Free Flesh and Bone by William Alton

only means that he knows someday I won’t be there and he’ll need to find someone new to fuck.
    Harold drives me home. We pull into the driveway and I jump out of the cab. I need to get to the bathroom and shower. I need to brush my teeth and change my clothes. I need to erase all the evidence of sex. No one can know about this.
    Sex with Harold is dangerous. He could go to prison. Grandpa would kill me without thinking about it if he knew that I sometimes slept with men. There were certain rules in Grandpa’s house and punishing faggots is right up there. Not that Grandpa’s religious or anything. He just believes certain things.
    I make it to the bathroom. I get naked and stand in the hot water, letting it rinse away my sins. It’s like a kind of daily baptism. I let my sins swirl and disappear into the drain.
    â€œBill,” Grandma calls. “You home?”
    â€œIn the shower.”
    â€œSupper’s on.”
    â€œI’ll be out in a minute.”
    I squeeze the last bit of warmth from the water and dress in the low hanging fog. I stare at my face and work on smoothing away all the thoughts, all the fears, all hints of deceit.
    â€œBill!” Grandpa calls.
    I come to the table and we sit silently for a moment. The food is fried and smells thick with fat.
    â€œWhat did you do today?” Grandma asks.
    I shrug. There’s no way I can tell about my day.
    â€œI got lost in the woods,” I say.
    â€œBe careful,” Grandpa says. “Some of the animals there are pretty dangerous.”
    I nod. Some of the animals here are pretty scary too, I think. The only way to live here is to keep my face flat and my mouth empty.

Morning with Mom
    S LEEP ENDS . T HE dreams wash away and fade in the late morning light. I lie in bed, tired, but slept out. I’m sick to my stomach. My head aches. I rise, slowly. I dress, slowly. I look out the window at the fog, the mist. Cold air leaks around the glass. Shivering, my feet hurting on the bitter floor, I walk away.
    Mom’s in the living room smoking a cigarette. She lies on the couch watching the television. Nothing’s on there, but she watches the faces, listens to the voices. She’s bored and lazy. The house is clean. Grandma’s nowhere around. Mom lies on the couch, a tumbled mess of flesh and dirty clothes.
    â€œYou look like shit,” she says.
    â€œFeel like it too.”
    â€œYou’re hung over.”
    â€œA little.”
    I go to the kitchen and get coffee. I make a BLT and eat it standing over the sink.
    â€œWho were you drinking with?” Mom asks.
    â€œFriends.”
    â€œHow’d you get home?”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    I light a cigarette and come to the living room. Mom sits up. She looks at me and there is sadness there, sadness and worry. I’m a prisoner here. These walls hold me in. Mom is a kind warden, but a warden all the same.
    â€œI don’t like your drinking,” she says. “I don’t like your hours.”
    This is it. This is Mom letting me know that I’ve fucked up. She wants me to be the perfect child. There are just some things I can’t do. I can’t be the quiet obedient boy she wants.
    â€œI don’t like the kids you’ve fallen in with,” she says.
    â€œThey’re my friends.”
    She sighs. She lights a cigarette. She stares at me. Smoke rises to the ceiling and gathers there like water pushing against the shore.
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?” I ask.
    She says nothing. Everything’s thick, heavy. I close my eyes and watch the red and green paisley swimming in the darkness.
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she says. “I want you be good.”
    I don’t know if I can be good. Things happen. I let things happen. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’ll turn out bad. Mom won’t be happy.
    â€œI’m going to Bobby’s today,”