This is the Part Where You Laugh (22 page)

Afternoon. Grandpa's on the couch in the living room. The TV off. No baseball. He's crying, his face in his hands and his shoulders shaking.

“Grandpa?”

He wipes his face. Looks up.

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. “We went to the doctor's today.”

“And?”

“And it's not going to be long, Travis.”

“But she's a fighter, Grandpa. They always say this, but did she die two years ago when they talked like that?”

Grandpa takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose. Wipes it. Puts the handkerchief back in his pocket. “She won't be able to fight this one much longer. We need to get used to that idea.”

“So they said she'll…”

“They said it's not long now. Not more than a month or two. Could be sooner.”

“But they could be wrong too. It could be longer.” I sort of yell that at him.

He waves his hands. “Keep your voice down. She's sleeping right now, and I don't want to wake her.”

“They're probably wrong,” I say. “Doctors don't know what they're talking about.”

I walk through the sliding glass door, out onto the back porch and down to my tent. I stand next to it. Drink warm water from my water bottle. Stare out at the lake, the water flat under the midday heat. I reach in my tent for a T-shirt. Put the shirt on and start walking the lake path, through the blackberries, around the north end to the street cut-through. I get to Natalie's house and knock on the front door.

She opens it. “Oh shit. Travis? Are you all right?”

I shake my head. Start to cry.

“Whoa, what is it?” She hugs me. Pulls me into the house and closes the door behind me. “Come here.” She leads me up the stairs, down the hall to her room. I lie on the bed and she lies down behind me, pulling me in. “It's gonna be okay,” she says. She hugs me tighter, her body against me, her arm draped over me, her hand on my chest.

We don't say anything for a while. We lie there, the sunlight coming in through the big window, shining across the foot of the bed, our lower legs.

I say, “Do you think things ever work out?”

She puts her hand on my head, rubs my scalp with her fingernails. “Do you mean, Will our problems go away?”

“Maybe.”

“Then no,” she says. “Probably not. Am I still gonna have Will as a piece-of-shit stepfather?”

I don't say anything.

“And your grandpa,” she says. “Will he stop smoking weed? Or is your grandma gonna beat cancer?”

“I just mean…”

“But what are we gonna do?” Her fingernails make a scraping sound against my skull. “What can we control?”

“Not much,” I say.

“But enough, right? We can control some things. I've thought about it.”

I lie there and let her rub my head, my scalp, her fingernails scraping. I close my eyes.

“We keep working,” she says. “We keep trying. 'Cause, fuck everyone else, you know? We just do what we do.”

I open my eyes. Look at her frog's aquarium. “So we keep trying hard?”

She stops rubbing my scalp. Puts her arm around me again, scooches closer, and I feel her breasts against my back, her kneecaps grooved into the backs of my knees.

“Yes,” she says. “I guess that's what I'm saying. All we can do is keep trying hard.”

I eat a bowl of cereal over the sink. Mix a cup of Tang and drink it. See Grandma's pill bottle on the counter. Half full. No one else is home.

I open the bottle. Dump the pills out and count them. Twenty-two. Enough for someone else to lose count. I take two. Hold them. Almost pop them in my mouth, then stop myself. Think about Grandma needing them, and drop them back in the bottle. Put the cap back on. Go outside to shoot hoops in the driveway.

While I shoot, I think about that tingly feeling of a Percocet kicking in. I work on set shots and form, extending the shooting arm, but as I work, I think about that pill bottle the whole time. The electric grid of my body coming alive 30 minutes after swallowing.

Creature walks up as I'm shooting. “What's up?”

“Same as always. Working on my left now.”

“Every good player on earth, baby.”

“Except for left-handers.”

Creature laughs. Holds his stomach. “Don't joke around. It hurts to laugh.”

“Are you all right? Are you supposed to be out walking?”

“They said I could a little. Not far. Not much. And I'm not feeling so good today.”

“Let's take it easy then, Creat. Let's go inside.”

Grandpa's on the couch when we go in watching a
Baseball Tonight
rerun. Creature sits down in the big chair, and I go to check on Grandma.

She's leaning back against the headboard, looking thin and tired. She says, “Read me something funny, sweetie.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Anything funny. That's all I ask.”

“You mean like—what's that guy, David Sedus or something?”

“Sedaris. David Sedaris.”

“Yeah, him,” I say. “I've seen you read those and giggle.”

Grandma smiles, and I can't imagine her dying for real. Her sickness is real, I know that, I've seen it, but dying is something else. I stare off and picture her in a coffin, wonder if they'll make her face smile or if they'll put her lips straight, like in movies. I've never seen anyone in a real coffin. Never in real life.

I'm staring off.

Grandma says, “Travis?”

“Yeah?”

“I know all of them by heart, but any of them would work.”

“What?”

“Any of David Sedaris's stories would work. They're all funny enough.”

Then I have an idea. “Actually,” I say, “I have some things that Creature's written.”

“Really?” Grandma says. “Malik enjoys writing?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Really?”

“To be honest, it's hard to tell if he loves basketball or writing more. That's the truth.”

“Isn't that something,” she says. “Then I need to hear some of his writing, don't I? I am an old English teacher, after all.”

“Well, he's here right now. He's out with Grandpa. I could grab him. Tell him to read a few pages to you.”

I walk out to the living room. “Hey, Creat, would you read some of your guidebook to my grandma?”

“What?” he says. Then he mouths the words “Hell no.”

“No, it's fine, man. She likes funny stuff.”

Creature shakes his head. “Not a good idea, baby.”

“Trust me, Creat. She's like you. She'll read anything as long as it's well written.”

Creature readjusts in the recliner, settles back, and props his feet up. “I would,” he says, “but I don't have the pages with me. So I just can't, you know?”

“Oh, don't worry, Creat. I've got a bunch of your pages down in my tent. I'll just run and grab them.”

As I open the sliding glass door, Creature yells after me, “You really shouldn't—” But I close the door before he can say anything else, go down to my tent, and retrieve his guidebook. When I bring the pages back inside, Creature says, “Come on, baby. Really?”

“Trust me.” I hand him the pages. “She'll like them. Go read to her.”

“I guess….It's your grandma.” Creature lowers the footrest. Sits forward and stands up. Walks down the hall. Goes in her room, and I hear him say, “Hello, Mrs. Radcliffe.”

“Well, hello, Malik. I hear that you've been writing.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That's excellent. Now close that door and read to me a little bit.”

“Uh…yes, ma'am. But I have to warn you: this is some weird stuff.” He closes the door and I go to the kitchen to make food.

Creature and I start walking to his house.

I say, “How was it, Mr. Author?”

“Super awkward, baby.”

“But did she like them?”

“Yeah,” he says, “she did. It felt weird to read those pages to her, but then she told me to never change what I write for someone else. She said all of the greatest writers stick to their visions.”

“See, Creat? She knows stuff from being an English teacher.”

“Yeah, we talked about writing for a while, and she gave me some good ideas too.”

“Nice.”

“And she said I had to read
Delta of Venus
by Anaïs Nin.”

“What's that?”

“Erotica, I guess. Something like old-timey
Fifty Shades of Grey
?” Creature holds his stomach and slows down.

“Are you all right?”

“Not feeling good today. It's hurting.”

“We better get you home, then. Come on, man.”

It's twilight as we walk down the street past Mr. Tyler's front porch.

“Should we?” Creature says.

“No,” I whisper, trying to keep quiet. “We shouldn't.”

“Come on, baby. Just a quick piss?”

“Another day,” I say. “You better get home and rest. You don't look good.”

But Creature's already sneaking up the front walk, looking left and right, his head ducked low. He steps up on the porch, and I follow him. I say, “Let's go. Come on.”

“No,” Creature says, “I'm pissing. Right here. Right now.”

Creature puts up one finger, then two, then three, then pulls down his shorts and I turn my back and pull down my shorts too, start going on the rocking chair again. I make an S pattern back and forth all over that chair, smiling and pissing, 'cause it's always funny to me. I have to press my lips together so I don't laugh out loud, but still I'm shaking with laughter as I finish pissing.

I'm still shaking the drips off when the door opens. It's so fast that I don't even recognize what I'm seeing at first. But Mr. Tyler is there in that open door. He's holding a shotgun, and he says, “Hands up, you little pieces of shit.”

Creature yells, “Run, baby!” and jumps off the top step.

I jump off after him, roll in the grass, wait for the sound of the shotgun blast in my ears, but it doesn't come. I hop up and follow Creature as he hurdles the hedge, cuts at the next driveway, and runs down the street. We sprint for a block before we slow up.

Creature stops in front of me. Stumbles against the side of a truck. Holds his stomach. “Oh fuck,” he says. He has both of his hands there, down low.

“Creat, are you all right?”

“It hurts.” He's leaning against the side of the truck.

We're not too far from his house and I say, “We've gotta get you home. Get some ice on that.”

Creature's gritting his teeth, holding his stomach, and breathing hard.

“Come on, Creat. Let's go.” I get underneath his armpit to support him. He grips my shoulder with one hand, holds his stomach with the other.

When we get to his front door, Creature pulls his key out of his pocket and hands it to me. I fumble with the lock, get the key to slide in, and open the door. I flip on the hall light and help Creature down to his bedroom. Lower him onto his mattress. He lies there and I get two pillows under his head to prop him up.

“Do you have ice packs in your freezer?”

“Mhmm.” Creature nods.

“I'll go grab a couple. Don't move, okay?”

I go up to the kitchen and find the packs. Wrap them in a towel. Bring them back. Creature's on his side, with the pillows under his shoulder and head. His knees are tucked up, both hands on his stomach, his face sweaty.

I feel like I'm trying to breathe through a wet cloth. “Creat?”

“Yep?”

I lean over and slide the ice packs between his hands and his stomach. Adjust them so they're flat. I say, “We shouldn't have pissed on his porch until you were healed up. I should've stopped you.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I didn't think about him coming out. I never even considered that possibility.”

Creature breathes through his teeth. Grips the ice packs. “My fault. I went up first.” He closes his eyes and breathes shallow little breaths.

“How's that feel with the ice on it?”

“Okay.”

“Do you think it will help?”

Creature holds the pack against his stomach, his eyes still closed. “I don't know.”

“Do you think something bad happened in there? Something real bad?”

“I don't know.”

I look at his face. His eyes are shut. His lips are peeled back and his teeth are showing. I can hear his breathing through his teeth. I touch his forehead and feel how wet it is, the sweat running. I say, “Do we need to go to the hospital?”

“No.” He keeps his eyes shut. “I'll be okay.”

“I don't know, Creat. Maybe we should just go to the hospital. Have someone look at you.”

“No,” he says. “I'm fine.”

There's a chair next to his bed with two stacks of books on it. I move the books to the floor. Sit down. Lean forward and bite my fingernails. Feel the room turning like it's on an axle. Watch Creature's face.

He stays in that hunched-up position. Keeps his eyes closed. Doesn't say anything, just breathes.

“Man, you gotta talk to me. Is it getting any better with the ice on it?”

“No.”

“So the ice isn't making it any better?”

“No.”

I stand up. “We're going to the hospital. We've got to.”

“Okay,” Creature says. He's holding the ice with both hands. He's on his side, his knees tucked up.

“Creat, where's your mom?”

“Uh…” He breathes in and out. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Uh…,” he says. “Bingo.”

“That's down at the center, right? Does she walk to it or drive?”

“Drive.”

“We gotta call an ambulance, then.”

“No,” Creature says. “An ambulance is crazy expensive. My mom won't even be able to pay the last bill.”

“Okay, let me think….We need to get you there quick. I guess my grandpa could do it.”

Creature's sweating a lot now, drizzling like in the fourth quarter of a basketball game.

“I'll run to my grandparents' house and my grandpa can drive us. We'll be right back.”

I run down the street, switching to the far side as I pass Mr. Tyler's. When I get to my house, I jump up on the porch and knock. I didn't bring my key and Grandpa keeps the door locked. I bang on the door again.

I hear my grandpa's voice inside. “Take it easy out there. Who is it?”

“It's Travis, Grandpa. Let me in quick.”

He opens the door and I push in.

“Hold on,” he says. “Hold on.” He struggles to get out of my way.

In that small space by the door, he smells like a cloud of marijuana. “Grandpa, what the hell?”

“Whoa, Travis. Don't you cuss at me.”

We're face to face, shoulders squared, his marijuana reek heavy in the air. I have an urge to punch my grandpa, to knock him down and kick him against the door. “You're high right now?”

“I don't know what you're—”

“Creature's hurt. He messed up something in his stomach, and it's bad.”

“His stomach?” Grandpa puts his hand out. Steadies himself against the wall.

“Yeah, where he had surgery. Like something's torn up inside.”

“Hmm…” Grandpa nods. Too slow. He smoked too much.

“Grandpa, we need to hurry.”

“What?”

“We need to get him to the hospital. Can you drive? How much did you smoke?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Grandpa says. “Okay.” He tries to turn around but he walks into the hall table, knocking a vase off and it shatters on the floor, the water splashing our shins. Grandpa looks down at the vase like it's an animal he never knew existed. He says, “Oh my.”

“Grandpa…” I push past him. Go into the kitchen.

He follows me. “I'm not high, if you think—”

“I'm taking the car. I'm taking Creat to the hospital right now.”

Grandpa waves his hands in the air like he's shooing away mosquitos. “I can drive us.”

“No. You can't.”

I look next to the mail stack where Grandpa usually sets the car keys, but they aren't there. I open the cupboard and check the nail for the spare set, but it isn't hanging there either. “Where the…?” I pull out one of the junk drawers and dump it on the floor. Kick through the staples, pens, business cards, balls of tinfoil, finishing nails, pennies, and rubber bands. “Where are the keys, Grandpa?”

“Travis”—Grandpa's in the kitchen doorway—“now you just listen to me.”

I pull out the next junk drawer and dump that on the floor as well. Broken watchbands, staplers, mini-screwdrivers, balls of string, electrical tape, box cutters, pencils, nuts and bolts, matches, lighters, shed keys, and house keys, but no car key sets. I push past Grandpa and walk out into the living room, look on the coffee table, the end tables, and the computer table. “Where are the…”

I feel in the crack of the recliner, then go to the couch and flip the cushions. One set of keys is there, under the middle cushion, and I grab that set. “Thank God…I gotta go now.”

I shove past Grandpa and get to the door. Open it and run out to the car. Get in on the driver's side, turn the key, hear the engine catch, pop the car into reverse, and back up quick. But I don't look in the rearview mirror, and I slam into a car across the street. My seat belt isn't on, and I plant my face on the steering wheel as the car rebounds back into the street.

There's blood on the wheel. I feel my face, a vertical split in my lower lip, my two teeth behind it loose. “Dammit.” I look in the mirror, blood running out of the gap, dripping off my chin.

I press my shirt against it, pop the car into drive, and get over to Creature's house. His mom's car still isn't back, so I pull into the driveway, hop out, and run into the house.

Creature's where I left him. He's in the fetal position, curled around the ice packs.

“Creat,” I say, “you're okay, man. You're all right. I'm taking you to the hospital now.” I lean over and drip blood on him.

He says, “I'm just…”

“You're fine, Creat. Come on, man. I gotta get you up.” I slide my arms underneath him. Feel the wet of his T-shirt. Struggle to lift him. He doesn't help me at all, and when I pull him to his feet, he screams.

“I'm so sorry, Creat.” I've got my arms around him and his head's on my shoulder and I can smell the weird smell, nervous body odor or something else, and I drag his feet as I pull him out of the room, all his weight in my arms, and he mumbles something but I can't tell what he's saying anymore.

My ribs feel like they're twisting inside my back as I drag him down the hall, to the front door, and out onto the porch. “I've got you, man. I've got you.”

When I get Creature to my grandpa's Buick, I hold him against the side of the car with my body and my one arm, open the passenger door with the other hand. Then I fold Creature in, his body seeming too tall to force inside that small space, but I have his weight working for me, and I let go and pop the seat back, let it recline, and I hold Creature's head and shoulders as I push him into the car. “We're okay,” I say. “We're okay.”

I don't go back to the porch to shut the house door. I leave it. I just hop in the car on the driver's side, put the car in reverse, back up hard, and swerve this time to avoid the car behind us. Then I put the Buick in drive and take off.

I drive fast. Talk to Creature as I drive. “We're gonna be there so soon, Creat, so soon, and you're gonna be okay, man.” I speed down Green Acres to Crescent, keep driving east, gun it through the red light at Gilham, all the way to Coburg, slow and look both ways so I don't get us crushed from the side, but then I run that red light too, punch it without ever coming close to stopping. I say, “I'm getting us there, man. You're gonna be fine. You're gonna be good. We just gotta get you to the hospital, right?” On the straightaway behind Shopko, I take a quick look at Creature and see his eyes closed, his head tilted forward at an awkward angle. “Wake up, Creat. Come on, man.”

I know that driving was a big mistake. I should've called an ambulance first thing, right when he got hurt. We shouldn't have gone to his house. We shouldn't have wasted time with ice. I shouldn't have hesitated at all.

I'm thinking about all of that as lights flash in my mirror and I whip my head around to see a state trooper following me down Crescent. I look at the speedometer and it says 50-something and I keep driving. Rush the wide turn. Push the gas pedal down as I come out of the turn and the Buick goes over 60 into that straight.

The cop stays with me, right behind us, and I don't stop when I get to the end of Crescent, just slow a little, then blow the stop sign turning right onto Game Farm. I say, “I'm getting us there, man. We're gonna get there so quick, and you're gonna be just fine, Creat.”

My shoulders are tensed and my arms are tight. I'm overgripping the steering wheel like I might just turn and rip it off. I take a deep breath and focus on driving fast.

Coming up to Beltline Road, the Oregon State Police headquarters to my right, I see cars in front of me at the light, five or six deep at each lane, but no one in the huge pull-through at the AMPM, the gas pumps under the lights, so I let off the pedal and swerve left into the parking lot, pull beneath the overhang, past the attendants, and roll to the edge of Beltline.

The lights are still flashing in my rearview mirror, that trooper still behind me, but there are no cars coming on the left side of the six-lane road, so I pull out and drive down the wrong side of the road until I can get my speed up again, then I look over my shoulder and swerve right, dip into the correct lane going east, and drop the gas pedal to the floor on the big, wide straightaway, with the blue
HOSPITAL
signs on both sides of the road now and the Buick growling as I go over 70 miles an hour. I say, “Almost there, Creat. We're almost there, man. Just hold on.”