Here So Far Away(59)

“It’s on all of you, and I’m sick of it,” Bill said. “Man, you’re the worst friends.”

“Buddy, Lisa and I haven’t been friends for a long time.”

“Not to each other, to me! I feel like the only real friend I have left is four thousand miles away.”

“That’s not true.”

“You know, after Sid moved, none of you girls called me to see how I was doing. Lisa barely spoke to me for a week.”

“You know why she was mad at you.”

“Yeah, because I panicked.”

I thought back to when we said good-bye to Sid, how Bill’s throat was working when Sid gave him that shoulder punch boys do instead of a hug, and I realized that you could only blurt out something as stupid as Bill had—that thing about there not being other black kids at school—if what you were feeling was too big to say to a guy in an Eddie Murphy costume.

“I guess we just assumed you were okay because, well, you’re always okay.”

“Then Tracy and I broke up, and where were you guys?”

“I brought you gingerbread,” I said. “And Nat brought you date squares, and Lisa got you that stupid shirt. . . .”

“Sure, I had a little harem going for, like, ten minutes before you all disappeared.”

I shouldn’t have, and I’ll regret it forever, but at the mention of minutes my eyes went to the clock on the wall above his head.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“I’m sorry—”

“Go on, if you’ve got somewhere to be. I could use a break from you.”

I had a few more minutes, but he wasn’t going to cool down, so I tossed the ball over to him. He let it hit him on his chest and roll away.

“There she goes! Where to, nobody knows!” Bill said to my back. “Just off somewhere being George, doing George things.”

The ball slammed against the gymnasium door after I closed it behind me.

When I got home, Dad was, as usual, asleep in his recliner—head tipped back, openmouthed snoring. Matthew was watching Coronation Street with the volume turned down. “Does it seem like Dad’s been sleeping a lot?” he whispered.

“He doesn’t even wake up when I come home at night,” I said. “He could be back to taking pain meds.”

Matthew gnawed on his knuckle. “His stump shouldn’t hurt that much anymore. Unless it’s that phantom pain.”

We listened to him snore for a minute. Matthew pointed to a box of Benadryl next to Dad’s cigarette pack. “Maybe he’s sleepy from the Benadryl. I got him some for a rash on his leg.”

“I think that’s the box I bought a few days ago.”

“He shouldn’t have gone through the stuff I bought already.”

“I put another in his bedroom too.”

We quietly got up and went upstairs. Another box of Benadryl was on Dad’s bedside table where I’d left it.

We hunted for the third box. Not on the dresser or in the drawers. “Not in the cabinet either,” Matthew said, returning from the bathroom.

There didn’t appear to be anything in the wastebasket beside the bed but tissues and dental floss. Matty turned and gagged as I plunged my hand in. Three empty blister packs were at the bottom.

“Got to be overdoing it,” I said. “Have you seen this rash? Is it that bad?”

“Nope.”

I looked around the bedroom at the cluttered surfaces—ashtrays overflowing, stacks of crosswords and Reader’s Digests lying around. “He could be using it to put himself to sleep.”

Dad’s voice from downstairs: “George! Get my cigarettes.”

“They’re on the table next to you!”

“There’s only five left!”

Did I want to get into this thing with the Benadryl before I left? No, I did not. Francis and I were driving to the city in a few hours. We were spending two whole days together and sleeping in the same bed and when I woke up in the morning, he’d be there. We’d get to see if we’d run out of conversation. If we were sure no one we knew was around, we might even hold hands in public.

“I’m going to a movie with Bill tonight,” I said, handing Dad a fresh pack. “We’ll get a bite at the Grunt.”

“You’ll have to cancel. I’ve decided that we’re having a sit-down family supper when your mother gets home.” He rose inelegantly from his chair.

“I promised Bill—”

“Call him.”

Did he know? He knew. But how could he? I’d hidden my bag in Abe’s trunk before anyone else was up that morning, had been careful to buy a new toothbrush and toiletries so nothing went missing from the bathroom. So why the sudden desperation to have a sit-down dinner?

We followed Dad into the kitchen and watched him moving awkwardly around with his walker, opening cupboards, tossing things onto the counter.

Because he had something to prove, is why. Maybe he’d heard us talking upstairs.

“What are you making?” Matthew asked.

“Stew.”

“Doesn’t stew have to cook for a long time?”

“Soup.”

Dad stifled a yawn as he piled vegetables around the cutting board. The man had tranquilized himself at horse level.