panicked in a new foster home, his heart racing, his bed wet, every day he started school in a different neighborhood, every time the Mommy came back to claim him, in every damp motel room, in every rented car, the kid would think of those same twelve photos of the fat man bent over. The monkey and the chestnuts. And it calmed the stupid little shit right down. It showed him how brave and strong and happy a person could become.
How torture is torture and humiliation is humiliation only when you choose to suffer.
“Savior” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
And it’s funny how when somebody saves you, the first thing you want to do is save other people. All other people. Everybody.
The kid never knew the man’s name. But he never forgot that smile.
“Hero” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
Chapter 6
The next time I go visit my mom I’m still Fred Hastings, her old public defender, and she keeps me yakking all afternoon. Until I tell her I’m still not married, and she says that’s a shame. Then she turns on the television, some soap opera, you know, real people pretending to be fake people with made-up problems being watched by real people to forget their real problems.
The next visit, I’m still Fred but married and with three children. That’s better, but three children … Three is too many. People should stop at two, she says.
The next visit, I have two.
Every visit there’s less and less of her under the blanket.
In another way, there’s less and less of Victor Mancini sitting in the chair next to her bed.
The next day, I’m myself again, and it’s only a few minutes before my mom rings for the nurse to escort me back to the lobby. We sit not talking until I pick up my coat, then she says, “Victor?”
She says, “I need to tell you something.”
She’s rolling a ball of lint between her fingers, rolling it smaller and tighter, and when she finally looks up at me, she says, “Fred Hastings was here. You remember Fred, don’t you?”
Yeah, I remember.
These days, he has a wife and two perfect children. It was such a pleasure, my mom says, to see life work out for such a good person.
“I told him to buy land,” my mom says, “they’re not making it anymore.”
I ask her who she means by “they,” and she presses the nurse button again.
On my way out, I find Dr. Marshall waiting in the hallway. She’s standing just outside my mom’s door, leafing through notes on her clipboard, and she looks up at me, her eyes beady behind her thick glasses. Her one hand is clicking and unclicking a ballpoint pen, fast.
“Mr. Mancini?” she says. She folds her glasses and puts them in the chest pocket of her lab coat and says, “It’s important that we discuss your mother’s case.”
The stomach tube.
“You asked about other options,” she says.
From the nurse’s station down the hallway, three staffers watch us, their heads tilted together. One named Dina calls, “Do we need to chaperon the two of you?”
And Dr. Marshall says, “Mind your own business, please.”
To me, she whispers, “These small operations, the staff acts as if they’re still in high school.”
Dina, I’ve had.
See also: Clare, RN.
See also: Pearl, CNA.
The magic of sex is it’s acquisition without the burden of possessions. No matter how many women you take home, there’s never a storage problem.
To Dr. Marshall, her ears and nervous hands, I say, “I don’t want her force-fed.”
The nurses still watching, Dr. Marshall cups a hand behind my arm and walks me farther away from them, saying, “I’ve been talking to your mother. She’s quite a woman. Her political actions. All her demonstrations. You must love her very much.”
And I say, “Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that.”
We stop, and Dr. Marshall whispers something so I have to step closer to hear. Too close. The nurses still watching. And breathing against my
How torture is torture and humiliation is humiliation only when you choose to suffer.
“Savior” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
And it’s funny how when somebody saves you, the first thing you want to do is save other people. All other people. Everybody.
The kid never knew the man’s name. But he never forgot that smile.
“Hero” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
Chapter 6
The next time I go visit my mom I’m still Fred Hastings, her old public defender, and she keeps me yakking all afternoon. Until I tell her I’m still not married, and she says that’s a shame. Then she turns on the television, some soap opera, you know, real people pretending to be fake people with made-up problems being watched by real people to forget their real problems.
The next visit, I’m still Fred but married and with three children. That’s better, but three children … Three is too many. People should stop at two, she says.
The next visit, I have two.
Every visit there’s less and less of her under the blanket.
In another way, there’s less and less of Victor Mancini sitting in the chair next to her bed.
The next day, I’m myself again, and it’s only a few minutes before my mom rings for the nurse to escort me back to the lobby. We sit not talking until I pick up my coat, then she says, “Victor?”
She says, “I need to tell you something.”
She’s rolling a ball of lint between her fingers, rolling it smaller and tighter, and when she finally looks up at me, she says, “Fred Hastings was here. You remember Fred, don’t you?”
Yeah, I remember.
These days, he has a wife and two perfect children. It was such a pleasure, my mom says, to see life work out for such a good person.
“I told him to buy land,” my mom says, “they’re not making it anymore.”
I ask her who she means by “they,” and she presses the nurse button again.
On my way out, I find Dr. Marshall waiting in the hallway. She’s standing just outside my mom’s door, leafing through notes on her clipboard, and she looks up at me, her eyes beady behind her thick glasses. Her one hand is clicking and unclicking a ballpoint pen, fast.
“Mr. Mancini?” she says. She folds her glasses and puts them in the chest pocket of her lab coat and says, “It’s important that we discuss your mother’s case.”
The stomach tube.
“You asked about other options,” she says.
From the nurse’s station down the hallway, three staffers watch us, their heads tilted together. One named Dina calls, “Do we need to chaperon the two of you?”
And Dr. Marshall says, “Mind your own business, please.”
To me, she whispers, “These small operations, the staff acts as if they’re still in high school.”
Dina, I’ve had.
See also: Clare, RN.
See also: Pearl, CNA.
The magic of sex is it’s acquisition without the burden of possessions. No matter how many women you take home, there’s never a storage problem.
To Dr. Marshall, her ears and nervous hands, I say, “I don’t want her force-fed.”
The nurses still watching, Dr. Marshall cups a hand behind my arm and walks me farther away from them, saying, “I’ve been talking to your mother. She’s quite a woman. Her political actions. All her demonstrations. You must love her very much.”
And I say, “Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that.”
We stop, and Dr. Marshall whispers something so I have to step closer to hear. Too close. The nurses still watching. And breathing against my
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