Tricks. Part 21

She accepts the brandy without protest. Sips it slowly, stares out the window. Finally she says, I never believed this day would come. Some stupid part of me kept insisting the doctors were wrong.

Oh G.o.d, I miss him so much already.

What am I going to do without him?

She swallows the last of her drink in a giant gulp, throws her face into her hands and sobs. I want to help. But I have no answers.

I take her gla.s.s, go to refill it.

She deserves a good drunk, and so do I. As I pour, Cory comes in, checks out the brandy bottle with covetous eyes. Oh, why not?

Mom won't care today. We sit on opposite sides of our mother, downing alcohol that cannot warm the death chill infiltrating us, inside and out. Soon the silence becomes overwhelming, and Cory turns on the TV. Doesn't matter what's on.

The three of us get drunk together, semi-listening to the announcer on Sports Central, droning on about Jet Fuel, the unlikely winner of both the Kentucky Derby and Preakness, his even unlikelier odds of winning the Belmont Stakes, and so the Triple Crown. When Mom starts to nod off, I help her to her feet, down the hall to her room, gentle her onto her bed. "I love you, Mom. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

Why Do I Keep Saying That?

Will everything be all right? How the h.e.l.l would I know? f.u.c.k this!

Jack, if you weren't already dead, I swear I'd ... I'd ... My legs give and I don't fight, sinking to the floor beside the bed Mom and Jack shared for so many years.

She snores softly, and I hope she isn't trapped in some disturbing dream. I look around the room, still so full of Jack. His clothes drape the chair beside the window.

His shoes form a straight line just inside the closet. The scent of Brut deodorant lingers, as does a vague hint of medicines, sweated despite antiperspirant. Pictures of him and Mom hang on the walls, and one of my favorite family photos-camping at Lake Mead-sits front and center on the dresser, beside his belt and wallet. Where are you now, Jack, having left all this behind? Are you whole? Is any of you left here?

Also on the Dresser Is a stack of mail. From here, I can see much of it is unopened.

I get up, go sort through it. Bills.

Power. Water. Trash. Mortgage.

Hospital. Doctor. American Express.

And there will be more coming.

Funeral home. Cemetery. Jesus!

Insurance won't take care of it all.

Neither will Jack's pension. I've got a paycheck coming, but that barely covers my own expenses. Stop!

Can't think about this now. Not today.

One day, at least, to mourn. One day to try and forget about death.

Mom's totally gone. I need to get high. Wacked. Out-of-my-brain fried. No need for Mom to see bills first thing when she wakes up.

I scoop everything off the dresser, into an empty shoe box lying on the floor. Jack wore new shoes to his funeral. A big, fat joint is calling my name. And after that, I need to hear Ronnie's voice.

Bud and Booze May not exactly cure what ails ya, but partner 'em up and they'll definitely make you forget it for a while. I turn on my computer, and the first thing that pops up on my Yahoo page is news headlines.

And there, again, is Jet Fuel.

They're laying odds against him.

Which makes me wonder ... Yeah, oh yeah, there it is-an online Sportsbook and yes, they are most definitely taking bets on the Belmont, as well as just about every professional sporting event out there, from soccer matches to major league baseball.

Why didn't I think of it before?

If there's one thing I know about, it's baseball. Been a Kansas City fan since I could spit, and the Royals are looking good this year. I want in on this action. First I need to set up an account. Let's see. All I need is a credit card and something to prove I'm eighteen, which I won't be for over a year. But where there's a will-and I've definitely got that-there's a way. It comes to me suddenly that the way just walked into my room in a shoe box, along with a pile of bills. Jack's wallet has three credit cards in it, along with his driver's license. This may be a gamble, but I'm betting they won't be checking to see whether or not Jack Bennett is dead or alive.

Not as long as the cards are good.

I sort through the stack, locate the AmEx and two Visa bills, check available credit. d.a.m.n right, more than I thought. Cool. In less than five minutes, I've got an account set up and a hundred smackeroos riding on tonight's Royals game. When they win, I'll pay the electric bill and buy some groceries. Meanwhile, I'll polish off this roach.

And I'll give Ronnie a call.

The Pot Buzz Should make me feel better, but all it does is combine with the alcohol to make loneliness. .h.i.t like a freight train. Mom's asleep, Cory's out somewhere, doing who knows what G.o.d-awful things.

Jack's dead. Dead. The word repeats itself over and over.

Dead. d.a.m.n, man. Dead.

I need to hear Ronnie's voice. She answers her phone on the first ring. I thought you might call. Are you okay?

She knows I'm not, but waits for me to tell her so. Do you want me to come over? Vinnie's here. He'll give me a ride.

"Oh G.o.d, Ronnie, yes. I need you." I do, and it feels awful and wonderful, all smooshed together. We'll make love, and I'll forget about the Royals.

Forget about Jack. Forget ... Dead.

Stinking Royals Can't believe they lost last night, and to the stupid Mariners to boot.

Oh, well. That means they have to win today, so I'll lay down two hundred. And while I'm at it, I'll put fifty on St. Louis. Why shove all my eggs into one flimsy carton?

Mom never even missed Jack's wallet or the bills. She woke up, fighting a hangover headache.

Me, being a hangover expert, I convinced her to try a little hair o' the dog. Cory didn't feel much better. You'd think his tolerance would be taller built by now.

The two of them are napping.

Good. I can't stand seeing so much pain in two pairs of eyes.

Speaking of two pairs, just won sixty bucks at poker. Almost made up for the hundred I dropped yesterday. My luck is coming around. Just in time. Because beyond major league baseball, I'm planning on laying a major league bundle on Jet Fuel. The odds on him just keep growing longer and longer.

I'll wait a couple of days, see how long they'll go. But right now, a thousand-dollar bet on the win could net almost twenty big ones.

Twenty thou would pay an awful lot of bills. And now I need money for my insurance. Between Jack and Ronnie and spending a lot of time in front of my computer, I lost my job. Not that I care. Jobs like GameStop are a dime a dozen.

And anyway, I've got bigger plans than spending my days directing snot- nosed kids to Pokemon Purple. High finance is in my immediate future.

A Poem by Eden Streit My Future Is meaningless now, flavorless as an icicle melting, drip by drip to puddle and freeze again upon shadowed ground. They say to drop the pretense, as if confessing my heart was a game of charades.

Tears such as these could only be born of soul- ripping sorrow. They fall, in relentless procession, summer rain upon parched playa, relentless.

Eden

Demon Possessed

Apparently, that's the real definition of falling in love-Satan implanted some evil angel inside me to steer me away from G.o.d's family.

And it isn't only Mama and Papa who think so. Or claim to, in the name of the Almighty.

Almighty dollar, that is. Samuel Ruenhaven- who strongly prefers being called Father- graduated seminary the same time as Papa.

But Father's path led him to the stark sand of northeastern Nevada, where he settled a sizeable chunk of desert he dubbed Tears of Zion. Oh, it's a very special place, where Father and his "disciples" rehabilitate incorrigible youth. Exorcise demons.

I've been here almost a month. Mama delivered me personally, after slipping enough Lunesta into my tea to knock me out for eleven hours.

When I finally woke up, we were b.u.mping along hundreds of miles from home. It will never be "home" again for me. I hate it. Hate Mama worse. When she saw me conscious that day, head thumping from a narcotic hangover, almost immediately she started in quoting Old Testament scripture. That was the extent of our one-sided "conversation." She never said another word to me. I tuned her out, concentrated on trying to connect psychically with Andrew, who could have had no idea what happened to me.

I didn't know the details then myself. Couldn't have guessed where we were headed. Even when we pulled through the Tears of Zion gates, I had no clue what was coming. I began to suspect it wasn't good when Father waddled out to greet Mama. She offered a hand, free of emotion, and her plea was simple: Do whatever it takes to bring my daughter to her senses.

Father's Methods Are likewise uncomplicated. You can sum them up in a single word: Deprivation.

No food for the first three days. Water only.

Flushing poisons, he claimed. Cleansing body before examining soul. Since then, an unvaried daily thousand-calorie diet- oatmeal, thin soups, flat bread. Minimal sleep, even now. The subconscious is Satan's cla.s.sroom. The worst thing is the isolation.

I rarely see anyone but Father and his disciples- creepy guys who always dress in bleached white jeans, matching T-shirts. And the sad, sick thing is I'm almost glad to see them. I know that's the point. But I don't know how to fight it.

I spend every day alone, silence squeezing me until I think I'll go totally crazy. Insanity might, in fact, be better. I'm supposed to be reconsidering my choices. But all I do is pace the perimeters of this featureless room, thinking about Andrew. And how completely I love him.

Is He Thinking About me? Wondering where I am?

Where is he? Home? Looking for me?

Or has Mama decided to have him arrested?

I have no answers. Can't process clearly.

My brain feels like day-old mush. Unstirred.

Undisturbed. Left for scavengers. And speaking of bone pickers, the cloying scent of rabbit brush precedes Jerome through the door.

As Father's believers go, Jerome is the least offensive. Not that he's good-looking.

He's short, partly because he carries himself as if his shoulders are weighted with iron.

What hair he has left is thin, reddish. It reminds me of an alcoholic's morning eyes. His nose is shaped like a toucan's bill, and the watery orbs just above it look at me with a mixture of sympathy and ... l.u.s.t? He places a tray on the splintered table. Eat hearty.

"Right. Lukewarm oatmeal. Mmm." Unlike some of the other disciples, Jerome allows me a fair amount of sarcasm. Lukewarm is better than cold. And ... He glances around the room, as if some voyeur stands in the corner, watching. Then he takes something from the tray.

Look what I brought you. Promise you won't tell? He holds out a napkin, unfolds it slowly, revealing three beautiful strawberries.

First crop. Delicious. And just for you.

Their sweet red perfume permeates the room's stale air. My mouth waters.

I start to reach for them, reconsider, s.n.a.t.c.h my hand quickly away. "Why me?"

He creeps toward me, baiting, pallid tongue circling his mouth suggestively.

Because I like you. He puts a berry to my lips. And because you're beautiful.

Instinctively I suck the fruit onto my tongue, crush it against the roof of my mouth, go weak at the intense rush of pleasure. "Thank you." It comes out a whisper. "I promise not to tell."

Jerome Isn't Quite Finished He takes my hand, caresses it gently before placing the other two berries on my palm.

If you're really good at keeping secrets ...

His eyes bore into mine. Something feral pacing there. We could have a little fun.

If you be good to me, I'll be really good to you. Strawberries are just the beginning.

Cheese. Meat. Chocolate. Maybe even some shampoo to use instead of that vile soap.

He touches my hair. I bet it's pretty when it's clean. I bet it smells like rain.

Here now. What did I say? Don't cry.

A recollection clutches my throat, chokes. It's Andrew's voice, surfacing like a creature, dead and bloated,

from deep sea. Smells like rain.