Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [97]
“Oh, Christ. What happened to you?” Harriet looked from Jude’s face to his hand.
“Mom! He has a tattoo!”
“That’s not a tattoo,” Harriet said, leaping up from her stool and grabbing his arm. “It’s paint or something.” She wagged his wrist. “My God, is that my India ink?”
“And you got beat up!” Prudence said, slamming down her spoon.
“Shut the fuck up, Pru.”
Harriet put a palm to his forehead. “Look at your nose—it’s purple.”
“It was just a football game. It got a little crazy.”
“One of the boys downstairs did this to you?” Jude shrugged away. “They’re lucky I didn’t see that bruise last night. Jude, Jesus, what am I supposed to say?”
“Say he’s grounded.”
“You had one good hand left,” Harriet said sadly, studying the X. “And now you’ve ruined that one, too.” She rubbed at some of the ink, hoping she might be wrong.
Upstairs, Eliza was in bed. She had been nestled here in her trundle since she’d come home the night before, dusk still settling at the window. She’d been here when she heard the boys arrive long after dark, the slamming of car doors, a set of footsteps, then another, passing by her door on the way upstairs. She was here when they left again this morning, the voices calling thank-yous and apologies and good-byes. “Are you okay?” Prudence whispered, coming back in to check on her, and Eliza had nodded and rolled over. Annabel Lee did not like her mother to sleep on her back. She did not like her mother to sleep at all.
“We’ll wait until the baby’s born,” Johnny had told her. “You’re pregnant with my brother’s baby. Wouldn’t it be disrespectful to his memory?”
When she’d asked him if she could wear his beads, he’d put a protective hand to his throat. Already the subway token he had given Teddy hung from her neck—what more did she want? “It’s not a class ring, Eliza,” he’d said.
She’d gotten out of bed only once, in the middle of the night, to empty the bladder that the baby liked to kick. She’d tiptoed up to Jude’s room and stood outside the door, wondering if anyone was in there. But the room was quiet.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been counting the days until Rooster’s visit. But then, he’d been lying about so much for so long now that he barely remembered what was real. That night, as he waited for Rooster’s knock on Jude’s bedroom door, he’d imagined the sick thrill of being with Rooster in the top bunk of Jude’s bed—two boys at a sleepover, staying up late under the covers, and the relief of leaving the rest of the world downstairs. Rooster was what was real.
But when Johnny locked the door behind them and climbed the ladder to the top bunk, Rooster didn’t follow. He sank into the bean bag chair in the corner. The desk lamp bled a thin, gray light.
“Baby, I’m sick.”
Johnny sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. He remembered the tree house he and Teddy had played in. He hadn’t wanted to admit to his brother that he was scared of heights, but now he felt again that the ground was very far away.
“How sick?”
Rooster shrugged. His cheeks, once meaty, had caved in, as though he’d removed a pair of false teeth. Johnny had thought he’d been protesting his absence. Fasting out of stubbornness, or too heartbroken to eat. “Two hundred T cells. Whatever the fuck that means.”
Johnny closed his eyes. He was sitting in the tree house in Delaware, and Teddy was below him, looking up into the branches, waiting for him to fall. He clung to the edge of the bed, hands shaking.
“Is that . . . still the virus? Or . . . ?”
Rooster pulled at his bottom lip. “The syndrome.” He cleared his throat. “I got maybe a year.”
The syndrome. Maybe a year.
“Maybe?”
“Maybe less. Maybe more. You can get a free test at a clinic. Results come back pretty quick.”
And Johnny opened his eyes. The idea of needing a test—the possibility of being sick himself, something he had feared for so long—had not immediately occurred to him. For once in his life, he had not thought