John McManus - Born on a Train - 13 Stories

Look it up! he screamed, startling everyone.

It’s not here, said Mama, and then she whispered, It’s here.

Froggy laughed. I don’t know what kind of piece of shit bird guide wouldn’t list an argus.

It is here, she said.

It can’t be, said Froggy, cause I made it up.

It’s noted for its watchfulness, said Mama.

Look up cormorants, Ben said.

I already know what a cormorant is, Mama said.

Anyway, said Froggy, it’s not a cormorant. It’s an argus.

Ben was careful to wait two whole minutes before he followed Froggy out to the porch, where lavender was fading fast to black and far out on the ocean ships had gathered. Ben wondered if they had binoculars or telescopes to watch him, if they had seen him chase the bird, and if they had a telephone, if they’d call him if he held the number up, and Ben tiptoed across the porch to Froggy’s standing place against the screen and said, Are you mad at me?

Only when you pout like one of them, said Froggy, gesturing with his whole head toward the house. I wish she’d just leave me the fuck alone. She’s like a girl.

Mama?

Froggy stared at him and laughed and said, You’re a dumbass.

I thought you liked her.

You can have her, Froggy said.

I don’t want her, Ben said.

Froggy laughed.

That’s not what I mean, said Ben. I meant we should both want her. I mean—

You’re a pervert, Froggy said.

No I’m not.

I know why you don’t go in the water.

I go in the water.

Queers can’t swim. They fill up with water through their asshole and then they drown.

Ben watched Froggy hit him on the shoulder.

I know why Mama and Celeste don’t go in the water, too.

No you don’t.

Froggy shrugged. Okay, I don’t.

Why?

Froggy turned his mouth and nose up like he smelled shit on someone’s shoes. You want me to gossip about our own mother, he said. Now how do you think that would make her feel?

Ben shrugged and kicked the dead bird off the porch through a hole in the screen and watched it land on sandspurs on a dune below and tumble beneath the porch and out of sight. He wondered if Froggy might have caught a fatal illness from the bird when he had carried it to the house. There were still diseases down in the Caribbean that had no cures. He didn’t know their names, but they were there.

Froggy laughed as he went inside the house. Ben hung his shorts on the deck rail to dry and walked up and down the boardwalk, counting the number of times he turned around. He decided he was bored and went inside, where Froggy had sprawled himself across the couch, playing his Game Boy. Celeste was eating a saltine cracker spread thick with butter, nibbling tiny bites and chewing each one for minutes at a time.

Can we play a two-player game? said Ben, even though he didn’t want to.

When I’m finished, Froggy said.

When will that be?

The hell if I know.

You’re never finished, Ben said.

Froggy loudly sighed and turned around. I’ll be finished when I’m finished, he said. Leave me alone. The animated boy he controlled on-screen leapt over bottomless chasms, swung on vines, and ran across the grayscale pixels. Stop looking over my shoulder, he yelled, and Ben backed away, and Froggy raised his voice further. I’m in the middle of this game, he cried out, and I’m not finished with it. Or with any of the others I haven’t started. Suddenly Mama choked on spit caught in her throat, and Froggy shut his mouth to listen. Are you okay? he asked her nervously.

Please stop it, she begged him. I just can’t live through all this ugliness.

She closed her book and thumbed its pages. Froggy paused his game and walked across the room to stand behind her chair, whispering in her ear as he softly massaged her shoulders. Ben tried to hear what he was saying. She let her head fall over until her chin came to rest against her chest. Froggy guided her hand to a cocktail glass that sat on the end table, and she lifted it and drank.

I’m sorry, she said.

It’s okay.

I shouldn’t have yelled like that, she said, taking a big sip. It hurts my voice.

I’m sorry too, said Froggy.

It’s all right, she said, her voice distorted by the soreness in her throat. I know it’s natural for boys to yell. She wiped her forehead with her left hand, wet from the glass, and shut her eyes and reached across her shoulder to hold Froggy’s hand. Celeste was at the table, staring with wistful eyes at the darkened sea, where the girls next door still bobbed in the surf, their backs toward the shore.

By the time they’re done, said Celeste, they’ll be as wrinkled as I am.

You know why they stay out there so long? said Froggy.

When no one answered him he stretched his arm to nudge Celeste so she said, Why?

They can’t get out, because I fucked them so hard.

Mama stood so his hands fell from her shoulders to his side, and she walked to the picture window and leaned against it with her forehead.

For God’s sake, Froggy said, I’m only joking. Celeste smiled at his voice and leaned her head back delicately against her chair. You know, she said to him. You’re going to need a car soon. You’ll be sixteen in June.

He looked up at her. You don’t drive the Lincoln anymore.

Celeste shook her head. You don’t want to drive that old piece of junk, she said, and ran her finger along a wrinkle that curved across her cheek to the top of her nose. A boy like you needs a sports car, she said.

Yeah, said Froggy, and an airplane, and a gun.

I think I’ll buy you a sports car, said Celeste.

Mama shook her head and said, You’re not buying anyone a sports car.

Celeste’s eyes grew thoughtful as she traced a facial trench with her little finger like she was sculpting the car in her mind, painting it a shiny red and firing up the pistons. Sports cars went two hundred miles an hour. Ben wondered if Froggy would be one of the kids who die in wrecks at age sixteen. He’d seen a dead boy in the newspaper whose hair looked a lot like Froggy’s, although not as dark.

Will you take me on a drive in it? Celeste asked Froggy. She smiled into the lamp. It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden in a sports car.

Froggy didn’t answer. Ben wanted to tell her about their drive that morning to see how widely she would smile, how many false teeth he’d be able to count at once. He knew from television commercials that they were all connected, that they came out, but maybe Celeste’s were glued onto her gums.

I can be the very first girl you take for a ride.

He won’t be taking anybody for any rides, said Mama.

It’s my money.

Mama sighed.

You’re just waiting for when I’m dead. If it was up to you, I wouldn’t get to spend a penny. I’d never get to leave the house.

That’s ridiculous, Aunt Celeste.

You’d lock us all up, she continued, her voice jittery and low. You’d make us live on beans and applesauce.

Ben wished they didn’t have to stay at the beach for so much more time, but he knew if it were shorter the rest of his life would just be longer. He imagined himself in the middle of a nightmare where Mama was stockpiling cans of beans and jars of applesauce, her face writhing like a scorpion; she was a Scorpio, like Ben. He shut his eyes to make it go away. When he opened them, Froggy was staring at his game screen. The night’s first stars began to shine as a ship blinked red on the horizon, and Ben saw the girls next door floating as always in shallow water, their pink tubes milky from reflected moonlight. He looked across the room at Froggy, who pressed two buttons with his thumb repeatedly, his feet propped on the hassock and a drink between his legs, breathing like a moth in a cocoon. His eyes glowed as he sucked a cola-darkened ice cube.