Zombie (19 page)

“I know less about you than I thought I knew,” Dad says.

“Your perverted little secret is safe with me,” he says.

Dad doesn’t knock this time. Instead, he opens the door and looks down at me sitting on the toilet, pants at my ankles, underwear bunched up at my feet. I pull everything up.

“Were you sitting down?” he asks. He picks up the movie still on the floor.

I stare at a black amoeba-shaped stain on the wall. It’s the size of a basketball if a basketball was made out of water and grunge. Maybe someone spilled something on the wall. Coffee. Or tea. Or a pipe burst inside the wall and bled out. But why would someone
have coffee or tea in the bathroom? Moreover, why would they have coffee or tea in
this
bathroom? And if a pipe did burst, how come the wall was never repainted? Aren’t landlords supposed to repaint an apartment every year?

“Honor thy father,” Jackson says from the other room, back in bed.

“Why are you wearing squeezers?” Dad asks.

“Tighty-whitey power,” Jackson says.

“Jeremy?” Dad asks. “Answer me.”

“Sits like a woman,” Jackson says. “Like a proper young lady.”

I want to say something nasty, something really nasty, but don’t say anything. I dodge past Dad and grab the movie out of his damn hands. Out of the bathroom and standing in Jackson’s apartment, I see him on his bed like a Greek Prince, the only thing missing a handful of grapes. He’s wearing his sheet like a toga and eating a corndog. Where the fuck did he get a corndog?

“What is wrong with you?” Dad asks.

“Stumps, you’re acting very vaginal,” Jackson says. “Vag-tastic with great vag-ilities.”

Dad and Jackson flank me in this fucking studio apartment, the walls coming down on me. I open the door and run down the stairs.

Zombie Survival Code in full execution.

I
skip several steps at a time and hope with all the hope in the world that I trip and fall and tumble down the stairs and break my fucking neck and die. I hope that Dad and Jackson have to ride my corpse to the hospital where a doctor will tell them just how dead I am.

I crash through the building’s door and onto the sidewalk and run away from those fucks. I pass an alley where trash cans roll on their sides, spilling garbage across the wet pavement.

Dad and Jackson would leave the hospital together and drive to a bar where they’d get so drunk they’d drive off a bridge into a body of ice-cold water. The water would pour in through the cracks in the windshield and fill up the car fast, as they scramble to escape, the car slowly sinking. The electric locks would short circuit and the water level would rise up and they’d cling to each other, weeping like little bitches, and they’d feel sorry for themselves. They’d suck down their last breaths and shut down their ears and eventually die.

Asphyxiation.

Later, we’d meet up in Heaven or in Hell or that place in between. I would pretend I didn’t recognize them, like I never even knew who they were or that they even existed at all.

No, that’s wrong. I would look at them.

I’d look them both dead square in the eyes and say, “Suck my fucking dick.”

I
call Mom and she picks me up in front of Jimmy’s. She doesn’t say a word when I get into the van. Mom rolls through a stop sign and looks over at me with a forced smile. Her cell phone buzzes, and she reaches into her purse and digs until she finds it. It’s Dad. I can hear his voice, but not what he’s saying.

“You can tell him I said he can go fuck himself,” I say.

“Language,” she whispers to me. Then into the phone, she says, “Now that you’ve had your turn, I’m going to have mine. I have two things to say to you and then this call is finished. Are you, are you, no, are you listening? Good, well, good. Two things. First, my son called
me
. Don’t you dare think for one second that I orchestrated a darn thing. Okay? You hear me, Ballentine? And second is same as the first, Jeremy called me.
Your
son chose me. You hear that? Am I being clear?” She waits, but he doesn’t respond. “Then this phone call is finished. He’s staying with me tonight and I will drop him off at school tomorrow.” She closes her phone. “He’s just a bull with butterfly brains.” Mom looks at me as she crosses an intersection.

“Zeke know I’m coming?” I ask. “Is he mad?”

“He knows and of course he’s not mad,” she says. “Zeke doesn’t get mad. Everything’s going to be okay. Fine, even,” she says, brushing my hair with her hand. “You worry too much for a teenager.”

“I don’t want to worry,” I say. “It’s just what I do. It’s my thing.”

“We need to find you another thing,” she says. I wonder if she would count my women’s magazine collection as a
thing
. “And to alleviate any additional worry from you, I want you to know that
I know what this is,” she says. “You finally coming to stay with me under these circumstances, it’s not by choice, so much as by necessity. I know this isn’t an uninfluenced decision.”

“I want it to be,” I say.

“I hear you,” she says, putting the phone back into her purse. “Roger that.” She handles a brown pill bottle like it’s an extension of her hand. A few of the baby blue MS Contin tumble into the pit of her palm—MS Contin aka Morphine.

She is gone—again.

And so am I.

I
n Zeke’s apartment, I sit on the couch, waiting for him to return with dinner. Fast food, Mom says. She says they weren’t expecting company. She says they rarely keep fresh food in the fridge. She says that Zeke’ll be back any minute.

If this were the Dawning Age of Man with dinosaurs and shit, Zeke would most certainly be a gatherer. Fruits and berries and bark and roots and crunchy crap like that. He doesn’t have the swagger of a hunter. He doesn’t have the balls. You have to be able to follow the Code and he clearly doesn’t know the Code even a little bit. If this were a Zombie Apocalypse, I’m certain he wouldn’t survive. Mom would survive, but only because she isn’t going to let a damn thing keep her from popping her pills, zombie or otherwise. Sent out into the harsh, real world to procure food, the best Zeke can do is fast food. It could be argued that Dad isn’t any better, what with his favorite Chinese restaurant, Panda Express, on speed dial, but the fundamental difference between the two men comes down to the night Mom left—Zeke honked his horn and waited outside. Zeke didn’t come up to the house. Zeke didn’t storm in to save the love of his life. Zeke didn’t confront Dad in any way. Instead, he stood by his van and waited for Mom to come to him. He can’t hunt shit.

“I’m starving. Aren’t you starving?” Mom says. She sits next to me on the couch, in one of those awkward, crushing silences that encourage bullshit chitchat. Mom doesn’t know how to talk about uncomfortable things, so she executes the Code—Zombie Survival Code Three—and executes it often. She forgets the past, throwing
in a dash of ZSC #2 for good measure, and shuts the fuck up. I don’t dignify her with a response.

I shift positions on the couch and a sound like a shotgun blast of flatulence shoots out from underneath me. I freeze mid-shift and look at Mom.

“That wasn’t me,” I say, slapping the wholly plastic-covered couch.

When I was a kid I had a weirdo friend, Rex, who liked to try and kiss me on the lips when he got really excited. His parents had two living rooms in their house—one next to the foyer and one in the basement. The one in the basement was awesome. It had a ridiculously enormous plasma TV mounted on the wall; a red felt billiards table with hand-woven, leather pockets; as well as every gaming system imaginable across from an oversized, L-shaped, monster of a couch. If their basement living room had a reinforced steel door at the top of the stairs and the walls were made out of cinderblock, it would have made the perfect Zombie Apocalypse Survival Room. Rex and his mom spent all of their time in the basement living room. But never in the living room next to the foyer. Rex and his mother called that living room the
family room
, where every inch of every stick of furniture was shrink-wrapped in plastic. It was a very different kind of living room.

“Does Zeke call this room his
family room
?” I ask.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, all snappy. I start to tell her to take a
chill pill
but think that would be in poor taste.

Zeke’s apartment is a gatherer’s apartment, if the gatherer was Jesus. A bookshelf is filled with religious knickknacks—ceramic Virgin Marys and tiny crucified Jesuses. The few books that he does have are all either large-print annotated bibles, the liturgical schedule of gospel readings, or guides to Catholic Saints. Religious CDs: Gregorian chants, a full Sunday mass in Latin by one of the dead Popes, an audio recording of the rosary. On the walls are paintings and sketches and pictures of Caucasian Jesuses. Some have a beard. Some don’t. And there are religious DVDs and VHS cassette tapes.
Jesus of Nazareth. Romero. The Greatest Story Ever Told. The Passion of the Christ
.

“I need to know what happened, Jeremy? What happened? What did Ballentine do?”

“I just needed a break,” I say.

“Why?” she asks.

“To get away,” I say.

“From?” she asks.

“Less of a break. More of a stress fracture.”

“I know what a break is, Jeremy—I took a permanent one from your father. I want to know why you feel you needed to take a one.”

“I found something,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “I found it once too. I know what you are going to say.”

“How do you know what I’m going to say when I haven’t even said it yet?”

“I’ve known about it for a long time.”

“Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“I’m listening. I know all about it.”

“You
don’t
know about it. This is something new. This isn’t something old.”

“You found out about the tongues,” she says. “What he did in Vietnam.” She shakes her head, her eyes closed. “I know. Disgusting. Inhuman. Sick.” She makes the Sign of the Cross.

“This isn’t about the tongues. I know about the tongues. I found a homemade video,” I say, but before I have a chance to explain, the front door swings open and that Carrefour-looking motherfucker comes strolling into his Plastic Chapel, carrying a bag of burgers and fries. He’s a tall bastard with a nice smile and wears an Orioles baseball hat the right way. He has one of those smiles that makes it very hard to dislike him. Mom stands (farting too!) and throws her arms around his waist. She buries her head into his wide chest as his tree-trunk arms wrap her up. He kisses her and slips her a little bit of tongue. They kiss and hug like they’re on the Titanic going down, like a whore on a Saturday night.

“I’m sorry if me being here is any kind of inconvenience,” I say.

He breaks away from Mom.

“Jeremy, you’ve made your mother happier than you’ll ever know.”

“He needed a break,” she says.

“Stress fracture,” I say.

“Life can get like that. Life can be that way. You’re always welcome here, no matter the reason.” He holds me at my shoulders and says, “God bless you.” Then, wraps his tree-trunk arms around me. “God bless you, my son.”

A
t the kitchen table, Zeke grabs Mom’s hand and my hand and nods for us to grab each other’s hand to complete the new family circle. He closes his eyes and draws in a slow breath and locks it away like a prison. Then he bows his head and says, “Father Almighty, we are humbled to be here together tonight in your presence, sharing in your abundance and light. We are thankful for this family. We are thankful for this food. Thank you for sending down your only son, Jesus Christ, to deliver us from our sins. In the Heavenly Father’s name, we pray.”

Mom and I say
amen
, but Zeke says
ah-men
.

“This is nice,” Mom says. “My two boys.”

“What about Jackson?” I ask.

“It’s nice to be a family again,” she says.

Mom, nontraditionally, works her way around the cheeseburger with a fork and knife, careful not to eat too fast or too much, only taking small bites. Zeke watches Mom, helping her, keeping her on point. He is her Jesus and she is his sin. She looks happy here, happier than when she was with Dad anyway. Really, he’s blinded by her junked-up shit. He’s waiting for the day when Mom loves him more than she loves the MS Contin. If he hangs around long enough, if she hangs on long enough, they will both be saved. Or something.

Mom excuses herself from the table to go to the bathroom. She magically produces a tiny cup of tea from thin air and takes it with her. I know exactly what she is doing and Zeke’s eyes tell me he knows too. Zeke takes his first bite of the hamburger, before spitting it into his napkin, excusing himself from the table, and rushing
down the hallway to the bathroom, knocking loud enough to make it sound important, but not urgent. She opens the door and they whisper, but I can hear them—Zeke negotiating with her, begging her not to disappear. Don’t do it for him. Don’t do it for her. But do it for her son. A son needs his mother. Like I’m not fucking here. Like I can’t fucking hear them. There is another crushing silence, nothing. Maybe it’s a moment spent pondering a change, but I doubt it. Maybe it’s a flash of another way to live, but that’s hardly realistic. They resume—Mom laughs and says she will be right out and hands Zeke the cup of tea. He returns, stopping in the kitchen to dump it out.

“The tea breaks them down faster,” I say. “Also,” I say, pointing to her plate. “Food absorbs the good stuff. More there is in the stomach, less those puppies work. Empty belly, feel like jelly.”