Now Is Not the Time to Panic(39)

“That kid died, Frankie. Like, we got him killed.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” I said. I did not want to rehash our responsibility as artists, did not want to keep explaining it away. I just wanted to be alive, to be in it, to keep doing it. And I needed Zeke. “I have all these posters. I have more of them back home. Let’s hang them up. I think if we keep doing it, it’ll keep going, and maybe it gets better. Maybe it turns into something else.”

“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ll write to you, though. Letters? I’ll write when this is all over. And then . . . you know, you can come see me in Memphis.”

And I knew right then that I’d never see Zeke again. This was the end of something that had mattered so much to me, for such an intensely short amount of time, and it was ending, and I was going to be all alone when whatever was next finally came for me.

He turned away from me and opened the door.

“I’ll tell people we did it,” I said. I opened my backpack and showed him the huge stack of the posters. “I’ll put them all over this house and my house, and I’ll tell everyone that it was us.”

Zeke froze and then I watched his shoulders seize, like I’d just punched him in the neck. “No, you won’t,” he said. He was tapping the palms of his hands against his ears, like they were on fire, or maybe buzzing. He was right next to me now, and he suddenly grabbed my wrist, harder than I think he meant to. “Please don’t do that,” he said, and he wasn’t even really looking at me, like he was far away. “I’m begging you not to do that.”

I tried to pull my arm from his grip, but he squeezed tighter, like he couldn’t let go until I promised him. The look on his face, it was like nothing I’d seen before from him. The left side was spasming, like bugs were under his skin, and he looked . . . so frightened. And I realized that he was afraid of me. Because I was doing something cruel, because I was terrified of being alone. Because I worried what I’d do if Zeke wasn’t around, when it was just me and whatever was inside of me. Maybe, I thought, Zeke was what was keeping me from doing bad things.

I heard his grandmother call out from the kitchen, “Who’s out there?” and Zeke pushed me away from him, as if he was trying to hide me from her. My feet were still firmly planted, and I stumbled backward. I dropped the backpack and then tripped over it, and then I was falling down the steps of the porch, one arm behind my back and the other reaching out for balance. I heard this snapping sound, felt this unbelievable wave of pain, so sharp that I gasped, but nothing came out of my mouth. My face hit the ground, my teeth biting into the dirt, and my mouth was instantly numb. After a second or two, I tried to stand because I was so embarrassed of myself, but I fell right back down. I must have had a concussion, had blacked out for a second, and I kept trying to understand why I couldn’t get up, why I kept sprawling around in the grass behind Zeke’s grandmother’s house. And then I heard Zeke make this sound. It was so deep, a kind of retching moan, like a cow had been hit with a sledgehammer. And I was so afraid for Zeke. I tried to call out for him, but I still couldn’t make a sound.

“Frankie,” he said, “oh god, oh my god, oh god, oh my god.” And he kept talking but it wasn’t even real words, just sounds, little grunts, barks.

I finally rolled onto my back and sat up, and I realized that my left arm was snapped in half, just flopping around. It didn’t hurt exactly, not like I expected—I guess I was beyond that kind of pain—but it also didn’t feel like it was a part of my body. It was this thing that I didn’t need, but I couldn’t get rid of it. The backpack was still caught on one of my feet, a strap hooked around my ankle, and I used my good arm to get myself free. I took a deep breath and then stood up. I looked at Zeke, but he didn’t come for me. That was worse than the broken arm, that he just stood there. He was crying, I could see that, but he wouldn’t come any closer. There was a moment when he suddenly seemed to come back inside of himself, to realize what he’d done.

“I’m so sorry, Frankie,” he said.

And I wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault, that it was an accident, but maybe everything is an accident. Maybe nothing in the world is intentional. Maybe everything that has ever happened and ever will happen is some dumb mistake. So who cares if you apologize?

So I said, “Fuck you,” and then I limped to my car, somehow getting into the driver’s seat before I realized that I didn’t know where the keys were. I used my good hand and my teeth to open the backpack, but only the posters were in there. I tried to use my left hand to reach into my pocket, but it didn’t work, of course, and so I had to use my right hand and reach across into the left pocket of my jeans, and now the waves of pain, these intense shocks every time I shifted my body, started to hit me. But I got the keys, finally. It felt like it had taken four hours to do it.

I put the backpack on the passenger seat and started the car. I looked at the house, and Zeke was staring at me from the window of the living room. His grandmother was in the other window, so confused, frowning at me. I have no idea what she had seen or what she thought had happened or what her daughter had told her about Zeke and why they were returning to Memphis. And, like an idiot, I waved to her. Not to Zeke. I couldn’t look at him anymore. But I waved to his grandmother, whom I had never spoken to in my life, and she waved back. And then I left.