FRUITCAKE, Chap. 7
Catch up on Chap. 1-6 by clicking here
Pasta doesn't make you fat. How much pasta you eat makes you fat.
-Giada De Laurentiis, Skinny Chef
Chapter 7
Bobby
Susan
Lucci was long overdue for a Daytime Emmy. Intriguing that school should end in
time to for All My Children. Stephen sank into the couch, taking inventory of his
day over a large bowl of pasta with the red sauce. Serving size was a concept
lost on this household, and so his mother had made the entire box, pouring over
her famous red sauce, which was really store-bought spices and cans strewn
together, leaving it in the fridge with a note. The phone rang. He did not
answer.
Life
was thrilling in Pine Valley. He hadn’t mingled with the likes of these folks,
a fictional town not far from this one, socialites in big houses with big cars
and lots of problems. That he could have these problems! Around here, affairs
were swept under stain-resistant carpets and Ashley Furniture, not slapped out
under diamond chandeliers and mile-high cathedral windows. And the Pine Valley
weddings! Stephen had only been to two cousins’ weddings and they took place in
same Elks Lodge with deejay’s whose vinyl collection consisted solely of
classic rock.
Forking
pasta into his mouth, his mother’s stern warning of spilling anything on the
couch beat against his eardrums. He felt deviant and incredibly nervous.
Stephen was not for tempting fate so early in the day. He went to the kitchen,
fished out a Hefty trash bag from under the sink, splayed it over the couch and
sat on it. As he continued to eat and watch, he periodically slid down from the
couch on to the floor. Finishing, he returned the bowl to the fridge.
He
opened the doors to the living room entertainment center, putting Sade Diamond
Life on cassette into the player and turning up Smooth Operator. Stephen
wrapped the trash bag around him from under his armpits, holding it to his
body. From the kitchen, he grabbed masking tape and wrapped it several times
around the bag at his waist, cinching it into a cocktail dress. He danced around
the living room, plucking an Andes Chocolate Mint from a bowl and rubbing it
around his lips and tongue, shoving the entirety of it into his mouth. Whatever
lyrics he was uncertain of, he made up.
The
phone rang which startled Stephen and threw him from his homemade glamour
fantasy, causing him to stub his toe on the coffee table and send the Andes
confection down the wrong pipe. As he choked to Smooth Operator, Stephen had a
sudden epiphany. But it was too unclear to remember. What he could remember was
the time this happened with a piece of caramel corn by the Civil War gun table
at the County Fair. And so, he put his fists into his diaphragm and sang the
highest note he could muster, shooting the brown carcass from his throat and directly
on to the couch. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of stain lifter and
paper towel, and went to work. But the nooks and crannies of the woven fabric
were already eating the chocolate, and with each try, he smashed the brown
deeper and deeper. His mother will be furious, more furious than she usually
was after work, and that was a fury not to be messed with.
The
cat! Stephen called for the cat on his hands and knees, looking around the
furniture. After a moment, Skittles lumbered in on her dull legs. He picked her
up, lifted her tail and smeared the back of her on to the brown chocolate.
Skittles clawed Stephen in the face. Screaming, he dropped her. She did not
move. He poked at her. Still, nothing. He poked at her again and screamed her
name. Responding with a hiss, she stacked her large body back on to her legs
and went back out. Stephen put his nose to the stain. Smells like cat ass.
Perfect.
Over
the couch was a bay window which looked out to the front yard, the street and
neighboring houses. They lived in an area of the suburbs where houses were a decent
distance apart. Close enough to see a neighbor mowing their lawn, but not
enough to shout “Hello!” And maybe it was because of this they hardly knew
their neighbors. Stephen used to play with a couple of kids on the street years
ago, but that petered after they went off to Catholic school or picked up a
football. There was one kid who lived in a house that you could get to by a
short walk through the woods at the edge of the back yard, that was around for
a bit longer, but Stephen grew tired of him flashing his pocket knife and air
stabbing people that weren’t there. When he was carted off to juvenile
detention, Stephen felt nothing.
From
the window, he saw a pickup truck coming up the hill, braking a few times and
then stalling right in front of the house. Stephen ran to the foyer and opened
the front door, walking out on to the patio in his trash dress, face smeared
with brown. A grumpy looking driver with a graying beard and camouflage looked
at Stephen through aviator sunglasses. Stephen waved to his new fan, who replied
by spitting out the window. The truck started again and continued down the road.
He ran through the front yard, following the truck, past two houses, watching
it pull in to the driveway of the last house before the bend.
He
stayed on the other side of the road, concealing himself behind a tree. He
watched as the driver’s door flung open, more spit, followed by the passenger
side. A pale, teenaged boy hoisted a wheelchair from the back, placing it at
the door and assisting the man into it. The boy struggled with the chair over
the rocky driveway, arriving at the rancher house door and both, disappearing
within. Stephen jogged his memory but could not recall ever seeing this pair
before. The truck was not unfamiliar to him, but the boy was new.
Moments
later, the boy returned. At the truck, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his
pocket. He held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, like Stephen’s
ex-Army grandfather did. After a long drag, he blew the smoke into the air
above him, his body leaning into the truck, one sneaker propped against the
door. He was fascinating. And dangerous. The boy caught Stephen staring from
behind the tree, but was quickly diverted by a voice from within the house that
shouted his name. Bobby. He flicked his cigarette and disappeared, once again,
into the house.
Stephen
could hear his mother’s scream from a hundred yards. Surely, she had found the
brown, chocolate cat ass stain. Stephen ran up the road.
“What
are you wearing?” she asked, gritting her teeth like a wolf. Stephen had
forgotten about the trash bag.
“Nothing,”
he discarded the bag in the kitchen waste bin.
“While
you’re in there, bring me the stain lifter and paper towels. This damn cat shit
on the couch.”
Phew,
Stephen thought.
“Did
you eat?”
“No,”
lied Stephen.
“Pasta?”
“Yes,
please.”
After
cleaning, she went into the kitchen and put a full box of pasta on to boil.
“Your
cousin has cancer,” she launched in to what seemed like a daily narrative of a
relative stricken with some awful disease. At this point, Stephen thought
everyone in his family was dying. His mother worked as a receptionist in an ass
doctor’s office, so he believed her whenever she had something to say about
illness. Stephen was concerned he might get cancer. They lived close to a
nuclear power plant, and although his father insisted it was just steam that
billowed into the smoky sky, unlike his mother, he never believed him. As she
spoke, Stephen lost interest. His attention was drawn to the pale boy, Bobby.
The phone rang. On the other end was Evelyn.
“I
told you never to call me at home,” he said, hanging up.
“Who
was that?”
“Telemarketer.”
His
mother continued her story, as Stephen sat down for Oprah. He half-watched,
unimpressed, through someone named Ivanka talking about her boring divorce,
waiting anxiously for Mariah Carey to sing. Stephen shared Oprah’s
excitement. He wished his voice could do
that thing. The thing where you sang a bunch of notes together really fast. She
had a vision of love. His mother called for him to eat, retreating upstairs to
take a bath.
The
doorbell rang. Carrying the bowl, he opened the front door. On the other side
of was Bobby. They stared at each other through the screen door.
“Can
I use your phone?” asked Bobby.
“I
guess,” Stephen said, opening the door and bringing him inside, “in the
kitchen.”
“Who
is it?” Mother screamed down from the tub.
“No
one!”
Stephen
sat on the couch, eating pasta and watching Bobby, curiously, as he picked up
the phone and dialed. Didn’t they have a phone? Maybe they were Amish. Modern
Amish. Bobby glanced over at Stephen, who pretended to watch television. Bobby
smelled funny. He couldn’t quite place it. Woodsy. A hint of sweat. But sweet.
Meat sweet, though, not candy.
Bobby
spoke in a low voice and tucked himself around the kitchen entrance, making it
difficult for Stephen to hear. Nevertheless, he tried, perching himself up on
the couch and craning his neck. He couldn’t make out all of the words but of
what he could, something about he’d arrived and didn’t really want to be there
and the phone bill. He sounded distraught, as if things were out of place, or
he was out of place. The phone clicked on the receiver, and Stephen quickly
shifted his position.
“I’m
done,” Bobby said, making his way back to the door. He let himself out. Stephen
watched as he walked through the front yard. Far too unceremonious to be Amish.
He moved quietly, as if he were consciously trying to go unnoticed. Also, his
buzzed hair. Military haircut.
The
impulse to throw open the door and run after him was thwarted by the earthquake
in his gut. Stephen knew he’d eaten more than his body could hold and so, he
ran to the bathroom and unleashed a pound of half-digested pasta.
In
his room, Stephen pulled out an International Male catalogue from between his
mattress and box spring. He flipped directly to the underwear section. Beachy
scenes and mesh swimming briefs. If he squinted his eyes hard enough, the mesh
disappeared, like one of those nudie pens, and he could make out what was
underneath. He often compared himself to the models, and was frequently
disappointed. Tracing his finger along the outline, he grappled with his
feelings. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to play with them or be hugged.
Lying
on his back, he put the catalogue over his face and closed his eyes. He
pictured Bobby in mesh. Pictured himself standing on the shore, watching the
surf, the sharks sweeping circles at the surface of the water. Bobby swam with
them. If a shark came too close, he punched it on the nose. But, they didn’t seem
to bother him. He walked on to the sand, water dripping from his body like a classic
movie. A strange combination of beautiful and oddly plain. Bobby walked towards
Stephen, who sat on the sand. Standing over him, the sun from behind casting
his body in a shadow, he took Stephen’s hands and placed them on his legs. They
were hairless, goose bump shark skin. He glided his hands up and down. He
didn’t look to see if anyone was watching. Something different. Tucking his
fingers behind the elastic, he pulled the mesh shorts down Bobby’s shark legs
to his calves. It was not what he expected. Bobby had a Ken doll body. A flesh
bulge, but nothing else.
Stephen
ripped the catalogue from his face and threw it on to the bed. He heard his
father come in downstairs, met with some argument from his mother about the
car. The house was stacked in such a way, you could hear everything from every
room. Unless, you were in the basement. Even still, quiet was required to hear
nothing at all. Stephen ripped out the swimwear page from the catalogue, folded
it and placed it into his jeans pocket.
Under
his bed, he fished out a sketchbook and marker. On a blank sheet, he wrote:
Stephen Kowalczyk
is
Jean Valjean
in
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