Free City of Boys by Beth Nugent Page A

father lies on the couch, dozing or dreaming, his drink propped on his chest, while beside him Aunt Louise runs her hand over some model in
Vogue
or
Cosmopolitan
, thinking: I want this, I want this. My mother and my uncle are gone, pursued or pursuing under the dark trees, and somewhere some boy’s narrow palm strolls over Francine, charmed by the give of her skin, the resistance of her nipple. Surprised and delighted, he strokes her in the moonlight somewhere. There is no light here but the blue light of the TV and no sound but the sound my uncle does not make, creeping from door to door, the sound not made by the squeaking of his shoes, the protest of his bones.
    I go to bed before Francine returns, and when I wake up later, I don’t know if she’s back yet, but my uncle’s shape is dim in the moonlight that comes through my window, and his heavy bulk causes my bed to creak dangerously. The wooden slats underneath are mismatched, and sometimesthey slip from the frame, the mattress collapsing right through to the floor.
    —Susie, he says. —Susie. He shakes my shoulder. —Susie, wake up.
    I feign drowsy confusion and turn away, but he puts his hand on my forehead, turning my face back to him.
    —Susie, he says. —I want to tell you a bedtime story. Which one’s your favorite?
    He brings his face close to mine and shakes my shoulder again. —Which one? he says. —Which one?
    He smells of gin, which is what they all drink, and cigarettes, and something else–a sweet, dark, excited smell. I keep my eyes closed. I cannot remember any story except this one.
    —Suuusie, he says, his voice rising and falling as if he is calling me from a long distance, and I open my eyes. He smiles. —I knew you were awake, he says.
    —I’m tired, Uncle Woody. I want to go to sleep.
    —Let me tell you a story first. Look. I brought you some candy.
    He opens his hand above me and scatters candy corns on the sheet over my stomach, my breasts.
    —I’m sick, I say. —I have to go to the bathroom.
    He lies down beside me, pressing himself into the narrow space between my body and the edge of the bed.
    —Once upon a time, he begins, —there was a little girl. He moves the hair gently from my face and sighs happily, his breath wet and heavy.
    —I’m sick, I say again, and struggle against the sheets to sit.
    —Wait, he whispers, and reaches out. —Wait, and then the bed breaks and I am out of it.
    * * *
    Under the bright lights, against the white tile of the bathroom, this is all a dream. The face that stares back at me in the mirror is dreaming. When I come back to my room, everything is as it was before: the bed is neatly on its frame, the candy gone. This is a dream, and I will forget it by morning. In the moment before I fall back asleep, I realize that I have forgotten to check for Francine, but then I remember that this is a dream.
    In the morning, all is as usual, and when my English muffin pops up, my aunt hands me the butter.
    —Woody says he scared you last night, she says, turning to put another muffin in the toaster.
    I carry the butter to the table with my muffin. —Scared me? —He said he had too much to drink and came into your room by mistake.
    She watches me carefully as I spread butter on my muffin. —Oh, I say. —I wasn’t scared.
    I sit at the table, by the window; outside, my uncle and my father are walking around the yard, examining the bushes carefully. When he sees me watching them, my Uncle Woody waves cheerily and my father looks around to see what he is waving at. A locust hums suddenly past the window, like a tiny dense bird. Somewhere, I’ve heard, they eat them, fry them up and eat them, a delicacy, like caviar or oysters. My father and Uncle Woody continue their walk around the yard, occasionally plucking locust shells from the leaves.
    —Disgusting, my aunt hisses, —disgusting. Her voice cuts through the night like a line of fire burning all that is in its path, straight to my ears.