Tom Mendicino - Probation

“Out here,” I shout. “I’m coming.”

My sister’s husband, exhausted and agitated and reeking of cigarettes, is standing at the glass door. His arms are crossed accusingly, his thick chest is heaving, and there are sweat circles under his armpits.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Looking at the moon.”

His anger and frustration escalates. Indignation gives way to murderous impulses.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he hisses, spraying spit across my face.

Who is this prick? Who does he think he is, confronting me? I don’t owe him any explanations, any answers. I open my mouth to tell him to get out of this house, this sanctuary where my sister and I grew into the miserable, pathetic creatures we are today.

“Your sister had to be sedated,” he shouts, not giving me a chance to speak. “No one could find you. Where have you been, you irresponsible little fuck?”

Lucky man. Lucky for him I don’t have a gun or a knife or brick in my hand.

“Your mother’s dead. No one could find you.”

“When?” I ask.

“Eleven. Quarter after eleven. Hours ago. I’m sorry, man,” he says, his anger exhausted, relieved he’s found me, mission accomplished. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

Douglas, his voice, tight, high pitched, scared, calls out to me, startling my brother-in-law.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ,” my brother-in-law says, realizing he’s barged into some sordid little assignation, disgusted, looking at me as if I’m an insect to be crushed under the sole of his size thirteen shoe. “Fucking Jesus. Unbelievable!”

“Go,” I say, my voice calm, under control. “Leave now.”

He doesn’t know whether to take a stand for all that’s decent or escape while he can, absolved of any further responsibility.

“Let Gina sleep in the morning. The arrangements have all been made. Everything’s taken care of. Just go.”

He pauses, straining to see beyond me, needing to have his worst suspicions confirmed.

“You sure? You okay?” he asks, wary, stalling.

“Yes, thanks for asking.”

I don’t move until I hear the front door close behind him. Douglas is fumbling around in the dark, afraid to come out where he can be seen. I wait for grief, pain, shock, some emotion to overwhelm me. I’ve spent months preparing for this moment, to gird myself for the kick in the stomach, the sharp blow to the throat, the lead pipes across my knees that would follow the final pronouncement. But the minutes pass and nothing. I say the words aloud, sure they’ll trigger an appropriate response. My mother’s dead. But here I stand, unchanged, feeling no different than five, ten minutes ago. I try to summon up an image of my mother. Her features are already vague, hazy, indistinct. I can’t remember the color of her eyes. Definitely not brown. But gray, green, hazel, pale blue? I thought I’d seared them into my memory, but they’re gone, lost forever. The next time I see her they’ll be sewn shut, never to be pried open again.

My thoughts wander back to the stoned boy stumbling in the grass. In a few hours, it will be morning and the sun will burn away the haze, the fog in my mind. There’ll be enough time to despair. But tonight, at least, I’m not alone.

“ Douglas,” I call out. “Doug. It’s okay to come out.”

He emerges from the dark, backlit by the moon, shoes in hand, hesitant, afraid to throw caution to the wind.

“Can I stay here with you?” he asks again.

“Yes.”

I mean tonight. He thinks I mean longer. I’ll wait and break it to him in the morning. The bogeyman won’t be so scary then.

He follows me into the house and up the stairs. My twin bed can’t accommodate both of us and I lead him to my mother’s big queen bed, the one she shared with my father. He slumps on the mattress and smiles at me.

“I’m so tired,” he says.

“So am I.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll just sleep.”

“I wanted to give you the best blow job ever.”

He’s slurring his words, fumbling with his buttons. I turn back the sheets and help him wiggle out of his pants and pull off his socks. He lies on his back and watches me undress. He drapes his arm across my chest when I crawl in beside him. His head droops and he is asleep. I touch the port wine stain on his shoulder and count the birthmarks on his neck.

He’s far away, safe in Never Never Land, where lost boys live forever and never have to grow up. He doesn’t hear the angry little cell phone shrieking in the duffel bag downstairs. Somewhere out there, a driver is cruising the streets of Charlotte, searching for a boy in a nylon warm-up suit. I’m afraid Douglas ’s not as lucky as Peter Pan and that his story won’t have a happy ending. Tomorrow night, the warm body next to me may be lying in an emergency room, beyond repair, just a few heartbeats away from being rolled to the morgue on a gurney.

Do not resuscitate.

No mechanical respiration.

No tube feeding or invasive form of nutrition or hydration.

No blood or blood products.

No form of surgery nor any invasive diagnostic procedures.

No kidney dialysis.

No antibiotics.

No codes.

No extraordinary efforts to sustain life.

But that’s a day away. Tonight he will sleep like a baby, the inevitable postponed until the sun rises. I’ll lie awake, haunted by my mother, with his warm body spooned into mine in the bed she shared with my father. We’ve both earned another precious day, and that’s as much as any of us can expect.

The forecast was on the mark. It’s still reasonably hot, it being summer in North Carolina, after all. But the temperature feels surprisingly comfortable after the Old Testament scourge of the past week. I’ve spoken to Regina and she’s agreed, begrudgingly, but without argument, to respect my wish to do this alone. I’m showered, shaved, gelled, deodorized, fortified with black coffee and a piece of rye toast before climbing the stairs to the bedroom. I lower myself on the mattress as Douglas, this perfect stranger, sleeps contentedly in my mother’s bed. Rise and shine, I say, sounding like her, gently waking him. I find a way to slip my name into my greeting, assuming he doesn’t remember it. He looks forlorn, like he was hoping to hide under the covers all day, when I tell him we need to be going. I’ve got to be somewhere, I apologize, I can’t drive him back to Charlotte. I insist he accept whatever’s in my wallet, a couple hundred, more than enough for the taxi to take him wherever he wants to go. He had a really great time, he says. He wants my number so he can call me when he gets a phone. The one he’s been using belongs to a friend. He gives me a friendly kiss and hops into the cab, his precious duffel bag held tight, talking excitedly on the cell, concocting some wild and improbable tale to explain going AWOL last night.

I’m wearing a blue suit and white shirt, dressed for the occasion this time, hoping to avoid the withering disapproval and arched eyebrows of M. Sweeney of M. Sweeney & Son. But it seems M. Sweeney is now resting comfortably in one of his top-of-the-line models. Sweeney the Son greets me in “business casual”: shirtsleeves, khakis, and boat shoes. The tables have turned, and Sweeney the Son, surprised by my gabardine and tie in these less formal times, is embarrassed and excuses himself, returning in a gold-buttoned navy blazer. Add epaulets and a visored cap and he’d pass for the majordomo of a yacht club.

The times, they are a-changing. Solemnity is outdated, even at a funeral parlor. The M. Sweeneys of tradition, dour and elegiac, church bells ringing out with every footstep, are asleep in the graveyard. Sweeney the Son has a difficult time repressing his cheerful good nature. Try as he might, gravity does not come easily to him. He bounces from casket to casket on the balls of his feet. He bubbles with enthusiasm as he describes the luxury extras of the better models, their plush interiors padded with creamy fabrics, with lifetime warranties against seepage and moisture.