"So y'know, what's it like fucking McFarland?" Ellis threw out the question during a lull in the screams. John pulled himself away from watching the last couple left, breathing heavily into the camera, begging each other to do something.
"What?" Ellis wasn't watching the movie anymore.
"Strewth John, I'm not a frigging asshole. I've seen you comin' out of his house late at night. You gonna tell me you was just watching the footy game?"
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
"He paying you or something? You a fucking whore now John? Is that what you learned to do when you went away?"
"Shut the hell up!" Ellis pushed his shoulder and John pushed him back, both hands, hard on the chest. Ellis fell back wards and rolled back up, pushed John.
"Tell me the god damn truth John!"
"Just shut up!" John swung and they fought like they had when John was eleven and his father had interrupted a sleepover. Not in strength or the number of punches (John had thrown the only one that night and then Ellis had pinned him on his floor, sitting on his chest until John gave in and told the whole truth for once) but what was at stake and where it could leave their friendship, depending upon who and how they won. Soon, John was no longer sure who was winning only that pretty soon somebody was going to knock over a lamp or something and he hoped to God Ellis gave up because John wasn't going to back down until after that lamp or something was broken. And then he would be screwed.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" His father yelled, pulling John off. "Huh!"
"I-"His father slapped him and backed him into the kitchen, pushing him so the edge of the counter pressed into the small of his back, a painful bite across his skin. "The last thing I need is his fucking parents calling here asking for money! What the hell is wrong with you! Huh!" His father held tight to John's wrist so he couldn't move away but was jerked about. Rather than trying to answer back John concentrated on breathing. Well, trying to breathe. "Well? What were you fighting about?"
"N-nothing. I'm sorry." His father let him slip to the floor, the handle of the pots and pans cabinet burrowing into a sore spot between his shoulder blades, perfectly where there was indentation of a belt buckle upon the bumps of his spine.
"You better be god damn sorry. If I ever see you fighting again-"His father kicked, John's ribs responding with a crunch and a pain like nails being hammered between the bones and wedging them apart. His father left, grabbing his jacket and slamming the door. It didn't catch in the lock but swung out again.
"John?" John kept his eyes closed and tried not to breathe. When his lungs began to burn to match his ribs, he snuck a little air into his mouth. Bad move, he realized as he felt his chest go through the motions of a heart attack, shifting the focal point from his heart back to his left side. "John, are you ok?" Ellis brushed the hair off his forehead; careful not to touch any bruises and John felt twinges of comfort across his skin. Ellis reached out and pushed the door so it was at least wedged in the frame.
"I can't stay here, Ellis." John tried to breathe again. "I can't do it! I gotta..."
"John, you have to go to a doctor or something. You have to go to the police. This... This isn't your dad slapping you around."
"Where am I going to go? Stay with you? Your parents hate me! Am I going to go live with my mum? Huh? You know where she is? Wanna tell me! Cause she hasn't exactly passed on that information!" John hated hysterics, and the fact he was starting to feel his voice change didn't help his mood. He hadn't had his sixteenth birthday for no reason.
"You have to go to a doctor though, John. I saw him hit you." Ellis continued to brush the hair off of John's forehead and was resting his other hand on John's thigh, the pressure creating what felt like a hot imprint on his skin from the heat of Ellis's touch, sending nerves scurrying and distracted from the pain points of his chest and bruised face.
"I can't go to a doctor Ellis. I... have to go." John lifted himself up, careful not to move his chest, to bend or breathe too much, feeling Ellis's hand fall off.
"Then where are you going?"
"There's a clinic in Melbourne. I can go there. I'll take the train in ok? Just go home Ellis. Take your god damn video and go home."
"No." Ellis grabbed John's elbow and John tried to shrug off his hand without twisting his chest or spine. Ow. Fucking glory, ow.
"What part of go home and take your-"
"No. I got you into this. I'll go with you."
"Ellis-"
"I'm going damn it. So suck it up." John forced half of a smile.
"Fine. Just. Let's go." They stood in the train station, John leaning gingerly against an advertisement, rubbing the toe of his black combat boot against the heel of the other foot, the rubber making a soft squeaky noise. Comforting almost.
"He's working nights?"
"Last day tonight. Seven until four. Tomorrow he's back to day shifts, eight to six. My guess is he finishes at four, goes and drinks for a few hours, switches to coffee and then handles some machinery." Ellis nodded, knowing it was probably stupid to say anything. "I shower. I don't have sex with him. I shower, he watches and pays. I need that money Ellis. I need to get the hell out of here." John wanted a cigarette.
"I could–"
"No." They got onto the train. "It's costs a lot to leave Ellis and I'm going to need to go far away. To stay away."
"Where?"
"Dunno. Maybe America again. Amsterdam. Not Australia." The train ride was silent, empty. John could only see a few people in the cars ahead. As they pulled into the station he said quietly, "And you know what? He doesn't touch me unless I say ok, he doesn't hit me and that's a hell of a lot better than other people. He at least acts like he gives a shit about me. Like he cares."
"Your dad, he has to care about you. He-"
"People don't have to do anything but breathe." They didn't wait long in the clinic. The doctor's hands were gentle, taking in the knowledge John's bruises had to offer, inspecting the X rays and showing them the cracks in two of his ribs, looking like a crooked line. When all was done and John's shirt was back on, she sat on a stool. John reached up and returned the stud to the cartilage of his right ear, then fiddled with his labret.
"Would you like to tell me how this happened?"
"I got in a fight. With him." John pointed to Ellis who nodded. "It was stupid."
"John, some of the bruises are a week or two old. Has someone been hitting you?"
"No." John tried to smirk, tried to be cocksure. It'd be easier to act as if the suggestion was crazy with a cigarette but other than the fact he didn't have cigarettes or the money to buy them, it was a doctor's office and those screamed 'smoking kills and disfigures'.
"Listen, if you'd give me your last name, or just tell me where you live, I can call authorities. Whoever is hurting you won't know you said anything. We can put you someplace safe John." She reached out as if to touch his knee. He shifted on the bed, crinkling the waxy paper, moved away. After her hand hung in the air for a moment, she straightened and he made himself stop touching the chin labret, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Ellis was starting to give him those pointed glances, the ones that said 'stop it with the nervous twitch already- you'll blow it'.
And Ellis had never seen him with his lighter; it was probably a good thing that Bobby had worked to mostly break him of that habit. It took full throttle panic or anxiety to get him to pull out the lighter, because as Bobby had pointed out, if you don't want people to know you're a mutant, stop pulling a Statue of Liberty.
"No one is hitting me."
"John, I should report-"
"No, you shouldn't." He stood. "Thank you." Outside it was warmer, the end of summer approaching, but now a sense of a chill was in the air, even if there wasn't any true salt or frost in the wind. It reminded John of Bobby, and then New York falls. Bobby's favorite time of year, after Indian summer days where it was warm enough to have snowball fights. Those warn October days tended to top John's list too; you didn't need gloves which was great because when someone is teaching you how to make a snowball, gloves are awkward and you don't get to touch your roommate's hand and act as if it were an accident or part of the learning process.
"Lemme buy you something to eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You're never hungry. Just, please. We, I, we can talk." Ellis rested his arm on John's shoulders and John nodded because if he shrugged Ellis's arm would drop off and he didn't mind it there. Ellis tightened his arm slightly. "So, with... showering..." Ellis ran his finger on the top of his glass, pushing a drop of water. "Um, are you camp?"
John sighed and stared at his hands, folded on the table, then began to massage his right hand. "...yeah." The bones had never knit quite properly after his father had been through and it still hurt to make a decent fist so John guessed most of the time it was a rather good thing that he was a lefty. Another five percent of the population specialty there too. He was just ranking up conversation openers.
"Oh. Does, does your dad know?"
John forced a laugh. "Yeah Ellis, he's so happy his son is a queer that he wanted to, to get one of those rainbow flags for the window. Maybe one for the car too."
"OK, stupid question."
John paused. It felt as though everyone in the pub was listening, leaning in, waiting to hear what else he had to say. "There was one guy- when I was in America, I, I was staying at this school for a while and I met this guy, we, we got to be friends and... I think I'm still hung on him. And by all accounts, I shouldn't be but I am."
"What about Rachel?" John felt his shoulders drop a little. He leaned back as the barkeeper came with their food- a burger for Ellis and strawberry swirl ice cream for him. Bobby's habits seemed to keep coming back and making their way under his skin, pulling his strings so that he acted on them, if only because they brought the comforting and stinging memories of Bobby.
"I love Rachel, I just... I did then but I guess I knew that I couldn't love her not like that. And we never, had sex or anything. I've always, I've never really been into girls, not when we were younger like, or anything and I guess... Do you think she knows?"
"No. I mean maybe she's guessed but she hasn't said anything to me. I know she and Marc know about your Dad but-"
"You told!"
"John, they're not blind! They've seen your bruises genius. And I wouldn't, even if they hadn't known."
"Oh. Thanks."
"How'd the school find out about you? You tell them?"
"No, I uh, never told 'm the town, or the area of Australia I was from. And, I never gave 'm my last name-" 'not on anything,' John was ready to say and then remembered his last Math quiz. Oh crap. He hadn't studied and panicked and... crap.
"John, something wrong?" John shook his head and ate some more of his ice cream. Can't change the past, only regret what you did or didn't do. Ellis ate a bit more. "I've never kissed a guy."
"What?" John felt some of the ice cream dribble out onto his chin. "Is someone asking you to?" He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
"No, I just," Ellis swallowed his mouthful of food, "I never have," he said simply.
"Oh."
"How long you been showering for him?"
"Almost two months; started a little while after I started working at Scotty's. Pays me 40 for like almost an hour. With that and some I've saved up so far I've got little more than 900, but I need more. And my dad knows how much I make with my paycheck and how much I put in the bank and spend on groceries or clothes or stuff and all that."
"I could loan-"
"No. OK? No. I just, this is the warning alright? Don't tell Marc and Rachel but this is the warning. I got to leave soon and last time, I couldn't... I didn't..."
"You'll say goodbye this time, right?"
"If I can. And if I can't, take this for it than. I'd only have to run for what? Less than two years? That's nothing."
"It is if you don't know when you're friend's coming back." John looked up and started to say sorry. Ellis moved his hand to rest on John's. "I get it. Alright? We all do. ...Look, do you think, maybe before you go... I mean... I know you got this bloke back in America but..." Ellis was chewing on his lip; fast and furious and pretty soon he'd draw blood.
"You've never kissed a guy. Oh." John drank the last of his soda. His mouth still felt dry. "I guess... alright. Not now though I mean..." Ellis didn't move his hand away and John didn't take his out from under it. It felt warm there, comfortable. Touch. Like one of those stupid lectures they gave back in primary school- good touch versus bad touch.
When your father beats the shit out of you, that's a bad touch. When your best friend comes to you with his sexual confusion even though you know he should end up with Rachel and puts his hand on your hand, like he wants to keep you anchored, that's a good touch. And showering for the neighbor down the street, that's just you trying to forget the boy you left behind or the father waiting for you back in your house. That doesn't count.
"Thanks." John shrugged.
"What friends are for and all that."
"Yeah." Ellis paid and they walked out into the street, heading for the train station. "So... do you think maybe it's a bit off that you came back on Australia Day?" John looked at him blankly. "January 26th? First day off from school every fall term? Perhaps you remember spending the previous one going to see that Violent Femmes cover band? You talked us-"
"I remember, you bastard."
"Marc pointed it out. Thought I'd mention it to you, Sexy." John laughed and threw an arm on Ellis's shoulders, because why the hell not? Ellis wrapped his around his waist. "You wanna just head to my house? Wag school? My mom and dad will be gone by the time we get there and my brothers won't notice before they leave. So, you wanna? Brody misses you and we can dye your hair pink again."
"Wouldn't be the same without Rachel messing up the amount of water to put in the mix- too great of a chance we'll fuck it up and make it red."
"Lord knows that wasn't the initial plan."
John woke up later that morning, sprawled on Ellis's bed, his hand knocking against the empty cereal bowls on the floor, then rubbing his palm into Brody's short coat, along his spine. The second horror movie credits rolling slowly; they had passed out somewhere between the bad girl and the skeptical guy getting slaughtered. How Ellis could eat twice in two hours and then sleep was beyond John (always had been), but it was Ellis' secret stash of sugar so he stuck to the old mentality of 'let 'm eat how much as he wants and when he pukes it's not your fault'.
He turned his head, looking out to see the sun slitted between the closed window blinds. He judged it to be maybe about 11, and he'd always been pretty good at judging time when it came to Australia. He looked down and noticed his and Ellis' forearms were wrapped together, like a double helix, once around, hands not touching. He didn't remember anything that would lead to that, so they must have made the subconscious decision to join in sleep.
Maybe Ellis was waiting for his kiss from a guy and this was how he asked. Maybe John was supposed to wake him up and show him exactly was homosexuality was. John was supposed to do a lot of things and screw them all. That was what later was for. He looked down and watched Brody climb up on top of his knees, curling up and looking at him. He reached out his hand and Brody inched closer, ending up on his stomach; John scratched his head for a moment, watching Brody's eyes close.
Rubbing the lighter in his pants and thinking for a moment of ice freezing the wheel shut and making him listen, taming him and making him feel safe as the cold would embrace him; thinking of winters where it snowed, he turned his head to the side and fell asleep.
"That bruise looks painful. How'd you get it?" Mr. McFarland went to touch John's wrist, to feel the dull blue-black mark, tingeing on yellow. He slid his hand into his pocket.
"I fell."
"How could you fall-"
"Hard. I fell hard. Do you want me to shower or not?"
"By all means."
In the shower, John moved slowly. He had been standing for a minute or two without moving, just staring into space with his arms crossed over his chest before Mr. McFarland said something. He shook his head and mumbled 'sorry' and tried to concentrate. Turning, he grabbed a bottle, half-heartedly rubbing it into his scalp.
He had only rinsed the shampoo out when Mr. McFarland knocked on the shower door. "C'mon, you can get out." John turned off the water and wrapped the towel around himself. "Here, go change in the guest room." He left the bathroom with Mr. McFarland staring at the shower stall, mirroring John's own distraction.
He got changed slowly. This hadn't happened before, what was up now? Maybe it was the end of the deal or maybe Mr. McFarland wanted something more now? "Yeah, I'm done. Come in," he said and slid back to sit on the bed, glancing around the room, painted a pale green, only darker, pastel olive in the corners.
"You alright?" Mr. McFarland wrapped his hand around John's kneecap, easily sliding it in place. John tried to ignore the warm hand because he knew if he didn't, he would realize that he didn't mind much the fact that it was there, that it actually felt a little nice.
"Yeah. Just, distracted."
Mr. McFarland nodded. "Does your father hit you?"
"What? No. No, I fall a lot." John swallowed, and made his eyes at least meet Mr. McFarland's face, even if he couldn't manage the eyes.
"John, I've been watching you for almost two months. I haven't seen you fall yet." John shrugged. "Does he?"
"No."
"So that black eye-"
"I fell. I tripped this morning getting out bed and fell, and hit my eye on the door knob."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Mr. McFarland cut himself off from what he was about to say, or think. "Here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded bills. John pushed his hand back.
"No." Mr. McFarland started to protest, saying that John had indeed showered and thus fulfilled his end of the deal. "No. You. You didn't get off and considering that's what you get for the money, I didn't earn it. I. I don't want it." John went to say more but yawned.
"Do you want to spend the night here?" John stared at him. Suddenly the kneecap thing took on Biblical significance. Sodom and Gomorrah significance. "Not to sleep with me. You look tired. You can sleep here. I'll wake you up in the morning."
"I, uh, I shouldn't. Thanks though." John wanted to. That was strange. But part of him, a good deal of him, felt better about staying the night in this bed then climbing back through the window to his own.
"Grab a couple of hours. Honest, wake you up when you need to go." John licked his lips and sighed, shrugged. Mr. McFarland squeezed and got up. "Got some stuff that might make your eye feel better, if you want to try it." John shrugged and started to take off his shoes, feeling the vibration through the floor as Mr. McFarland left the room.
On all accounts, he should at least be mildly worried that he'd wake up, tied and gagged in the back of Mr. McFarland's car, heading for the bush. At least it'd be a change of scenery. His socks were off and he crossed his legs, burrowing his feet into the cover of the bed. Mr. McFarland came back in, carrying a small tube in his hands. "Here," he said. "Close your eyes." John did and felt Mr. McFarland rubbing something gel-like that was blessedly cool under his eye, along the slightly rough bone of his eye socket. He kept them closed as he felt his hand being taken up and the same gel being rubbed into the underside of his wrist, hands removing his watch, pushing up his shirtsleeve, and rubbing the bruise that leaked into the indention left behind. He opened his eyes hesitantly; afraid the gel would find its way into his eyes and Mr. McFarland was staring at him, still holding his hand lightly, his thumb pushing gently down the center of John's right palm, firmly. "A few hours?" John didn't try to pull his hand away.
"Yeah. I guess. What time is it?"
"Nearly midnight."
"Wake me up by five?" Mr. McFarland nodded. "Thanks." He smiled and got up, capping the tube.
"I put your watch there," he pointed to the windowsill.
"Thanks. Thank you for whatever that stuff was."
"Aloe vera. Good huh?"
"Ace." John gave a small smile. Mr. McFarland nodded and closed the door behind him, hitting the light. John crawled under the covers, careful not to let his wrist or the side of his face touch the sheets, afraid the gel would stain. It still wet but soothed the thump of the bruise so he didn't look for a tissue to wipe it off. If he had been thinking, he would have taken off the longer sleeved shirt and just slept in the T Shirt he had layered on top. He woke up once, a few hours later when the door opened, creaking. He smiled slightly when he heard Mr. McFarland curse softly at the noise, but didn't move, waiting. He felt the covers being tucked in more firmly around his waist, and then one finger touching gently his cheekbone, wiping away the last of the gel that had smeared on to John's face and (he was fairly sure) into his hair. He flinched slightly, automatically and the finger drew away, and left the room.
He was sure Mr. McFarland didn't think he was awake, so why would he leave? For that matter, why had he come in? Rubbing his thumb over and over the tendon where Mr. McFarland's thumb had touched, John fell asleep. "Hey. Hey, wake up." John groggily sat up, his eyes opening slowly. Mr. McFarland smiled. "Your hair always look like that in the morning?" John felt his hair and cursed softly. The gel had rubbed in and spiked it while he slept. He felt like he was 14 again. "You don't do that anymore. Spike your hair." Mr. McFarland reached out a hand and rubbed a peroxide blond piece between thumb and forefinger so it broke apart, falling upon John's forehead, just into his eyes.
"Yeah. I figured it was time to hit puberty and all that." He got a laugh and smiled. Pushing the blankets back he leaned down reaching for a sock and felt his shirts ride up. He sat up again, but not quickly enough.
"You fall for that bruise too?"
"Yeah, I did." John put on his socks and shoes and stood. Mr. McFarland walked him to the back door.
"You sure you're not hungry?" John nodded. "Yeah?"
"Thanks though. And thanks. For the other stuff."
"Night John." John nodded and left, going through the yards to his own back door, unlocked for some reason, climbing the stairs to his room, to crawl into his bed and sleep some more before he had to get up for school. He didn't think his father was home.
"John?" John flinched and jerked around. Mr. McFarland was leaning in the doorway of his room, watching him.
"What? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came to check on you. Make sure you're ok. Are you? I knocked. Your back door was unlocked."
"Yeah fine. You should get out of here." Mr. McFarland took a step inside, looking around the gray room, the light green bedspread piled on the floor, his white sheets. John turned and pulled it onto his bed, straightening and tucking corners, throwing his pillow on. "I mean," he said in the direction of the window, his face turned slightly. "I don't know when my dad is getting home."
"You, mean from work?"
"No. He wasn't here this morning, ok?" John turned to face Mr. McFarland, who was looking at John's bookshelf, running a hand along the spines of the DVDs he had there, then reaching up to touch the comics, the paper back books. The hardcover Bible John hadn't touched in years, and not just because it was in Dutch.
"Strange collection."
"It's my friends. Ellis, he likes horror movies and my friend Rachel likes foreign films that always see to have some kind of sexual repression theme and my friend Marc likes black and white, film noir. And they all want me to take their side so they give me 'm. .OK?"
"What kind do you like?"
"Dramas, I guess. I don't like comedies really, or romantic crap. If a movie has some one-liners, or is sarcastic, then that's fine, I mean, Monty Python is ok every now and then or like '24 Hour Party People' or 'Chasing Amy' but..." He faded.
"Where would your father be?" Mr. McFarland turned back to him.
"I don't know. Passed out in his car. Maybe he went to work. He's done drunk before."
"You're not worried?"
"Yeah I'm worried but he's done it before and he's been ok then."
"He has?" John broke the eye contact, staring at his bare feet, the shredded bottoms of his jeans.
"He's an alcoholic. ...I think always has been. He and my mom used to spend the weekends drinking." John tried to make his eyes say, 'ok, drop it now.' He crossed his arms, stretching the black wife beater across his chest as the fabric caught on his watch. "Don't touch those!" John moved over to the dresser, picking up the small brown pill bottle and shutting them into a drawer. "If my dad... he'd kill me if he knew I was taking them."
"Sleeping pills?"
"He thinks... he doesn't believe in pills. I have to hide aspirin. Thinks they're weak, that people should solve their own problems but... I can't sleep." Mr. McFarland nodded and walked softly to look at John's computer screen, his collection of empty glasses that he had to wash.
"John, if you need a place to stay... I... I have the guest room. That could be yours."
"I, I can't. Everybody, he's the only family I got. Everybody else leaves, even me. I can't leave, not unless it's permanent, and living with you... I don't think it would be, could be. It'd be too close..." Mr. McFarland nodded.
"What are you working on?"
"Just something for school. Reading a book."
"What book?" John shrugged but knew he was still being stared at, still waited on.
"Philip Larkin. 'High Windows'."
"You read poetry?"
"Yeah, sometimes, ok? I needed a book and I would have read a comic book but I couldn't. And I couldn't find any decent novels and this wasn't that bad."
"No, he's, he's good."
"Look, if my dad is at work, he's probably leaving early cause he's probably got a wicked hangover and if he is in his car, I don't know what time he's coming home. You've got to leave." Mr. McFarland started to say something. "No! There's no way I could explain this to him- he gets... even when my friends are over, if they're guys and..."
"Alright. You're ok?" John nodded. "This isn't the kind of room I thought you'd have."
"What do you mean?"
"You kind of have this slow burning vibe, like anger or something and I thought your room would have that."
"Crappy death metal band posters and stuff? Bad plastic punk? Posters at all?" Mr. McFarland smiled and nodded, turning and walking into the hall, John following, glancing at some of the framed photographs and signs from concerts, clubs lining his walls. "Violent Femmes," he said as they walked down the stairs to the door.
"Yeah? Wouldn't have put you two together. But that was like my childhood, that first record."
"Old huh?"
"29, John. Real funny." John smiled. Mr. McFarland turned. "Right, get the pot shots in. Good John."
"The Weakerthans?" Mr. McFarland shook his head.
"This is Death Cab for Cutie, right?" John nodded. His stereo was playing them. "I'll see you John." John nodded.
"Sorry about, but, thanks for asking." Mr. McFarland nodded and left. John watched him walk down the front steps to the sidewalk and shut the door behind him. He trudged back up to his room, touching his surf board for a moment, skimming his fingers along the keyboard, then falling on to his freshly made bed and buried his head in the pillow. He waited for his dad to come home.