Hurt My Boy

I wrote this short story yesterday.

"Hurt My Boy"

She hurt my boy two weeks ago. Broke his heart and stomped--

Mom. Stop.

--on the pieces. What? That's what happened, isn't it?

I don't want to talk about it.

I know, dear. I know.

We've been talking about it for two weeks. Can we just—not?

Okay. Okay. I'll leave you alone.

You don't have to go anywhere, just...

But I do have to go out of the room, leave him on his side of the couch. It's gone a little squishier around him since that Tuesday. When he gets up for work or food or the toilet, the suede puckers reach up to grab him back in. If I stay I'll notice that, and I'll say something, or at least think something loud enough to bother him.

It's better to give him quiet, so I go upstairs.

The first week, she called his cell phone. Now he keeps that off and upstairs, and she calls the house. He never answers it. That's my job.

No, I say into the receiver. Not here. I don't know when.

He stares harder at his laptops I hang up. Who was--

No one. For Liz.

Like hell it was! Liz is folded next to her brother like a gargoyle, all folded legs and arms and startled eyes. She knows too much. Why didn't you hand it over?

Telemarketer.

Liz punched my boy on the arm. Tell your nutter to fuck off.

She's not mine.

Anymore, I almost add out loud. Horrified, I pick up the remote and start flipping. Liz.

What? Did we stop practicing the First Amendment around here without my knowledge?

Yes, dear.

I need to know these things, Ma. She stands up, leans over and headbutts her brother. I gotta go do my fornicating homework. Can I borrow his car tomorrow night?

Hey! He doesn't move. His face stays round and set.

Where are you going that's so damn important?

That does it. He crumbles.

Liz...

Liz looks suddenly worried. She leans down again and hugs her brother's neck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Want to come with me? 

No.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Want to come with me?

I liked her. She was sweet. She seemed so happy with him. I was going to--

Mom. Don't.

Don't what?

You know. We talked about it last month. What you were going to do.

On the side of my chair that he can't—won't—see, I tip one of my knitting needles until the red stitches fell unraveled into a basket. She liked red. Still liked it, maybe.

So. Any weekend plans?

He shakes his head.

He use to spend the whole weekend with her, packing his suitcase and trailing it behind him like a tourist looking for the right gate at an airport. He would come back Sunday evenings, sometimes for dinner and sometimes not, usually smelling like her shampoo and always smiling. Liz would bait him and he'd let it flow off him into a bad pun.

That's what I miss the most. That's what I hate her for—she stole his sense of humor.

She can keep that. Liz leans across me to open the refrigerator. 

Can you get me a diet Coke from the back, dear?

Liz squints. You're closer.

Please?

Okay okay okay. She grabbed two, opened one with a chewed fingernail, and handed it over. Cold enough? Should I go grab some snow?

He hasn't moved, Liz. 

It's winter. Nobody's suppose to move.

But he's—inert. Depressed. I don't think he's gotten off the couch in--

About an hour and a half. He was taking a piss when I went to steal his laptop. I put it back before he noticed. He takes a really long time in the bathroom, ever notice that? 

No, dear. I can't say that I have.

I'm just saying that's probably more worrisome than whatever this girl did to him.

How can you say that, Liz? He's...

He'll get over it. 

Liz...

He will. The batshit crazy ones are always the easiest to get over. And she's batshit, Ma. Liz took a long swallow. I don't know what she took of his—essence, or whatever, but it's gone and probably for the better because if that piece of insanity and booze wanted it, it couldn't've been good for him. You know?

She wasn't that bad, Liz.

Liz shrugs. I'm trying to be supportive.

Did you say booze?

Liz shrugs again.

Liz. Did she get your brother into trouble with alcohol?

Liz smiles. See? Now you hate her, too. 

And I do. God help me, but I do. She hurt my boy. What else can I do?

THE END