Seventh Heaven (20 page)

B
ILLY NO LONGER WENT TO THE CAFETERIA AT
lunchtime. He spent the forty-five minutes in the boys' room, crouched over the toilet, his feet straddling the seat so that no one would see him. He'd wait until the bell rang and the halls filled with children, then he'd take a pack of matches out of his pants pocket and crumple up blank pages from his looseleaf and light a small fire on the floor of the stall. On days when he was lucky, the smoke would set off the fire alarm overhead and the alarm would act as a diversion so he could slip out of the bathroom and get back to class without anyone noticing him.

He'd almost succeeded in making himself entirely invisible at school. He'd read everything about Houdini he could get his hands on and, after weeks of practicing, he could slip his feet out of his sneakers without untying the laces, he could squeeze out of his shirt without touching the buttons, he could force his entire body into a space no bigger than a coffee urn. During gym class he would hide next to the basketballs, in a crevice so small he had to wrap his arms around himself like a straitjacket, and when he finally crawled out his limbs would be weak with needles and pins. He could now hold his breath in the bathtub for two minutes and he was working on tightening his stomach muscles. In the mornings he got up early and did a hundred sit-ups, and another hundred before he went to sleep.

“Go ahead,” he'd whisper to James when they were alone together. “Punch me.”

But the baby would just lift Billy's shirt and tickle his stomach, so Billy would have to punch himself, making sure to tighten his stomach muscles first.

“Booboo,” James would say, and then he'd watch, silently, as Billy hit himself again and again.

He had no choice but to make himself tougher, because even if most of the children ignored him there was a small group, led by Stevie Hennessy, who would not let him be. He would pick up their thoughts just before they got him from behind. They'd pull on his shirt until the seams split; they'd spit on his shoulders and hair. The band of Billy's enemies grew braver all the time, stuffing his loose-leaf into the garbage can, ripping his homework in half, writing
KICK ME
in black ink on the back of his shirt, pouring milk down his collar so that he'd have to sit in a pool of warm milk all afternoon and the teacher would turn up her nose whenever she walked past his chair.

They knew that his mother picked him up after school; they stayed away after the last bell had rung. And that was why, on the fifteenth of January, Billy was less upset to get his report card and find he was failing every subject but penmanship than he was to find out that school was to be let out at noon. All morning there was a lump in his throat. When he went to the closet for his coat and rubber boots after the noon bell rang, he could hear them thinking about what they were going to do to him. He tucked his report card into the waistband of his corduroy pants and took his time with his gloves and his blanket scarf, making certain he was the last to leave and hoping desperately they would forget him.

When the school buses pulled away they left clouds of blue exhaust hanging after them, and when you breathed out your breath made its own clouds in the cold, clean air. The street was deserted when Billy came out and crossed onto Mimosa, except for a group of first-grade girls who held hands three across. As he turned the corner from Mimosa onto Hemlock, Billy picked up the first black snippets.
I'll hold his hands behind his back
. He scanned the street but there was no one to see. Not a sparrow, not a cat. Billy stood on the corner, his looseleaf tucked under his arm, his wool hat low on his forehead. He started to walk because he had no choice; it was impossible to become invisible on the empty street with nothing but bare bushes and black, leafless trees.

They rose up from behind a mailbox when there was no turning back. Stevie Hennessy was out in front, and there were two other boys, Marty Leffert and Richie Mills, both as big as Stevie. They were grinning and they all had rocks in their hands. Billy stood there, mesmerized, and then he did the unthinkable. He turned and ran, letting his looseleaf drop to the cement, and as soon as he did he was fair game and they let their rocks fly.

The first rock hit him as he turned onto Evergreen. The second rock got him as ran up the driveway to a house he'd never been past before. He went up and pounded on the front door.

“Let me in!” he heard himself scream.

He kept pounding on the door, but no one answered and they were getting close to him. The third rock got him on the neck and Billy could feel his blood run down. He raced through the backyard behind the empty house and threw himself over the chain-link fence and into the adjoining yard on Hemlock Street. It was Stevie Hennessy's backyard, and once Billy realized where he was, he ran faster than he thought possible. He made it across the street and to his side yard and stopped, breathing hard, to examine the damage. He took off his coat and bundled it beneath some limp, leafless bridal wreath that hung low to the ground. He wiped the blood on his neck with his hands, and then he heard them, over at Stevie Hennessy's, and because his choices were folding himself into the window well, where there was a family of mice, or going inside, he went in through the side door.

He didn't go any farther than the vestibule that separated the kitchen from the door to the garage. His breath was raggedy and hoarse and he planned to make a dash for the basement before Nora got a look at him, but when he peeked into the kitchen he saw Ace McCarthy sitting there with his boots up on a chair, drinking a Coke.

They looked at each other, startled.

“Jesus,” Ace said finally. He dropped his feet to the floor and put down his Coke. “What the hell happened to you?”

Billy didn't answer. He never would have guessed it was Ace, even though he knew his mother had been having someone over to the house; he'd hear them whispering sometimes at night, he'd notice extra towels in the laundry basket, he'd wake suddenly, from the deepest of sleeps, with some man's thought in his head. He didn't know what his mother and this man were doing, but he knew they were doing something, and he knew he shouldn't let on. If he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night he would pee into an orange juice bottle he kept in his room.

Ace began to inspect him. “Man,” he said. “They really got you good.” Ace went to the sink and let the water run. “Come on.” He nodded to Billy. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Billy washed his hands and face. His forehead stung. He couldn't bring himself to look at Ace.

“Where does your mother keep the Bactine?” Ace said.

“In the hall closet,” Billy said.

“Right,” Ace said. “So does mine.”

Ace got the Bactine and some cotton balls and cleaned off the back of Billy's neck. Billy winced and pulled away. He could not understand what his mother and Ace could possibly want from each other.

“Two against one?” Ace said.

“Three,” Billy said.

“Fucking animals,” Ace said.

“So what?” Billy said, glaring at him. “I don't care.”

“Yeah, well, you should,” Ace said. He reached for the report card that was sticking out of Billy's waistband and took a look at it. “You're a mess,” he said. “Tell your mother you got rope burn on your neck during gym. And don't even bother trying to forge this.” He handed back the report card. “What'd you do, get out early today and you didn't even let your mother know?”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” Billy said. “Where's my mother?”

Ace swallowed hard. “She's in the shower and I'm baby-sitting.”

“Oh, yeah,” Billy said.

“I hate fresh kids,” Ace told him. Billy leaned against the counter; he looked so small and defeated that Ace couldn't stand to see it. “These three guys your friends?” Ace asked.

“Nah,” Billy said.

“You don't have any friends,” Ace guessed.

“So what?” Billy said.

“So who're you gonna play ball with?”

“I don't play,” Billy said.

“What?” Ace said. “Did I hear you correctly?” He got his jacket and pulled it on. “You're one sick kid, anyone ever tell you that before?”

“So what!” Billy cried.

They stared at each other.

“Go get a ball and a bat,” Ace said, deciding to cut his last class. When Billy didn't move, he added, “You've got one, don't you?”

Billy went to his room and brought back the ball and bat Nora had once bought him.

“Jesus,” Ace said. The bat was still in a shopping bag. He pulled it out. “Get a jacket and let's go.”

They went through the side yard and then walked down to the high school, not saying a word. The field was frozen mud, but they went out to the diamond.

“I'll pitch them straight at you,” Ace said. “All you have to do is hit them.”

Billy nodded and raised the bat. He missed the first five in a row. Ace walked across the diamond to him.

“I'm a great pitcher,” he said. “All you have to do is relax and get loose.”

Billy looked up at him, puzzled.

“Stop thinking,” Ace told him.

They practiced all afternoon, and by the time they were done it got so that Billy missed only two balls out of every three.

“I didn't think I could do it,” Billy said. He was out of breath and had to run to keep up with Ace.

“Yeah, well, you can't,” Ace said. “Not yet.”

All the way home Ace tried to figure how much the kid knew. He certainly wasn't giving anything away. “I'll be back tomorrow after school,” Ace said when they got to Billy's driveway.

“You'd be here anyway,” Billy said. “Wouldn't you?”

It did no good to lie to this kid; anyone could see that.

“Not at two forty-five I wouldn't,” Ace said. “I'd be long gone by then.”

“You don't have to do this,” Billy said. “I'll keep my mouth shut.”

“Look,” Ace said. “I don't have to do anything.”

“Yes, you do,” Billy said primly. “Everyone has to do some things.”

“Did you see anybody holding a knife to my throat out on the field?” Ace said.

Billy had to admit that he hadn't. He swung the bat over his shoulder and watched Ace walk across the lawn. When Billy finally went into his house, Nora was already setting dinner on the table.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Playing ball with Ace McCarthy,” Billy said. He went to the refrigerator, got himself a glass of milk, and filled James's bottle.

“Me bab!” James cried.

“You don't play ball,” Nora said.

She was spooning out mashed potatoes that stuck to the spoon like glue. There were pink spots on her cheeks, but other than that she didn't look upset.

“I've started,” Billy said.

Nora got out the ketchup and sat down at the table. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she hadn't bothered with makeup. “Anything you want to talk to me about?” she said casually as she cut James's hamburger into tiny pieces.

Billy looked up at her. The cuts on his neck and forehead burned, his coat was rolled up under the bridal wreath, his report card was still in his pants, and he knew something about his mother and Ace that he wasn't supposed to know.

“Nope,” he said.

“How's your hamburger?” Nora asked.

She had taken a bite of the meat; it was so dry she had felt as though she might choke.

“Great,” Billy said.

Nora watched him douse his burger with ketchup and thought he was a particularly good liar, maybe even better than his father. Roger always grinned too widely when he lied; he used to make physical contact, reach out and grab and then hold on tight, as if he could bodily force you into believing him.

After the meal, Nora got out some cups of Junket she had dotted with maraschino cherries.

“You know you can ask me anything you want, right?” she said to Billy as she spooned Junket into James's mouth. “You can tell me anything at all.”

Billy concentrated on his dessert and mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Look at me, Billy!” Nora demanded.

So he did and he picked up the word
Lie
from her and he knew he was a dead duck.

“I want the truth,” Nora said, praying that Ace had been dressed if Billy had found him in the house.

Billy put down his spoon and pulled out his report card and laid it on the table. Nora looked at the wrinkled report card, puzzled, then flipped it open and saw the Fs circled in red.

“Oh,” she said.

“It's not my fault,” Billy said.

Nora got a pen and signed her name to the report card. She kissed Billy on the top of his head, and when she asked if he wanted another serving of Junket, Billy ignored the fact that he was completely full and said, “Oh, yes. Please.”

7

MERCY

N
ORA
S
ILK STAYED IN BED LISTENING
to the ice melt on her roof. The cat was curled up at the foot of her bed; the curtains were not completely drawn, and she could see a wedge of blue sky. It was the first of March, a mild, pale day, a good day for hanging laundry out on the line. A year ago today she had been in a Laundromat on Eighth Avenue, a horrible place where the clientele sat hunched over, ignoring each other while their most private underwear flew past the glass in the dryers. She always took the boys and they'd sit there, held hostage by their clothes, because the one time she'd left the laundry and taken Billy out for hot chocolate, they returned to find that someone had stolen all their clothes, which hadn't even been dried. Someone had simply taken the whole sopping mess and left the washer door ajar. On this day a year earlier, Nora had bought Billy every kind of snack food imaginable just so he'd sit still. She kept the baby up on one washer, while she jammed their clothes into another. After she'd slipped her quarter into the washer, she looked up and saw Billy across the room, all scrunched up in one of the orange plastic chairs. He was tapping his feet and popping Milk Duds into his mouth and he had those awful bald spots and Nora's heart had dropped into the pit of her stomach and she thought, Anything is better than this; but now, after six months on Hemlock Street, she wasn't so sure.