Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,96
did.
First, he went through the cabinets, checking cans.
“Why haven’t you eaten any of the vegetables?” he shouted into the living room.
“I don’t like French-cut green beans.”
“These aren’t French cut.”
Silence for thirty seconds. Then, “They have too much sodium.”
“Why didn’t you eat the fruit cocktail?”
“I’m on a diet.”
“You’ve got to eat something that didn’t come in plastic wrap,” Jem said. “I’ll make carrots; I saw some in the freezer.” He opened another cabinet. “Benny, where’s that spice rack? I’ll put some garlic powder in the carrots.”
The only answer was papers shuffling.
“Benny?”
Next door, Mrs. Johnson was shrieking about her lying, piece-of-shit husband, and then there was a deep, gonging noise that made Jem picture a cartoon cat getting struck by a cartoon frying pan.
From the opening to the living room, Jem asked, “Benny, spices?”
Benny wouldn’t look up.
“Jesus Christ, Benny,” Jem said. “Again?”
“I needed cash to buy my girlfriend dinner. Elisa said she’d give me twenty bucks for the spice rack.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Benny. That shit costs me money, ok? All this costs money. I don’t buy you fucking groceries so they can sit in your fucking cabinets, and I don’t buy you fucking spice racks so you can sell them to fucking Elisa so you can have twenty fucking bucks to buy your fucking imaginary girlfriend a fucking hamburger.”
“She’s not imaginary,” Benny said.
“What’s her name?” Jem said, louder than he meant to. “Where’d you meet her? What’s she do for work? What’s her favorite fucking color, Benny?”
Flinching, Benny tried to maneuver his bulk closer to the pages, tried to make himself smaller, which was hard to do when he was over two hundred pounds.
Opening and closing his hands, Jem said, “Sorry.”
Benny crossed something out; his hand was shaking.
Moving to the couch, Jem dropped down, met by the sour stink of body odor. “Benny, I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a lot of stuff.”
“I don’t need you to buy me anything.”
“I know.”
“I never made up an imaginary girlfriend in my whole life.”
“I know.”
“I’m fine,” Benny said. “I don’t need you.”
Jem studied the bagged newspapers, the magazine pages cut out and pasted over the windows, the greasy smears in the carpet, the handwritten manifesto spread out in front of Benny. He closed his eyes and said, “I know.”
Next door, Mrs. Johnson was sobbing.
“Why did I tell you to be careful around girls?” Jem asked.
“The same reason you’re careful around boys.”
“Which is what?”
“You don’t want your dick to do your thinking for you.”
“Right. And what else?”
“It’s easy to believe someone likes you because everybody wants to be liked.”
“That’s right,” Jem said. “And people will believe anything if they want it to be true. Even you. Even me.”
Benny just shrugged.
“What’s her name?” Jem asked again.
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Anyway, I won’t be your problem for much longer,” Benny said. “They’re going to kill me.”
“You’re not a problem. And nobody’s going to kill you, Benny.”
“They are. I know too much; it’s all right here. They have to get rid of me.”
“Benny, I know you don’t like how you feel on the meds, but you can’t just go off them. We’ll go see the doctor again. We’ll find something that helps you and doesn’t make you feel bad.”
Benny shrugged.
“How’s your pump?”
“Fine.”
“Insulin?”
“Fine.”
“Did you test your blood sugar?”
“It’s fine, Jem.”
“When’s the last time you tested it?”
“Dunno.”
“Ok, I’ll get a strip.”
“This morning.”
“Benjamin Lindsey Guthall, if you are lying to me, I will beat your ass.”
He flashed Jem a wounded look. “I checked it this morning.”
After that, there wasn’t much Jem could do. He conducted his final walkthrough and spotted the backpack with a pup tent strapped to the top. When he got back to the living room, he said, “Are you going to the Jenkins’ place?”
“Maybe.”
“No, we don’t play that way.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“When, Benny?”
“Tonight.”
“For how long? It’s Friday, so when are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jem said.
“I don’t! I know too much, Jem. I’ve got to lie low for a while. I’ll be up there until it’s safe to come back.”
“Did you tell the Jenkins you were coming?”
“Not yet.”
“Fine. I’ll call them. Next week, Benny, we’re going to see your doctor, and we’re going to try different meds.”
Benny was reordering the pages in his lap.
“Tell me you heard me.”
“Ok, all right, I heard you.”
“What’s our rule?”
“You’ve got a million rules.”
“What’s our rule, Benny?”
“Cell phone on and charged, and I answer when you call.”
“Even if you’re in a movie.”
“Even if I’m in a movie,” Benny repeated.
“Even if you’re taking a dump.”
“You’re so gross.”
“Get up and give me a hug.”
“Jem,” Benny whined.
“Get your fat ass up.”
After some more groaning, Benny stood, and they hugged.
“Eat that before it’s cold,” Jem said, pointing at the lasagna, where the red sauce was already congealing.
Benny just nodded and mumbled.
Outside, at the bottom of the stairs, Tommy Johnson, twelve years old, was smoking a fatty blunt. His eyes were glazed when he looked up at Jem.
“That bad?” Jem asked.
Tommy blew a ring of smoke, his head sagging back as he stared at the October sky.
“Let me get a hit,” Jem said. Tommy passed it over, and Jem took a few long drags, holding the smoke, his eyes closed, letting the world soften. When he passed it back, he said, “You eat dinner?”
Tommy shook his head like he was in slow motion.
Digging out his last ten, Jem said, “Go get something to eat.”
Then Jem headed back into the city, trying to figure out the best place he could get an asshole to buy him a drink.
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go out to:
Cheryl Oakley, for keeping track of my tenses, for catching dropped articles, pointing out consistency in dialogue, and giving me so much encouragement with this book!
Dianne Thies, for her careful proofing of this book, for pointing out the number of gloves, telling right from left, and mapping the Zatarain’s ad—including direction of travel.
About the Author
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
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