Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

I shoved it up under my shirt and jacket, and it was like carrying a block of ice. I could feel its heart beating right next to mine. Cars were passing all the while, and I waved like crazy, but they went right on by. First time I ever prayed to see a cop, I can tell you that. After a few miles of walking, the little guy warmed up a bit, and you know what he did? He went right for my tit, like I was his momma. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so hopeless, but my tears froze before they made it halfway down my face.

Finally I saw a house all lit up for the holidays. I banged on the door, and they let me in, real nice black folks, just sitting down to dinner. The lady of the family took the baby from me and set about making it comfortable till the ambulance could get there. They fixed me up with a plate, and their children sang Sunday school songs for me. The sheriff gave me an empty cell to sleep in that night and had me over to his house the next day. There was a present for me under the tree and everything, a new coat. It wasn’t until he put me on the bus to New Orleans after dinner that he told me the baby had died.

OH, LOOK! JUDY and Karl are friends now. They’ve crossed that line. I can see it at the dinner table over the takeout Chinese. They’re finally comfortable with each other, moving easily from joking to paying attention when it seems important, discovering common ground, that whole thing. This leaves me pretty much ignored. My contributions to the conversation earn a quick smile and nod, if that.

I take my beer into the living room and sit on the couch. The Christmas tree lights are on, twinkling stupidly. I think about those astronauts at the mall. What was it: Mercury, Gemini, Apollo. If I went into space, I’d want to go alone, and if I made it as far as the moon, there would be no stopping me. Judy laughs, and I turn on the TV. Loud.

“What do you think, honey,” Judy shouts over it. “A tattoo.”

“That’s against your religion.”

“What about you, then?” Karl asks.

“Not my style.”

Karl stands and begins to clear the table, but Judy tells him to leave it, she’ll do it later. They join me on the couch, she on one end, he on the other. Judy grabs the remote and clicks off the television.

“If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right. There have got to be some carols on the radio.”

“Now you’re thinking,” Karl says as he jumps up and goes to the stereo. A few twists of the dial, and “We Three Kings” fills the room.

“I can play this, you got a guitar,” he says.

“Nope. No guitar,” I reply.

Judy says, “That baby, if you don’t mind me asking, did they ever find its mother?”

Karl shakes his head and looks down at the carpet. “I’ve wondered about that, too, I really have.”

This guy could be full of it. That’s certainly something to consider. A good liar is a kind of genius. We may be playing right into his hands.

When I get up for another beer, Judy is explaining Hanukkah to him. I can see into the apartment next door through the kitchen window. A family is gathered there — old people, young people, babies. Everybody is talking at once. I don’t understand Spanish, but they seem to be happy. My mother is in Hawaii with her new husband. That’s where his children live. And that’s fine. It’s good for her to get away. Everybody should be able to enjoy themselves if they get the chance. I drink the beer, standing in the kitchen, the whole thing in three gulps, and open another.

“Come on, bro, let’s have a sing-along,” Karl calls.

I reclaim my spot between them on the couch. Judy has a slight sunburn from the beach. She looks healthy and happier than I’ve been able to make her in a long time. Karl stands and raises his arms like a choir director. He cocks an ear toward the radio.

“ ‘Little Drummer Boy.’ Let’s do it,” he says.

Nobody really knows how the song goes, but we give it our best shot, singing the parts we remember loudly and letting the radio carry the rest. Next up, though, is “Little Town of Bethlehem,” which loses us all.

“We’re pitiful,” Judy says.

Karl laughs. “Well, fuck it, then,” he says. “Let’s just sing the easy ones.”

We run through “Rudolph” and “Jingle Bells” and a few others, then give up on Christmas crap completely to serenade each other with anything that comes to mind. I do my Cub Scout cowboy repertoire — “Streets of Laredo,” “Darling Clementine,” “Polly Wolly Doodle” — and Judy offers something in Hebrew she memorized a thousand years ago and a few numbers from My Fair Lady .

When it’s Karl’s turn, he moves to the middle of the room and busts out with a creepy old song his grandfather taught him, something about a murdered child in a garden. He stands with his eyes closed, arms dangling at his sides, and his voice is a high graveyard whine that squeezes the breath out of me. It’s as beautiful as such a thing can be.

Judy watches and listens with trembling lips, her hands clapped to her cheeks. “Karl,” she exclaims when he finishes. “My God!”

He shakes himself out of his trance and smiles broadly. “Whew! That’s a goody, huh?”

“You fucking jailbird,” I say in a voice choked with anger and envy. “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“Take it easy, bro,” he says. “Have another beer, why don’t you.”

I LIE QUIETLY beside Judy until I’m sure she’s asleep, then roll out of bed and dress in the hallway. The only thing I think to grab is my toothbrush before creeping through the living room, past Karl sprawled on the couch, and out the front door. I’m dizzy with excitement, tight in the belly, and I swear I can see in the dark as well as any cat. The streetlights are as bright as the sun and shadows hold no mystery. I try to work up some emotion when I turn at the bottom of the stairs for one last glance at the apartment, but all that comes is a smile. Perhaps I will change this to a tear in the retelling somewhere down the road. Perhaps not. Perhaps I will never speak of this life again.

My car is parked on the street half a block away. There is a 4-Runner in front of it, backed right onto the bumper, and a car has wedged itself in behind. I start the engine and shift into reverse, stomping on the accelerator in an attempt to gain enough space to maneuver away from the curb, but the car behind me won’t budge. Neither will the 4-Runner. I get out and check the doors of both vehicles and find they’re locked. And it’s cold. Really cold. I should have brought a jacket.

I scoop up my steering wheel lock and look both ways on the street. The incredible clarity of a few minutes ago has faded. I draw the steel bar back over my shoulder and move up next to the 4-Runner. It should be a simple matter to slip the vehicle into neutral and push it forward a few feet to facilitate my escape. I swing the lock as hard as I can, and the window shatters into a million tinkling pieces. This is followed by the piercing whoops of an alarm, which echo off the surrounding buildings and return twice as loud as when they left.

Gutless instinct takes over, sending me sprinting down the sidewalk and up the stairs to the apartment. Karl is standing in front of the window in the living room when I burst through the door. The alarm can be heard as clearly here as it could down in the street.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, passing through without stopping. “Happens all the time. Kids and shit.”

I undress in the dark. Judy doesn’t stir as I climb back into bed. I bury my face in the pillow while my heart slams itself against my ribs in frustration.

I MUST HAVE been drunk, because I now have a vicious hangover, or at least it feels like a hangover. On Christmas morning. If it wasn’t for Karl, that wouldn’t mean anything. It would be just another day for Judy and me. No hideous tree. No turkey and cranberry sauce to deal with. Judy’s up to her elbow in the bird, stuffing it. I offer to help, but she laughs and says, “No, no, go talk to your brother.”