The Unwilling(20)

I watched him into the house, but stayed on the street for another moment. Was it possible my best friend was afraid to register for the draft? I couldn’t see it. Some kind of conscientious objector? Protests against the war were on the streets and in the news, but those were hippies and cowards and people in big cities.

What happened when someone like Chance broke the law?

Would they come looking for my friend?

Like Chance, I had little desire to go home. Instead, I pointed the car at the city line. I couldn’t remember the exact house where I’d collected Jason the other day, but I remembered the intersection: Water Street and Tenth. When I got there, a couple guys were in the front yard throwing a football back and forth. They were older with long hair, lit cigarettes, and T-shirts with the sleeves cut away. I parked the car, followed a cracked sidewalk, and waited until one looked at me. “Hey. I’m looking for my brother.”

“Who’s that?”

“Jason.”

“In the back.”

I said thanks, and ducked my head so the football wouldn’t take it off. Inside, I followed the sound of clanking metal to another open door and a small porch on the back of the house. Jason was there, shirtless in faded jeans. He was doing curls with a heavy bar and thick plates. When he saw me, he lifted his chin.

“What’s up, little brother? You need something?”

“Hey, it’s cool. Finish your set.”

He worked through the rest of his set, and veins popped in his arms, no fat anywhere. What I saw most clearly was the bruising. It ran on the left side of his face, and on his ribs, too, seven or eight places, each the size of a fist. He lowered the bar, then whipped a shirt off the rail and shrugged it on, speaking as he did. “What are you doing here?”

I pointed at his ribs. “I heard about the fight.”

“What, this?”

“Bikers, I heard.”

“A few, maybe. Who told you?” Jason flipped the lid on a Styrofoam cooler and dug around for a Budweiser. “Chance, right? I saw his cousin there. Weasel-looking little sucker.”

“He said it was pretty hard-core.”

“Is that right?”

He handed me a beer. I opened it. “What was it about?”

“The fight?” He shrugged. “Tyra, I guess.”

“How so?”

“She’s a shameless flirt. And she gets ideas.” There was a lie in there somewhere, or at least some evasion. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m done with her, anyway. You seen Sara?”

A sudden flush embarrassed me. Sara was a fantasy, a schoolboy’s dream. “Not since the day.”

“You should follow up on that. She’s a good girl, and not like Tyra.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“So, why are you here?”

He leaned on the rail, and it was strange to see cop eyes in a convict’s face. I tried to find the best answer: that I didn’t want to go home, that maybe it was about Sara. Deep down, though, it was about being brothers. “Bored, I guess.”

“You should try prison sometime.”

He drained the can and crumpled it; and I tried to understand why things felt so different from the last time. He was aloof, impatient. He scratched at an arm, and I thought, Shit, is he using?

“So, uh. You want me to … you know?” I hooked a thumb at the hall leading through the house.

“Yeah, man. It’s not really the best day. Maybe this weekend.”

“We could catch a movie. Maybe shoot some hoop.”

“Let’s talk about it later, yeah?”

He came off the railing, and I looked again at the bruises, the torn skin. There was more to say, but I never found the time to say it. We heard a racing engine, then the squeal of rubber as something fast and loose took the corner five houses down. The engine screamed louder, and metal scraped metal. Voices from the front yard: The fuck, man? Watch it! Watch it! The crash that followed was louder and close, and extreme for the silence that followed. Seconds later, a voice carried the length of the hall.

“Jason, yo! You better get out here!” I followed my brother through the house. A man with the same voice said, “Yo, it’s your girl.”

Jason stepped onto bare dirt, but stopped before reaching the wrecked car. It was a Mercedes two-seater, sideways in the yard, with paint stripped from the fenders and the front end pinned against a tree. Tyra was half out of the front door, both hands in the dirt as the engine ticked, and a shattered turn signal flashed orange.

“Tyra, Jesus. You okay?”

Jason moved to the car, and helped her up. She wore a white skirt and a teal tank top. Her knees were skinned, a trickle of blood at the hairline. She stumbled, and Jason caught her, the top of her head tucked beneath his chin. She could barely stand. She leaned into him, kissed his neck long and slow, then said, “Get your convict hands off me.” Pushing him away, she pulled an arm free, and stumbled again. Mascara smeared the skin beneath her eyes. Her words slurred. “You don’t get to touch me. Not ’til I get what I came for.”

“Tyra. Come on. Take it easy.”

“You don’t get to break up with me. Not you…”

“Tyra…”

“Not some two-bit, pasty-white, deadbeat, convict-looking son of a bitch.”