The kitchen is dim from closed window blinds and Joshua is screaming. The spoons on the table are dry and we are sweating and Joshua is kicking his feet like he’s running away, but he can’t run away while strapped into a highchair I stole from Chili’s. Besides, he is fourteen months old. Even if I took him outside and pointed at Rocket Drive, Joshua would stumble around and never leave this place.
“Carla, do something!” I yell as we wait for the call.
“Why don’t you?” she snaps, disappearing into the bathroom.
“I’m sick too, you know,” I call after her, lifting Joshua into my arms.
Drew kicks open the front door cradling a cardboard box full of refrigerated food.
“What’s all that?” I ask.
“Food,” Drew says. His tracked-up arms look especially wasted near all that nutrition.
“I know it’s food. Whose food?” I say, bouncing Joshua.
Drew frantically stocks the fridge with condiments. A threadbare orange polo is stuck to his sweaty back. Embossed on the shirt are two verdant palms sprouting from the words “Drew’s Landscaping,” which, in the past year, has lost all but two clients. The nape of his neck is pinkish and brown speckled from all the sun. “Matthew, can you shut him up?” Drew demands.
“I’m trying. He’s hungry.”
“We’re all fuckin’ hungry,” Drew snaps.
Drew stocks our empty shelves with packages of ham and cheddar slices, which remind me of sack lunches my mother once prepared. Sandwich triangles without the crust, a sweating pouch of Capri Sun, and a laboratory-gold Twinkie. Yesterday, all we had in the fridge was stolen beer and mustard packets I sucked on for some flavor.
“Whose food is that?” I repeat as Joshua squirms in my arms. Once we score, I won’t give Joshua a speck of Blue, the high milligram Oxy we cook and shoot so we can breathe and eat and move and sleep. I’ve been sprinkling Blue into Joshua’s applesauce so he can sleep too, but today I’ll stop. Today, I’ll let him suffer like I should have done long ago.
Drew says the food is Becky’s, our neighbor. “She said I can borrow these for the CPS lady, alright? Christ!” Drew barks, kicking wide the door, leaving with the box. Drew employs theatrics like kicking doors and saying “Christ” to claim authority, which typically works because Carla and I cannot afford to live alone, so we rent a room for cheap from Drew.
Today, a lady from CPS will determine if Drew’s house is a safe and habitable place for his kids to live. Joshua is not Drew’s kid. He’s not Carla’s or my kid either. Joshua is the son of Carla’s ex-husband, who died from an overdose after having Joshua from an affair. The same ex-husband who got Carla hooked on Blues years ago when she was an orderly in the NICU, where marsupial-faced babies like Joshua screamed from fetal alcohol syndrome and addictions born in the womb. Drew lost custody of his kids last year, and was court-ordered to pay child support. Drew is broke from his habit and his business collapsing, so to avoid paying child support his house must be deemed fit for children so now Drew is scheming. Now Drew is realizing the accommodations of no air -conditioning in Florida with no TV, no toys, and only beer in the fridge may not be a stellar candidate so he’s borrowing our neighbor’s food. This is the first time I’ve witnessed a person borrow food. There are many firsts in drug addiction.
Drew returns carrying a dollhouse and a small TV, placing the ‘borrowed’ items on our dusty laminate floor. “When did Slick say he’d call?” Drew asks.
“An hour ago,” I say, setting Joshua down. He stumbles over and examines the dollhouse. He pets the pink facade with grave curiosity. He peers inside each window. I walk over, kneel, and look at Joshua through a fictional kitchen. This excites him. He stands to look at me above the roof, and I meet his smile. For a moment, we’re larger than the house, rising above it.
Carla returns, grimacing, holding her stomach. Her tank top reveals ribs nearly poking through her skin. Carla doesn’t know Joshua is dope sick like us. She doesn’t know that I’ve mixed Blues into his applesauce for months.
“Has he called yet?” Carla asks.
“No,” I say.
My phone rings and it’s the call. Drew looks at me, holding the fridge door open. Carla moves in closer. We’re like a family waiting to hear the winning lottery numbers. Slick says to meet at a strip mall in Lutz. “We’ll be there,” I say and hang up. We all nod and make Tiger Woods fists like we’ve won some arduous contest because we’re broke, and Slick is the only one willing to front. A front I’m hoping isn’t contingent upon us robbing somebody like last month. I feel a pulse of gratitude that, for now, Joshua is romanced by the dollhouse, running his fingers across each surface. Smooth porch columns and a stubbled roof. I tell Drew and Carla I’ll be right back. With arms folded, Carla says “I want to come.” I know she doesn’t want to wait until I return to shoot these Blues. She wants to hit a vein before we leave that parking lot.
Drew laughs at this, pointing at Joshua. “Then you’re taking him with you. He can’t be here when that lady comes. I told you this.”
“We can’t take him,” I say. “It’s Slick. Who knows what will happen.” Last month, Drew and I broke into houses in a senior community for Slick. He gave us addresses, and we kept half the scripts. I grab my keys and step out into the swampy humidity.
Carla follows me outside. “I’m comin’ with,” she says. Carla’s lips are pale in the sulfuric sun. Her jutting clavicles suggest that Carla’s bones are outgrowing her drawn body, and soon she will be reduced to bruises and gaunt cheeks. Soon, it will be difficult for others to look at Carla without first thinking of the word ‘bones’.
Drew hollers from the house. “Hey! What are you doing, Carla!?” “We’ll be right back,” Carla says.
“I’m not watchin’ this baby!” Drew yells, looking inside at Joshua, then at us.
Even though it’s Drew’s house, I have the leverage because Slick is my dealer. “Relax,” I tell Drew, opening the car door. “He’s just playing with that house.”
“CPS is coming at noon,” Drew says, spitting into the yard. “If he’s here, I’m screwed!”
Noon is several hours away. “We’ll be right back,” I tell him. “Then we’ll take him to the park.” And we will. Soon, we’ll be high, smoking cigarettes on a bench in the shade, watching Joshua plunge his arms shoulder-deep into hot crusts of sand at Seminole Park down the street.
The park is run down and usually empty, so it’s often just Carla, Joshua, and me.
“Just fuckin’ hurry up,” Drew says, slamming the front door.
In the car, Carla and I look at each other, reluctant to leave Joshua alone with a man who lost his parental rights. But we need Blues so I turn the key and the engine fires and we reverse onto Rocket Drive. The developers of this drug-bitten neighborhood named this lone gravel road “Rocket Drive” because they were thinking of Cape Canaveral and the glory of takeoff. They were thinking about skirts of fire blooming, of shuttles flung into the cosmos.
The car shudders into gear. Tires dig into loose rock and I forget about my withdrawals and Joshua’s despair. I forget the dread of waking up tomorrow sicker than today. We gain speed and Carla smiles and I no longer wonder how I went from teaching high school English and living in a clean apartment with a stocked pantry to diminishing in this joyless place. The Blues are so close my veins are buzzing. Soon we’ll be happy, playing with Joshua at the park.
*
It’s been hours and Slick hasn’t shown. The CPS lady will be at our house soon. The parking lot’s blacktop is cooking in the listless heat. We have no leverage with a front—we can only wait. I called Slick an hour ago. He said, “Goddamn, I’ll be there,” and hung up. The windows are down and we’re sweating, reclined in our seats, awaiting the diesel chug of Slick’s truck, sitting up at the sound of every throaty exhaust.
“Has Joshua seemed different lately?” Carla asks.
My stomach drops. “Yeah, like he’s a little fussier?” I ask, playing along.
Carla smokes and watches people enter the shops. An old lady with a wide-brimmed sunhat is all forearms, bending over her walker, sliding along on plastic wheels and tennis balls.
In the basket of her walker is a binder resembling the one my mother used to organize coupons.
She’d hand me one and I’d race down the aisle, weaving between shoppers like a tailback.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him lately. He was never this bad,” Carla says.
I know what’s wrong with Joshua. I’ve wanted to confess my wrongs to her when we’re high but then I don’t and then we’re sick again and anything besides getting high sounds awful when you’re dopesick. Especially telling Carla I’ve got Joshua addicted to Blues.
It started months ago when I was in bed, sweating from withdrawal. My stomach lining felt like it was being chewed up by rusted teeth, and Joshua was crying, squirming in Carla’s arms. We had two Blues saved for the morning so we’d feel not-sick-enough to find more.
“Let’s each do half of one,” I offered.
“Let’s just sleep,” she said. “We’ll need it worse in the morning.”
I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge, squinting in the cold yellow light. Inside was Joshua’s last cup of applesauce. I returned to our room and grabbed Joshua.
“What are you doing?” Carla asked
“I’m going to feed him.”
“We’ve got to save that for the morning.”
“We can’t go all night like this,” I said while Joshua cried and cried.
Joshua fought my hold as I carried him to the highchair. I strapped him in and brought over the mush. He scarfed down each spoonful like a grown man—like he had to get back to welding a corner joint. He shifted and hollered in his chair as I brought the penultimate bite to his lips. He swallowed and sat there looking at me, his large forehead looming. I didn’t want to look Joshua in his closely set eyes because I didn’t want him to know the truth, that I had only one spoonful left. But I did look at him, and Joshua started yelling.
Drew stormed into the kitchen. “Hey! What the hell?” he yelled.
“Quiet down man, Carla’s sleeping,” I whispered.
“So was I until all this fuckin’ screaming,” he said. “Take him into your room.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m almost done.”
I didn’t want to bring the hysterical Joshua into our room because Carla was in pain. And I didn’t want to feed him the final spoonful without being certain it was enough because the kid had never been given enough and now we had only two Blues and no food and Joshua crying from hunger. I pulled out my rig and razor and crushed up my last Blue. As I scooped the powder into my spoon, I looked at Joshua whose chest was heaving. Unwilling to hear another decibel of pain, I poured some powdered Blue into his applesauce and ferried the drug-laced mush to his lips. Once Joshua’s shoulders dropped and his eyes got heavy, I loaded my syringe and shot my last Blue.
Rain clattered against our roof. My blood flowed like water droplets sliding down waxy leaves. Head ballooned from the high, I carried Joshua, who wasn’t crying anymore, into our room. We all slept in bed together, soundly. Nobody woke until well after first light.
My phone rings—it’s Drew. I look at Carla, rolling my eyes before picking up. “Yeah?”
“That lady will be here soon, you need to hurry,” Drew says.
“Only so much I can do,” I say.
“This fuckin’ kid keeps crying,” he says, “you need to hurry.”
I want to tell Drew how dumb he is to believe this CPS lady won’t notice that the only notable items in the trailer are a doll house without dolls and a TV with no service. I want to tell him other things like never to call his ex because his kids deserve more than a junkie dad, but I’m too nauseated so I hang up.
Drew calls back and says he’s taking Joshua to the park if we’re not home soon.
“What are you saying, you’ll leave him alone at the park?”
“I’ll bring his highchair—he’ll be strapped in. It’s fine.”
“Drew, that’s crazy. You can’t leave him alone, outside.”
“It’s not my baby, man. I’m trying to see my kids. This lady can’t see some random baby in this house.”
“Slow down. Let’s just think. Let’s think of something.”
“No, man. Hurry up or I’m taking Joshua to the park,” Drew says and hangs up.
I call him four times—voicemail. Carla heard everything. She’s rocking back and forth in her seat, threatening to kill Drew. All I can think of is that we’re out of cigarettes.
I call Drew but he doesn’t answer. Carla demands I drop her off so she can be with
Joshua while the CPS lady visits. I remind her we don’t have enough gas.
“So, what, you’re okay with Drew leaving Joshua alone in the park!? He’ll die.”
“No, I’m not okay with it but we’ll get back just in time. And he won’t die.”
“We won’t be back in time, and you know it!”
I don’t know it, but I’m starting to suspect it. I’m starting to fear Slick not showing and Joshua’s highchair tipping over at the park and Joshua concussed and Joshua dying with his face mottled red, bleeding beside all the shit and piss from stray cats.
“Carla, if we go back, we’ll miss Slick and nobody else will front us Blues.” “This is so fucked,” Carla says.
This is so fucked, but I’m hoping Carla will lighten up once we score. “We’ll get to Joshua soon,” I say, checking the time. “If Slick doesn’t arrive in the next two minutes we’re gone. No matter what.
Slick’s pickup turns into the lot, diesel chugging. Carla sits up and guides fugitive wisps of hair behind her ears. Sometimes I think of marrying her. I reach for her hand and she lets me take it. I feel the flex of her tendons, fibrous cords attached like ropes to her muscles. To me, Carla is more than bones. She is pure ligament. I studied Latin in college before teaching high school. Before the accident and broken foot and scripts of Oxy. Before losing my job and cashing in my 401K and moving to this shithole so I could shoot drugs the way I wanted. The word ligament comes from the Latin ligamentum “a band, bandage, tie, ligature,” and from ligare “to bind, tie.” And right now, Carla is all ligaments, she’s all tough fibrous tissue holding my world and Joshua’s world together and I’m kissing her skin with the sorrow of a penitent because I need her to keep holding us all together.
Slick parks in a stall behind us. He calls and I pick up, staring at his tinted windows and mud-splattered chrome grill in our rearview. “Got a job for you,” he says.
“Okay.” I look at Carla. Something tells me this “job” will take longer than a few minutes and we need to get back to Joshua. We hoped this would be a simple front.
“A lady will exit the pharmacy. Follow her home and snatch her script.” Slick spends a lot of money getting intel on where to find new scripts.
“How many are we getting?” I ask.
“Ten, and you don’t need to pay me. Just grab the script and get it back to me tonight.”
We don’t have time to follow this lady home. “I need to do this here, in the parking lot.”
“No,” Slick says. “No fuckin’ way.”
“Please,” I beg. “We left the kid at home and need to get back. We’re out of time.” The line is quiet. Carla’s nail-biting impatience makes me nervous.
“I’m only giving you seven then.” “That’s fine,” I say.
“There she is,” Slick says. “With the walker.”
As I approach, I can’t stop looking at the binder and thinking of Mom’s coupons. The lady is staring at me. I see her lips move and hear the phrase, “Can I help you?” but the words echo like my head is in a fishbowl and she’s speaking from the other side. I look back at Carla. “Do you have the time?” I ask.
The lady raises her thin wrist and reads a golden watch. “11:50, dear. Are you alright?”
My heart thrusts toward the Blues inside her pharmacy bag. I just need to grab it, run, and get back to Joshua. But I panic. I say thank you and walk back to the car.
Slick calls. “What was that?” He asks
“I can’t steal pills from an old lady.”
“You could last month.”
“Yeah well that lady didn’t remind me of my mother. Please, you don’t have any to front us?”
Slick laughs. “I do,” he says. “In that woman’s bag. Listen, everyone wants Blues. I’ll find someone else.”
I hang up. Carla is all over my shit. “We gotta go–what’s going on?” she asks.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, but we better snatch that lady’s script for Slick or we’re fucked,” I say, pointing across the lot.
“We’re already fucked, we should’ve left by now.”
“She’s about to drive away!” I cry, pointing at the woman’s car.
“Fuck,” Carla says, flying out the passenger door. She runs across the lot, slams her hands against the trunk, and brake lights glow. The lady cranes her head out the window. I can’t hear what’s being said but Carla is pointing at me and touching her heart. The lady protests, shaking her hands. Carla looks at me with the defeat of a caged animal and I think it’s over, and maybe this is what we needed to change, but now the lady hands Carla the bag.
Carla sprinted across the lot and is now in the passenger seat, yelling but the fishbowl thing is happening. Her words ricochet off the dash and slip out the windows and I’m so ravaged from withdrawal that I can hardly move so I stare at the steering wheel until Carla slaps my face.
“Fucking go!” she screams.
*
We tear across Highway 59. The exhaust of my rusted Cavalier is buzzing like a saw stuck in a groove and for a moment I’m not twenty-five, stuck in this Oxy pit. I’m nine, palm against the dimpled rubber of a basketball as a chorus of hightops squeak across our school’s gym—I’m on a fastbreak. I’m twelve, sitting cross-legged in our living room. The power went out. Mom sets a candle on the coffee table and rubs our backs. My sister and I watch the flame. Then, somehow, I’m twenty-five, wearing khakis after my last day of teaching, holding a lighter to a spoon. “What did you say?” I ask.
“I said if she didn’t give up her pills, my son would be left alone in a bad place. I told her to report it stolen and she’d get more pills.”
“You’ve never called Joshua your son.”
“Well, he’s somebody’s son. And I don’t see that junkie bitch around.” Carla wipes her nose, “None of that matters,” she says. “Just get us home. And call fucking Drew.”
I call Drew. “Tell me Joshua’s not at the park. Tell me!” Carla pleads, hoping I can vanquish the guilt that’s got her leaning forward, pulling her hair. Drew doesn’t answer.
“Put your seat belt on,” I say.
“Fuck you,” she says.
I say, “There’s no way Joshua’s at the park. Drew was panicking. He’s just sick.”
Turning off 59, I see that I’m wrong. Joshua is at the park, screaming, losing his shit. At most parks, there would be someone nearby to help him, but not here, at Seminole Park, surrounded mostly by homes and trailers of folks hooked on Blues or ice or booze. Racing down Rocket Drive, we see Joshua alone, body thrashing in his highchair in the middle of a basketball court. His strangled cries sound like he’s caught in a trap. I can’t believe Drew didn’t set him on grass.
“Jesus Christ,” Carla says.
We park and run toward Joshua who is flailing with such violence that the highchair is moving. There’s a wobble to it and if he doesn’t calm down, he’ll tip over. Joshua sees Carla coming and cries “Momma!” I pump my arms and throw my legs because I’m still a good ten yards away when the chair starts tipping over. Yes, it’s tipping over, and Joshua’s eyes go wide. I mutter, “Oh god,” because I’m about to watch a fourteen-month-old die so I lunge like the afternoon still matters and reach out to catch him and when I do, when I catch his torso midfall, and take a breath, and right the chair, I can feel the panicked-rabbit beating of his heart. Eyes bloodshot and swollen, he’s looking up at me wondering if it’s over, if he’s safe.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, unbuckling his seat.
Carla picks Joshua up, lays his head on her shoulder, and rocks him. She smooths his hair, says, “Shhh, baby, it’s okay,” and looks at me like she doesn’t know how to calm him. I do.
“I can’t believe this,” Carla says, totally shocked. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
Carla always lets me use first while she watches Joshua and I want to return the favor.
“Why don’t you go in the car and do yours—I’ll hold him.”
“No,” she says, keeping Joshua from me. “I swear I’ll kill that asshole.”
I ignore her threats and keep pressing because I know she’s dope sick. After minutes of pacing, she hands Joshua to me. “Fine,” she says. “Just take him home. I’ll be right there.”
“The Blues?” I ask, holding out my hand.
Carla draws the bottle from her back pocket and deposits four Blues into my palm. “Two for you, two for that piece of shit,” she says, leaving three for herself. I don’t want to say anything because Carla deserves the world and someday, I’ll give it to her.
“You’re not doing three, are you?”
“No,” she says, facing the highway that sounds like a bad whistle beyond the trees. Carla kisses Joshua’s forehead before we leave.
We make it home to find Drew returning Becky’s things to her trailer, chewing on sandwich meat. I go inside and get Joshua into his highchair. Once Drew walks inside, he apologizes for leaving Joshua alone. He says the visit went terribly and he’s having a really shitty day, and again, he’s sorry about Joshua, and if he could please get a Blue, he’d appreciate it.
“Have you lost your mind?” I ask. Once Joshua is buckled in, I turn and face Drew.
“He’s fine, isn’t he?” Drew says, hardening his expression and looking down at Joshua with probably the same consideration he was given as a boy. “I told you not to leave him.”
Before Drew says another word, I bury my fist into the bridge of his nose.
“Fuck,” he cries, grabbing his face. Blood drips between his fingers.
“Fuck you,” I say, placing two Blues on the table. “Here.”
Drew swipes the pills and leaves. I may apologize later, but only once I’m high.
Joshua is dazed. His head is listing to one side like a boxer in the final round. “You okay, buddy?” I ask, slipping my forefinger into the soft tunnel of his palm. He doesn’t squeeze it like he usually does. It’s been three days since I’ve fed him any Blue.
Joshua vomits over the side of the chair. His breathing labors and I panic and look outside for Carla. The car is still in the park. I wipe Joshua’s face with a rag and grab the last applesauce.
I’m looking at Joshua but he’s scarcely looking at me. His fits of screaming are interrupted by despondent looks of illness. His eyes roll like scuffed-up cue balls as I say, “Hey, buddy, you okay?” smoothing back his hair like Carla does. “Let’s eat this, okay?” I say, opening his food.
I’m dopesick but trying to prove I can care for Joshua by feeding him. He stares at me with expectation, his eyes asking—will this make me feel better? He swallows and blinks, waiting for an answer. “This will make you feel better,” I say, bringing forth the spoon but it’s as if he knows I’m not feeding him Blues. The sickly yellow-gray of his skin is flushing red. He cries “Momma!” but his mother is not here, and neither is Carla, who is likely nodding off in the car beside a bloody needle. I pull out my rig and crush a Blue on the table while he watches, the butt of my lighter smashing down hard on the pill. As I sweep the powder into my spoon, Joshua leans forward and reaches toward me, opening and closing his fingers like a beggar.
I shoot up. The holy plunger pushes Blue down, down into my bones. A window is open. Our tattered curtains billow in the wind, rising and falling like an evening gown when someone beautiful is sleeping. Everything I touch feels like the moon’s glow. Everything I inhale smells like wet grass, desolate beneath the stars.
I can’t let Joshua suffer anymore. I crush my second Blue and scrape some powder into his applesauce. I bring the spoon to his lips, again and again until he calms. I load the remaining powder into my spoon, flick my lighter, and listen to the dope fizzle into something pure. I shoot the second Blue, nod off for a while, and take us outside to feel the sun. Carrying Joshua with one arm, I open the door and admire how his blue eyes gleam like stained glass.
*
We’re sitting on patchy grass, and Joshua is happy. He’s ripping the puffy white heads of dandelions from the ground and pressing his lips together to blow the seeds. We’re sitting side by side and I’m blowing mightily, demonstrating. Joshua blows harder until the seeds take flight. He cries out and gives chase. The wind picks up, carrying the seeds away from his reach. I wait for him to return so we can do it again, but he’s distracted, facing Rocket Drive, looking at where the road crests. Beyond is the highway, leading to all the places Joshua has never been.
He faces me and lifts his arms to be picked up. He’s never done this with me before—only Carla. I clear my throat and pick him up. My arm is hoisted around his butt and I can smell the citrus sun warm against his rosy cheeks. Joshua lays his head against my chest, and I cry.
I’m walking toward my car which is still at the park. Carrying Joshua, his head resting on my collarbone, I understand that we can’t live like this much longer. Maybe tomorrow Carla and I will attend one of those NA meetings. We’ll gather with people afterward and join them for dinner. Maybe after not using Blues for a while, our bodies will shed these awful withdrawals like an old coat, and we will, for the first time in years, feel lighter, and clean.
When I was young, after moving to Alaska, my mother took my sister and me outside in the winter dark to watch the Aurora Borealis. We stood in our parking lot, all the windshields covered in rime. My fingertips burned from the cold and I was tired. Mom pointed up at the sky and said, “Look.” Pinpricks of light pulsed and flared. Flares grew into glittering ribbons of scarlet and purple. Before I could ask Mom what was happening, the ribbons burst into rivers of emerald green and canary gold. Everything shifted and twinkled like dusky seas, like rosy sand.
Perhaps that’s us. We are in this darkness and think we are doomed. But maybe right now, Carla,
Joshua, and I have a pulse. Maybe one day we’ll catch a charge and burst into something. Joshua will go to school, healthy, with a full lunchbox. Carla will return to the hospital and care for sick babies. I will call my mother and tell her I miss her. Maybe I will teach again.
Approaching the car, I don’t know yet that this is the last time I’ll ever walk with Joshua. I don’t know yet that Carla cooked three blues at once, pushing 90mg of Oxy into her veins. I don’t know yet that when I discover her temple pressed against the cool window glass, I’ll think she’s sleeping because her neck will look elegant, and I’ll still want to marry her someday. I don’t know yet that Drew is in his room, dabbing his broken nose, texting his wife that his kids are not allowed in his home. I don’t know yet that when Carla’s body is zipped inside a bag, the
State will take custody of Joshua. I don’t know yet that in fifteen years I’ll be forty, attending an NA meeting after a long day of teaching when Joshua walks into the room. He’ll say he just got out of rehab. He’ll trip over words, staring at the ground as he tells strangers he needs help. We’ll talk afterward and he won’t recognize me. I won’t mention the past, but we’ll exchange numbers. Eventually, I’ll finally call to begin the lifelong apology for all the pain I caused, but he won’t pick up. I don’t know yet that months later, Joshua’s stomach will be peppered by buckshot during a botched home invasion. He’ll be a dopesick addict then. The shrapnel’s clean heat ripping through his stomach and the anesthetic of shock will carry Joshua to the most pleasant moment of his life when his organs stop working so damn hard and finally call it quits.
Joshua kicks his legs and points like he wants to be put down. “Cah” he says. “Matt cah,” he sings.
I nod and say, “Yes, Matt’s car. Very good!” I set him down. Joshua pads across the lawn toward Carla’s silent body. His pupils are pinned and his eyes are glazed. He’s giggling, twisting his torso for momentum. He’s smiling big.
There’s a section on Highway 59 where the treeline breaks and for a second, driving past our neighborhood, you can see the field where Joshua is running. I imagine from that distance, seized by the highway’s violent pace and magnificent sounds, the song of our neighborhood, and the names of our people are as familiar to you as rocks on the side of the road. You cannot hear the scraping sounds of the palms overhead, or the faint whoosh whoosh of Joshua’s diaper as he runs. I’m sure all you can see from that distance is just another boy, running.
