Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

“Come on,” Ralph muttered. “Come on.”

Nothing moved.

“Come eat,” he said, in a warmer tone. “Let me take the gag off. I know you don’t like it. Come on, you bastard.”

He continued to gaze. As rigid as wood or stone, he didn’t say anything. Nothing happened. The muffled sound of the radio filtered in from another room; footfalls sounded in the hallway. Ralph unfolded his arms and let them hang at his sides. Then, all at once, he flung himself at the bed and pulled at the leash. The bed began to slide across the floor, as if the leash were also fastened underneath to the frame. Besides the sound of Ralph grunting and cursing, as well as the legs of the bed dragging across the floor, there was a faint but shrill voice — similar to the screechy cries of a scared rodent.

VIII

Kyle stood looking out the window in his living room, with his back toward a man who was sitting on the couch. The man was dressed in the dungarees and jacket of the refrigeration company. He held the cap in his lap. His gaze, which was soft and slow, continually drifted from the carpet before his feet, up to Kyle, then back to the floor again.

“I don’t understand what’s this all about,” Kyle said, still looking out the window. “He knew I had my doctor’s appointment this morning.”

“I don’t think that’s the point. It wouldn’t matter so much if you hadn’t missed so many days lately,” the man said. “You should’ve come in afterwards.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“He didn’t send me, if that’s what you mean.” The man was now fingering his cap. “I was worried that you might’ve gotten bad news today. That’s all.”

“No, my PSA is fine. The doctor says I’m in good shape.”

“You’ve got it beat then. That’s good.” The man stood up and put his cap on, but he didn’t advance.

“You’ve never got it beat. It could come back tomorrow. And then they’ll want to take off some more of my cock.”

The man grew still, uneasy, as if he didn’t know if he should move or even look at anything.

Kyle was holding the curtain to the side. He didn’t turn to face the man.

“About the other thing,” the man began to say.

“What other thing?”

“Missing days at work.”

“Ah hah,” Kyle said, almost happily. “You are his messenger.”

“I’m your friend. That’s all.”

“Tell him—”

“I’m not going to tell him anything,” the man said. “I’m telling you.”

Kyle suddenly let go of the curtain and turned around. He seemed half-startled, half-amused.

“The little bastard is passing by again. See,” Kyle said, pulling the curtain aside. “There he goes.”

The man stepped forward, but he didn’t seem concerned with looking outside.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” the man said.

“These kids keep riding their bikes past my house. Like I’m a freak show. They think I’m crazy.”

“Nobody thinks anything.”

“You weren’t here when the police were poking around in my house and digging through my garbage. Half a dozen boys sat across the street watching, waiting for the men to carry out bodies or something. One of them, this little prick, told the police that I was all crazy and distraught when he shoveled my driveway that night.” Kyle smiled, lowering the curtain again. “That was his word: ‘distraught.’ When do kids use a word like that? This little prick goes by my house all day long, like he’s a detective or something, because he got to say that I was ‘distraught’ in front of the police.”

“Anyone would’ve been distraught,” the man said as he moved toward the front door.

Kyle nodded slowly, staring vaguely at the man’s chest. He appeared to be contemplating the word anew.

“Maybe working again would be good for you,” the man said. “It’s better than staring out the window all day.”

Still nodding, Kyle steadied his gaze upon the man’s eyes.

“Okay,” the man said. He opened the door and let in the cold air. “I’ll see you Monday.”

When the man departed, Kyle went to the window and watched him climb into his van and drive away. Long after the man had left, Kyle continued to stand at the window, with his palm resting flat upon the pane and his forearm holding the curtain aside. He stared blankly. He was dressed in a white tee-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. His hair was a bit disheveled. Eventually, he lifted his hand from the glass, and as the curtain fell, he receded back into the house, taking slow steps. He seemed to be moving aimlessly, even as he entered the kitchen and began to fix himself a tall glass of cranberry juice and vodka. He didn’t bother to stir it. He wandered from room to room, occasionally stopping at one object or another, such as a soup can filled with pens or a mess of sneakers in the hall closet. He would remain fixated for a while and then move on. He carried his drink with him, and at the instant he finished it, he happened to be back in the kitchen, as if the end of his listless tour of the house coincided exactly with the moment he needed to refill his glass. He lingered in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, until the dusk began to creep through the bay window. He moved again, and this time his wandering brought him to the upstairs bathroom. He set the glass on the back lid of the toilet and started to undress. Only when he was completely naked did his expression change; his eyes, which had been fixed in a bland, drowsy gaze, now became glazed. He seemed to be on the brink of crying, but once he stepped into the shower, if any tears were shed, they were lost in the water.

The shower appeared to revive him a little. He dressed himself in a pair of brown slacks and a button-down shirt, and after combing his hair, he even put a dab of cologne at the hollow of his throat and on the front of each wrist. He only had two sports coats in the bedroom closet, one black and the other a dark, murky brown, which he selected and hung over the edge of the crib. He checked his appearance in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Then he put on the sports coat and looked at himself again. He started toward the hallway, yet suddenly stopped and went back to the bathroom. He found his drink on the toilet. He stood in one spot in the bathroom until he finished the drink; lastly, he brushed his teeth.

Despite the cold, he left the house without an overcoat and walked toward a small detached garage at the end of the driveway. Firewood, covered with ice and snow, was stacked against the outside wall. A path worn by footsteps through the snow led to a side door. Kyle entered the garage and locked the door behind him. In the dark, he walked across an empty parking space, got into an old Honda Civic, started the car, and got out again. He placed a milkcrate in the empty parking spot, as if he intended to sit down, but he then just stood there. The dome light from the idling car cast low, broken shadows across the concrete floor and sent vague, diffuse light up into the ceiling. Kyle seemed frozen, confused, on the brink of tears again, as if by stepping upon the empty parking space he’d awoken something inside of himself that unnerved him. But whatever spell held him, he cast it off with a sudden lifting of his gaze and a tiny sniffle. Inside the car again, he pressed the garage door opener attached to the visor. As the door creaked and chugged its way up the tracks, the exhaust fumes dissipated into the crisp night air.

He drove along quiet suburban streets but soon entered the business section of a small town. Above the streetlights and buildings, the dark sky was full and depthless and blank. He parked beside the curb and then walked along the sidewalk. Most of the storefronts were shut down, but several people lingered under an awning up ahead. In the glow of greenish light, a thin girl was leaning against a man. She kept reaching for his cigarette, and he kept holding it out of her reach. Finally, she placed both of her palms on his chest, as if she’d been defeated and now surrendered herself to him. As Kyle approached them, he watched the couple with a subtle, averted gaze. He opened the door and slipped into the building as though he feared they might attack him. The people on the sidewalk, however, paid no attention to him.