Ricky Read online

  He hugged her back. His big arms were awkward around her frail waist and up her back. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said.

  After half a minute or so she detached herself and walked towards another wall. Then she stood facing it, one hand on her hip, the other pinching the bridge of her nose. Her back was to Ricky. “Fuck,” she said.

  Ricky sat there. Then he went to the bathroom, switched on the hard fluorescent light and also the ventilator fan, to cover any noise. He locked the door behind him, went over to the toilet, and knelt before it, lifting its lid. Then he stuck three fingers into the back of his throat and kept jabbing them back there until he finally puked. Luckily he’d eaten a lot the night before, plus had had a big breakfast before the cops had come, so the puke came out in a torrent, crumpled his stomach and twisted it around. When it was over, it left him gasping raggedly into the bowl, his hot face cold and bathed with sweat, his hands shaking, eyes watery, mouth scraped and sour, lips coated with slime, his whole self blasted. He stayed there a long time, but eventually he felt obligated to go be with his mother.

  The cops were still there when he got out of the bathroom. Heavyset guys. They asked about the victim, were interested when it turned out Ricky had seen her the day before, asked him about that. But for the most part their questions were about Elly’s general habits and it was his mom who fielded them. After a while she excused herself to go to the bathroom. Alone with the cops, Ricky, who was sitting with his elbows on his parted knees and his hands clasping each other, said, “Am I a suspect?”

  Both the cops looked at him in surprise. “Why do you ask that?” asked the heavier one.

  Ricky said, “I’m on parole.”

  “You’re on parole? What’re you on parole for?”

  “Driving a car for some other guys who wound up killing some people.”

  That obviously interested them both, but they didn’t say anything for a little bit. Then the less fat one said, “Is that so.” Ricky’s mom came back and the cops didn’t pursue the subject, probably out of decency. They must have figured Ricky wasn’t going anywhere. And then, maybe they really honestly felt like he hadn’t killed his sister. Ricky was miffed that they hadn’t known he was on parole. It seemed like a real lapse.

  The family—which was just Aunt Lenora, who’d stayed fat, and her two soft teenagers—showed up, and the cops left not long after. Aunt Lenora was crying, not less hard than Ricky’s mom, exactly, but with less anger, with more stunned shock in her bereavement. She hugged Ricky and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek, pressing her moist face to his, then planted herself at the kitchen table and cried along with Ricky’s mom, one arm around her sister’s shoulders and the other hand gripping her sister’s near arm, their foreheads touching as they wept. “Oh, Shoshona!” said Lenora.

  Ricky stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, respectfully trying to not stare at his mom and aunt but at the same time trying not to seem like he was ignoring them. Finally he couldn’t stand feeling stupid anymore what with the way he was just standing there, so he went back to the living room without the women seeming to notice. He sat on the couch and stared back at his chubby cousins, who were staring at him in terror. Finally he couldn’t stand that anymore either, so he got up and went back to the kitchen. There he stood in the doorway for a while, waiting to be acknowledged, until, when he wasn’t, he said, “Mom,” and, again, “Mom.” The second time she and Aunt Lenora both looked up at him.

  Face burning, he said, “Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ve just got to get out of here.”

  He’d been steeling himself for her to feel betrayed and shocked, but her face opened generously to him and she shook her head, saying, “Oh, of course, baby, of course,” releasing him. Her generosity was so unexpected that he didn’t know what to do at first; then he turned and walked out, not saying goodbye to Aunt Lenora or her kids. Outside he unlocked his mom’s car, slid into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and pulled out into the street, managing to keep his movements precise and keep himself from trembling.

  He left the thin blue crumbling ribbon of his mom’s road and got to Baseline, went down Baseline a mile or so, then pulled into another side street and a couple streets later started going around a randomly chosen block. Where could he go? He couldn’t go see Elly. There weren’t any friends. There was a middle-aged black guy in a wifebeater standing in front of his house looking at his scruffy lawn, and the fifth time Ricky drove past the guy flipped him off. Ricky went back to Baseline, deciding to go back onto the freeway and across town to Vino’s.

  5.

  As Ricky pulled into the terrible Vino’s parking lot he was scanning it, as if these were the old days and he might recognize someone’s car, so he wasn’t paying attention to the potholes and he smacked the car right into one. It bounced and as it came down the pavement hit the undercarriage, and Ricky heard and felt the jagged concrete scrape along the bottom. He thought he might have really damaged the vehicle and, shaking, he got out. He double- and triple-checked the car, but still couldn’t get his breathing under control.

  Jesse wasn’t inside Vino’s. Behind the counter there was some guy. He thought about telling this dude that his sister Elly had been killed, but that was stupid. Besides, Elly had hung out here, and for all he knew she’d been friends with this guy. What if he went to this stranger for comfort and he turned out to be more upset than Ricky? He ordered one of those fancy microbrewery beers, then stood there at the counter holding the pint glass. Then he pulled himself together and walked away from the counter, pretending like he was supposed to meet someone, some friend, that he didn’t see yet.

  There was another room off the main dining room, and Ricky headed there. Lots of tables but few people; also an unmanned, unstocked bar. Ricky was horrified to find that there was a guy sitting at that bar sobbing, leaning his forehead into the palm of his hand, tears and snot on his red face. On the other side of the room were some people sitting and eating at a table, trying to ignore the crying guy. Vino’s had the music turned up loud, that was why Ricky hadn’t heard the weeping from out in the front room. He was already walking in now and it would have been weird to turn around and head back.

  He sat at a table that was equally far from the crying guy and from the group of friends. At first he tried not to look at the crying guy, but the guy seemed oblivious to his surroundings, so Ricky decided it couldn’t hurt to check him out more openly. He was thin and little, in a punk-band T-shirt, with red hair and a reddish complexion made even more so by the blood rushing into his face—his nose was kind of a beak. He wasn’t even trying to choke back his sobs and cry quietly. Watching him, Ricky had the familiar feeling that reality was on the other side from him of a soundproofed, unbreakable, plexiglass wall, a dirty wall that you couldn’t see through clearly. Then something occurred to him and, excited, he stood up and carried his beer over to the guy. The guy seemed not to even notice him coming. Ricky stood beside him and gingerly touched him on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, man. Is your name Paul?”

  The guy sniffed a bunch of snot back into his throat and blinked and looked up at Ricky. “Yeah?” he said.

  “Dude,” said Ricky. “I’m Ricky. I’m Elly’s big brother.”

  Paul broke out in a fresh flurry of crying and embraced Ricky, who patted him on the back and said, “It’s going to be all right, man. It’s going to be all right.”

  “It’s not. She’s dead.” That was true, so Ricky didn’t say anything back.

  It was like Ricky had broken the spell or something; Paul got himself under control. Wiping his eyes and nose on his skinny forearm, he sniffed again and said, “Elly told me you were going to be getting out of prison soon.”

  “Yesterday.”

  Paul stared at him, stricken. “Did you even get to see her?”

  “Yeah. Yesterday.”

  “And then as soon as you get out someone . . . as soon as you get out, this happens? You must be . . . Jesus, man. . . .” And Paul leaned in t
o give him another hug, which Ricky accepted. “You must be so fucked up over this,” Paul said, and cried a little to punctuate it.

  Ricky held him, uncomfortably. He said, “Do you think it was that guy she was dating?”

  Paul squeezed him and shook his head. Because Paul had his head buried in between Ricky’s neck and shoulder, when he shook it he rocked Ricky’s own head back and forth. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe, but how do I know?”

  “That guy Ted. Elly said he was a thug. Why did she call him a thug?”

  “Well, because he was. But I don’t know if that means he killed her.” When Ricky didn’t say anything, Paul let go of him, leaned back and looked at him. It seemed like he was waking up from something as he studied Ricky, and said, “But hey, man. They’ll find whoever it is.”

  “Sure.”

  “We can’t worry about that shit, man. They’re going to get him. If it even is a him. The cops’ll do that.”

  “No, yeah, I know.”

  Ricky was facing the doorway to the front room and Paul had his back to it, so Ricky was the one who saw Jesse hurry in, her keys dangling from her hand. She stopped short when she saw Ricky looking at her, then looked even more freaked out when she saw who he was holding. “Hey, guys,” she said.

  “Oh, sweetie,” said Paul, and got off his stool and hugged her tenderly and kissed her on the cheek. Jesse squirmed and pointedly did not look at Ricky. “Okay,” she said. “Hey, Paul.” At that he seemed to feel that something was inappropriate and he let her go. Jesse went on: “I didn’t know you guys knew each other.” There was something accusatory in her voice, or defensive.

  “We don’t,” said Ricky. “I just. . . .” He stopped, not sure how he should explain.

  Paul said, “Honey, Ricky here is Elly’s big brother.”

  “I know,” said Jesse, and then, under her breath (even though Ricky was right there and could hear her just as well as Paul could), she said, “Don’t call me ‘honey’ anymore, Paul.”

  Paul just looked at her. You would have thought that he hadn’t heard her reprimand, except for the way his whole self stopped for a moment, like he was recalibrating. He said, “Ricky just walked up to me and introduced himself.”

  Jesse looked from one to the other of them. “How did he know who you were?”

  “I don’t know, it was weird. I guess he just had a feeling.”

  Ricky was trying to figure out a tactful way to explain how he’d guessed, but Jesse was too exasperated to leave him a chance. “Okay,” she said. “Well, that’s amazing, I guess.”

  “Are you working today, honey?” said Paul. “I didn’t think you worked today.”

  This time she didn’t tell him not to call her “honey,” like she couldn’t be expected to ask him to stop every single time he did it. “No,” she said. “They called me and asked me to come and, you know. . . .” She trailed off, probably not wanting to explain in front of Ricky that she’d been called because Paul was making a scene. Impatiently, she said, “How are you getting home? Do you need somebody to take you home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well do you have your car here?”

  “No, it’s broken, I got someone to drop me off.”

  “Well then you need a ride home.”

  “Okay, except it’s not much of a walk,” said Paul, and he started to cry again, but just a little this time. “I just had to get out of the apartment. When I heard.”

  “I know,” Jesse said, wearily, and guiltily, because it was wrong to be sharp with him when he was suffering. She took Paul under her arm. As she was hugging Paul, her concerned eyes went to Ricky. “And what about you?” she asked. “Jesus, I’m sorry. How are you doing?”

  Ricky was looking at Paul’s back with distaste. Now he locked his eyes on Jesse’s glistening ones, and said, “I’m dealing with it.”

  “You just, you know. Got home, and stuff. I mean, did you even get to see her, at least?”

  “I did. I did get to see her.” Then he said, “Hey, are we still on to go out?”

  Jesse’s eyes got wide and panicked, and Paul straightened up and looked at them both, frowning curiously. Jesse said, “Uh, sure. Let’s talk about it later, though, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll call you in a little while. I still have your number.” And he repeated it back to her, to show that he’d remembered.

  She looked like she might have preferred that he hadn’t done that, but all she said was, “Okay. Give me a call. And especially let me know if you need anything, what with, you know.”

  “Okay.”

  Paul was still looking back and forth at them, confused and interested. “Wait, hold up,” he said, “so you guys know each other? How do you know each other?”

  “We met yesterday,” said Jesse helplessly. “Here. When he came to get a beer.”

  “Yeah,” said Ricky. “It was just like with you and me, man. These things happen.”

  At home, in the dark, his mother’s sobs morphed into snores. There was pain but underneath it reality was undented.

  Ricky had a weird dream with Paul in it. He didn’t remember it after he woke up, except they say part of you always remembers your dreams.

  There were two dreams overlaid on top of each other, woven together. The first was a standard Ricky-dream: he was being chased by something through a dark labyrinth. Whatever was chasing Ricky was inexorable and gaining on him, so that Ricky wished it would go ahead and catch him, so Ricky could quit running.

  In the other dream he was fucking. He realized he was buttfucking Paul and it freaked him out. It felt weird, Paul’s asshole had too tight a grip on Ricky’s dick; Ricky worried that he might be hurting himself. Sometimes he could convince himself that he wasn’t really buttfucking Paul, and then he was able to see a girl there instead, on her back. Her big titties bounced and under her curly black hair her face was a blur. That was nicer than buttfucking Paul, but there was still a menace hidden under the secret of that blur. But then the girl’s titties wouldn’t be as big anymore, they’d be regular-sized like Elly’s; and then it would be Elly’s face, not the blur anymore, it would be Elly he was fucking. That felt good, but it was horrible that it felt good, and he’d push the vision away, and again it’d be Paul he was buttfucking. Then he’d push that away, and it would again be Elly, or the big-titty girl. The principle within himself that conjured their ghostly flesh kaleidoscoped continually through all three, the dream-bodies squirming and roiling beneath him.

  He scared himself awake and lay in the darkness to which his eyes had not adapted, listening to the creaking and clicking of the always-settling house. Listening for his mother, but there was no sound of her anymore. Elly was dead. At the thought, it was like his abdominal cavity was washed in fart-smelling acid, like his brain swelled to where it was going to pop through his forehead. He tried to remember the dream, whatever it had been. But it was all gone. He never remembered it in his whole life.

  6.

  The next day the cops came again. It was early enough that it wouldn’t interfere with Ricky’s date, and he was glad, because he wanted to help, be a part of things.

  He planted himself on the scratchy sofa, beside his mom. She absently patted his knee. Aunt Lenora was still there, she was spending a couple nights at the house. The two cops were sitting on the loveseat catty-cornered to the sofa—not the same cops as yesterday, these guys were in suits, though they were still big fat guys. They apologized about bugging Ricky and his mom in this difficult time. His mom let them finish, then said, “It was that piece of shit Ted, wasn’t it?”

  The cops said that was what they were trying to find out.

  “She was scared of him. She told me a hundred times that this was going to happen.”

  “But she still stuck with this Ted guy anyway?”

  “She has bad taste in men. She takes after her mom that way.” She started to cry and they all waited respectfully for her to finish. Ricky felt like he should be putti
ng his arm around her or something, but he wasn’t sure of himself and didn’t want to screw up in front of the cops. He couldn’t help but give her an embarrassed glance. Yesterday she’d seemed noble in her epic grief, but today he felt guiltily ashamed of her, like she was the same old mom after all, like he’d stupidly been taken in by a ratty old Santa costume.

  His mom finished crying. She gave a couple last sniffles, like punctuation marks, and said, “Okay.”

  The cops asked for pictures of Ted, and of Elly with Ted. Shoshona fetched four huge photo albums for them. “The photos are all mixed in,” she said. “I don’t really do them chronologically.”

  The cops opened the top album to the first page. “Who’s this?” one asked.

  “That’s Elly when she was a teenager. And Ricky.”

  “And who’s that with them?” He looked at Lenora; “Oh, sorry, it’s you.”

  “No,” said Shoshona, “that was me.”

  “Wow. You lost some weight.”

  Lenora laughed with nervous offendedness. Shoshona said, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  Both of the fat cops were staring fascinatedly at the photo of the former Shoshona. “How’d you do it?” asked the second one. “Weight Watchers? Stomach staples?”

  “Yeah, what’s your secret?”

  “Oh, a lot of things changed around here after Ricky got sent away.”

  Now the cops raised their heads with new interest, looking from Ricky to his mom and back. “Oh, yeah?” said the first one. “Tell us about that.” Meaning her weight loss, not Ricky getting sent away.

  She told them about how the place had been a wreck the whole time the kids were growing up; how she’d been a fat slob. There’d been food, garbage, and dirty ancient laundry everywhere—and maybe that had been partly to blame for the wrong turns Ricky had made. (Ricky put his hand on her forearm and murmured that that wasn’t true, but his mom kept going like she hadn’t noticed.) Then when Ricky went to jail, everything changed. The very morning after his sentencing she’d woken up early, done some cleaning for the first time in years, and had walked around the block, though she hadn’t made it halfway before she’d had to sit gasping on the curb. But she’d kept at it every day until she’d been strong enough to join a gym and also do aerobics at home. Meanwhile, she’d cleaned up the house, throwing away almost everything. There had been a few months when most of her and Elly’s furniture had consisted of folding chairs and card tables, until she’d saved up some money at the new job she’d gotten as a cashier at Home Depot, where she was now a manager.