you the same thing, Mrs. Murphy. I don’t know if he’s got something to tell me or if you’ve got something to tell me. Did anything happen here today while I was gone?

Did what happen?

I don’t know. I want someone to tell me.

They stared at each other. She was about to tell him to get out of her house.

Jim-my! Erin yelled.

Don’t, Mrs. Murphy said.

Let him handle it. He wants to talk to him so badly, let him talk to him, Erin said.

Jimmy, don’t come down here! Mrs. Murphy yelled.

What’s the problem? Erin said. Let him. He wants him. You want to talk to him, right? Here he is.

Jimmy entered the kitchen coming out of the bluish hallway lined with old framed pictures. He walked in lackadaisically, swinging his arm. At the end of his arm were the rings on his fingers and they appeared to be heavy. He was sizing up the room.

What? Jimmy asked with his bearded chin raised.

Skinner looked at him with abhorrence.

What’d you do to her?

What? Jimmy demanded.

One of them — maybe both of them — took a step forward, and the next instant they were fighting.

Jimmy! Mrs. Murphy barked.

There was no sense of being hit. Skinner fell on the floor and scrambled up. It was mayhem and he heard silverware. He was in terror. They pitched over together. They were fighting on the floor and the family was screaming and he was being crushed and couldn’t breathe. A hand got free and he got punched in the head. His head hit the floor and silverware jumped. He got punched again. Jimmy was grinding him with a forearm trying to break his nose. The man’s skin in his face. They slid across the floor leaving his nose blood on the floor and wiping it with their legs. His shirt was being used to choke him. He sat up, got punched and blinked. He freed his legs and started kicking. His shirt ripped. They stood and something fell and broke. He was gasping, no strength in him for anything, and tried to swing his fist. Got hit in the face. Goddamn prick, Jimmy snarled, hitting him, Skinner bending over. They careened backward and Skinner stepped on a broken wooden drawer and slipped and a fork shot across the floor from under his foot.

Kick his stupid ass! the daughter screamed in her high voice.

Do not destroy my goddamn kitchen! Take him outside!

They fell and clutched on the floor, clawing at faces, Skinner pushing Jimmy’s chin away. Against his cheek, he felt Jimmy’s heart pounding under his fat heated chest. Headlocking each other, they breathed, ribcages flexing up and down, resting. Skinner taking long ragged hill-running breaths, trying to get to his feet again. His shorts had come halfway down and his jockstrap was visible.

Mrs. Murphy was on the phone, waiting to be connected. That’s it! she said. They’re taking this little fucking shithead to jail.

Yes, I need the cops here, she said. There’s a man trying to attack my son.

The fight went on and then it broke apart with Skinner not eager to continue. He had been shoved outside and now he was pacing back and forth in the driveway, his Army Strong shirt ripped down and red marks around his neck and blood welling out of his nose and smeared on his wrist where he had been wiping it. His eyes were on the ground. Jimmy turned his back on him and went back inside the house. Skinner pulled his shorts up.

Erin had come to the doorway to watch him. I got him, she said into the house. If he tries anything my brother’ll put him in the hospital.

She had been taunting him.

We’ll see what the cops say when they get here, she told Skinner. And you got your ass kicked.

Skinner spit blood.

Fuck you, bitch.

His voice was high and shaky.

Why are you still here? Why don’t you just go?

What, and leave my property?

After you destroyed our property? You know, my brother isn’t done with you, she said. You better leave town.