The Poison Eaters and Other Stories
Page 18

Lyle and Rafe snuck out to the woods anyway. They would stretch out on an old, bug-infested mattress and “practice” sex.
Lyle had forbidden certain conversations. There were never to be conversations about the practicing, no conversations about the bruises on his back and arms, and no conversations about his grandfather, ever, at all. Rafe thought about that, about all the conversations he had learned not to have, all the conversations he was still avoiding.
As fireworks lit up the black sky, Rafe listened to his sister fight with Marco on the phone. He must have been accusing her about getting the money from a lover because he heard his name said over and over. “Rafael sent it,” she shouted. “My fucking brother sent it.” Finally, she screamed that if he didn't stop threatening her she was going to call the police. She said her cousin was a cop. And it was true; Teo Santiago was a cop. But Teo was also in jail.
When she got off the phone, Rafe said nothing. He didn't want her to think he'd overheard.
She came over anyway. “Thanks for everything, you know? The money and all."
He looked up at her and couldn't help but touch the side of her face with the bruise. She looked at the ground but he could see that her eyes had grown wet.
"You're gonna be okay,” he said. “You're gonna be happier."
"I know,” she said. One of the tears tumbled from her eye and shattered across the toe of his expensive leather shoe, tiny fragments sparkling with reflected light. “I didn't want you to hear all this shit. Your life is always so together."
"Not really,” he said, smiling. Mary had seen his apartment only once, when she and Marco had brought Victor up to see the Lion King. Rafe had sent her tickets; they were hard to get so he thought that she might want them. They hadn't stayed long in his apartment; the costumes that hung on the walls had frightened Victor.
She smiled too. “Have you ever had a boyfriend this bad?"
Her words hung in the air a moment. It was the first time any of them had ventured a guess. “Worse,” he said, “and girlfriends, too. I have terrible taste."
Mary sat down next to him on the bench. “Girlfriends, too?"
He nodded and lifted a glass of iced tea to his mouth. “When you don't know what you're searching for,” he said, “you have to look absolutely everywhere."
The summer that they were fourteen, a guy had gone down on Rafe in one of the public showers at the beach and he gloried in the fact that for the first time he had a story of almost endless interest to Lyle. It was the summer that they almost ran away.
"I saw grandma's faeries,” Lyle had said the week before they were supposed to go. He told Rafe plainly, like he'd spotted a robin outside the window.
"How do you know?” Rafe had been making a list of things they needed to bring. The pen in his hand had stopped writing in the middle of spelling “colored pencils.” For a moment, all Rafe felt was resentment that his blowjob story had been trumped.
"They were just the way she said they'd be. Dancing in a circle and they glowed a little, like their skin could reflect the moonlight. One of them looked at me and her face was as beautiful as the stars."
Rafe scowled. “I want to see them too."
"Before we get on the train we'll go down to where I saw them dancing."
Rafe added “peanut butter” to his list. It was the same list he was double checking six days later, when Lyle's grandmother called. Lyle was dead. He had slit his wrists in a tub of warm water the night before they were supposed to leave for forever.
Rafe had stumbled to the viewing, cut off a lock of Lyle's blond hair right in front of his pissed-off family, stumbled to the funeral, slept stretched out on the freshly filled grave. It hadn't made sense. He wouldn't accept it. He wouldn't go home.
Rafe took out his wallet and unfolded the train schedule from the billfold. He had a little time. He was always careful not to miss the last train. He looked at the small onyx and silver ring on his pinkie. It had a secret compartment inside, so well hidden that you could barely see the hinge. When Lyle had given it to him, Rafe's fingers had been so slender that it had fit on his ring finger as easily as the curl of Lyle's hair fit inside of it.
As Rafe rose to kiss his mother and warn his father that he would have to be leaving, Mary thrust open the screen door so hard it banged against the plastic trashcan behind it.
"Where's Victor? Is he inside with you? He's supposed to be in bed."
Rafe shook his head. His mother immediately put down the plate she was drying and walked through the house, still holding the dishrag and calling Victor's name. Mary showed them how his bed was stuffed with pillows that formed a small boy-shape under the blankets.
Mary stared at Rafe as though he was hiding her son from her. “He's not here. He's gone."
"Maybe he snuck out to see some friends,” Rafe said, but it didn't seem right. Victor was only ten.
"Marco couldn't have come here without us seeing him,” Rafe's father protested.
” He's gone,” Mary repeated, as though that explained everything. She slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs and covered her face with her hands. “You don't know what he might do to that kid. O God. Madre de Dios."
Rafe's mother came back in the room and punched numbers into the phone. There was no answer at Marco's apartment. She dialed the cousins next. They had mixed opinions on what to do. They had kids of their own and some thought that Mary didn't have the right to take Victor away from his father. Soon everyone in the kitchen was shouting.
Rafe got up and went to the window, looking out into the dark backyard. Kids made up their own games and wound up straying farther than they meant to.
"Victor!” he called, walking across the lawn. “Victor!"
But he wasn't there, and when Rafe walked out to the street, he could not find the boy along the hot asphalt length. Although it was night, the sky was bright with a full moon and clouds enough to reflect the city lights.
A car slowed as it came down the street. It sped away once it was past the house and Rafe let out the breath he didn't even realize that he had held. His brother-in-law had never seemed crazy to him, just bored and maybe a little resentful that he had a wife and a kid. But then, Lyle's grandfather had seemed normal, too.
Rafe thought about the train schedule in his pocket and the unfinished sketches on his desk. It was getting late. The last train would be along soon and if he wasn't there to meet it, he would have to spend the night with his memories. There was nothing he could do here. In the city, he could call around and find her the number of a good lawyer—a lawyer that Marco couldn't afford. That was the best thing, he thought. But he'd turned despite himself, his shoes clicking like beetles on the pavement.
His oldest cousin had come out to talk to him in the graveyard the night after Lyle's funeral. It had clearly creeped Teo to find his little cousin sleeping in the cemetery, but Rafael's mother had sent him to bring Rafael home and Teo was used to the obligations of family.
"He's gone.” Teo had squatted down in his blue policeman uniform. He sounded a little impatient and very awkward.
"The faeries took him,” Rafe had said. “They stole him away to Faerieland and left something else in his place."
"Then he's still not in this graveyard.” Teo had pulled on Rafe's arm and Rafe had finally stood.
"If I hadn't touched him,” Rafe had said, so softly that maybe Teo didn't hear.
It didn't matter. Even if Teo had heard, he would have pretended he hadn't.
Rafe walked out of the house, hearing the distant fireworks and twirling his father's keys around his first finger. He hadn't taken the truck without permission in years.
The stick and clutch were hard to time and the engine grunted and groaned, but when he made it to the highway, he flicked on the radio and stayed in fifth gear the whole way to Cherry Hill. Marco's house was easy to find. The lights were on in every room and the blue flicker of the television lit up the front steps.
Rafe parked around a corner and walked up to the window of the guest bedroom. When he was thirteen, he had snuck into Lyle's house lots of times. Lyle had slept on a pullout mattress in the living room because his sisters shared the second bedroom. The trick was waiting until the television was off and everyone else was in bed. Rafe excelled at waiting.
When the house finally went silent and dark, Rafe pushed the window. It was unlocked. He slid it up as far as he could and pulled himself inside.
Victor turned over sleepily and opened his eyes. They went wide.
Rafe froze and waited for him to scream, but his nephew didn't move.
"It's your uncle,” Rafe said softly. “From the Lion King. From New York.” He sat down on the carpet. Someone had once told him that being lower was less threatening.
Victor didn't speak.
"Your mom sent me to pick you up."
The mention of his mother seemed to give him the courage to say: “Why didn't you come to the door?"
"Your dad would kick my ass,” Rafe said. “I'm not crazy."
Victor half-smiled.
"I could drive you back,” Rafe said. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and put it on the bed by Victor. “You can call your mom and she'll tell you I'm okay."
"Are you going to make a pretend me like Daddy did?” Victor asked.
The words echoed for a long moment before Rafe remembered to shake his head.
On the drive back, Rafe told Victor a story that his mother had told him and Mary when they were little, about a king who fed a louse so well on royal blood that it swelled up so large that it no longer fit in the palace. The king had the louse slaughtered and its hide tanned to make a coat for his daughter, the princess, and told all her suitors that they had to guess what kind of skin she wore before their proposal could be accepted.
Victor liked the part of the story where Rafe pretended to hop like a flea and bite his nephew. Rafe liked all fairy tales with tailors in them.