“Mom, can I have a beer?” The TV and phones had been off five minutes. Buddy was already bored.
“A beer?” I asked. “You’re fourteen.” We’d shut everything off to try not think about it. By midnight was the consensus. Out the window, trees swayed in the predawn light, temperatures in the low seventies. It could just be an especially windy, warm January morning.
“It’s not like I’m going to make it to 21.” Buddy had never been a prosecutor-type arguer. He’d offer something and let it simmer until I saw the sense of it. He had patience for a kid. But with only today left, there wasn’t much time for that.
“Sure,” I said. “They’re in–”
“Refrigerator door, I know.” He hopped off the couch and disappeared into the kitchen. Reappearing in the doorway, Buddy took a long sip, made a face, shook his head and looked at me like, “Really?”
“How about a cigarette?” he asked. I realized he was checking off things he’d never be old enough to do.
“You know I quit–”
“What about the pack hidden in the sewing basket?” I had to laugh. He knew every inch of this house. I liked to think I had secrets left, but it’d been just the two of us for seven years. “Mom, by lunchtime it’ll be too hot to move and by tonight, Kaput!” He drew an index finger across his throat. I hated when he did that.
“Sure.” Friends asked if I felt sorry for myself after Jerome left, but I was too busy feeling sorry for Buddy. And now this.
He put the beer on the coffee table, jumped up.
“I don’t have matches though.”
I heard knobs turning on the kitchen stove. “I’ve seen this in movies,” he said, inhaled and started coughing. He was still coughing when he came into the living room, took another sip of beer and made the face again. “What the hell?” He dropped the butt into the beer and looked at me like I’d lied to him–like the whole world had.
“Acquired tastes, I guess.” I shrugged and resisted smothering him in a hug.
“Can you show me your boobs?” he asked.
“What?” I pictured the list in his head. “Not showing you my boobs, Bud! That’s just weird.” When he raised his eyebrows, I said, “Go look at porn or something.”
“Porn’s all fake, isn’t it? Fake boobs, fake lips, fake moans. Are the penises even real?”
I was so stunned by his old-soulness, I didn’t realize it was a real question. He’d never make 21, but he’d always been 81. “I think so, Buddy.” I was suddenly overwhelmed by sadness for him, for us, for the whole world, for the people near the equator on the summer side of the planet who’d probably already stopped sweating, their brains hallucinating, organs failing–sometimes as a nurse, I knew too much.
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, I could see the Reynolds’ house next door, could’ve seen into their family room if the curtains weren’t drawn. “Buddy,” I asked, “did you ever kiss Monica Reynolds?” I’d always wondered but didn’t want to embarrass him.
“Thought about,” Buddy said. “A lot. Time was never right.”
I nodded. Another wave of sadness knocked me back into the couch.
“Afraid it might ruin our friendship.”
Again, I was impressed. He was a wise little man-to-be. “Maybe–” I started, but his phone buzzed. “I thought we agreed to phones off.”
“It’s Dad,” he said. “Should I answer?”
“Of course.” But he already had.
“Yup,” Buddy said, “Uh huh, love you too.” I could hear the familiar rise and fall of Jerome’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. “We’re just drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and talking about porn.” Buddy winked to include me in the joke. Jerome’s voice erupted on the other end.
“Buddy!” I shouted. “Let me talk to him.” Buddy switched to speakerphone. Jerome wasn’t shouting. He was laughing.
“Jesus!” Jerome said when he caught his breath. “Guess things have loosened up over there.” He started laughing again.
“Well, given the circumstances,” I said.
“Of course.” He sighed. I wish I’d shut up and lingered in his deep laugh one last time. “Just wanted to say…” he said. “I…” Buddy and I waited. “Remember that night in Rhode Island when we rolled up our underwear in rocks and threw them in the ocean?”
“You’re on speaker,” I reminded him.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve been remembering the good times and I wanted you to know. For a long time, all I could remember were the fights over money and–”
“And Denise,” I said and regretted it.
“Yes,” he said. “And Denise. At the end.” Buddy sat wide-eyed and silent like we’d forget he was there.
“I remember that night. We had a lot of good times, Jerome.”
“We did,” he said. “You know I love you both very much.” The sound of a ruckus behind him grew louder. “It’s Denise,” Jerome said. “Talking to her ex. Doesn’t seem to be going well.”
“Thank you, Jerome,” I said. “Take care of Denise. We love you.” Buddy added, “Love you, Dad!” And Jerome was gone.
Buddy stared at his phone. I stared out the window. The sun didn’t look any closer as it started its rise, but seemed to shine with menacing intensity.
“I’m going to call Monica,” Buddy said and dialed before he lost his nerve. “Hi,” he said. “Yeah. Me too. I was just… Now? Sure, I’ll be right over.” He hung up, leapt to his feet, started for the door and stopped. “Mind if I go see Monica?”
“I would love for you to go see Monica.”
He opened the door, turned back with the same smile he had when he was three. Then his eyebrows raised into the devilish face of the man he’d never get to be. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, Buddy.”
He slammed the door behind him.
About the author:
Jack Powers is the author of two poetry collections: Everybody’s Vaguely Familiar (2018) and Still Love (2023) and his poems have appeared in The Southern Review, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. He won the 2015 and 2012 Connecticut River Review Poetry Contests and was a finalist for the 2013 and 2014 Rattle Poetry Prizes. His flash fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Inkwell and Twin Bird Review.
Find Jack:
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