Read Online You Are Not A Stranger Here by Adam Haslett - Free Book Online
Authors: Adam Haslett
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Reading Group Guide, Fiction - General, Juvenile Fiction, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author)
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house was rotting. I'd left just one note in Gramm's locker, telling him that I came here after school, asking him to visit. For days after that, I didn't see him. Someone mentioned he was sick and had been missing soccer practice. Still, I went to my house and waited.
He came on a Tuesday. Rain was falling through the naked branches of the trees onto a carpet of rotting foliage. Gramm paused in front of the house, his hands buried in his pockets, the hood of his sweatshirt sheltering him from the weather. For several minutes he stood there, glancing back in the direction from which he'd come and then again at the gray shutters and curtained windows.
He was shaking when I opened the door. I led him into the kitchen.
"Are you sick?" I asked.
He shrugged. Under the room's overhead light, he looked pale, worn out, the mockery all gone. I offered him a drink but he shook his head. He was upset. I poured him a vodka anyway and put it down beside him.
"Listen," he said suddenly. "I'm sorry about what happened to your parents." He spoke in a rush, as though he'd been holding the sentiment in for days and needed to be rid of it.
61
I tightened my grip on the counter's sharp edge until I felt nothing but pain radiating from the palm of my hand.
"I just think we should forget about all this," he said.
"Can we do that? Can we forget about it?"
I said nothing.
His shoulders quivered.
"Why did you ask me here?" he said, the resolve drained from his voice.
"I wanted to see you."
"Don't say that."
"It's true."
I crossed to where he sat, and taking his right hand in mine, moved it to the table, wrapping his damp fingers around the glass. He held his breath as I touched him.
"Drink it," I said.
With shaking hand, he lifted the glass to his lips. I watched the lump of his throat rise and fall as he swallowed. When he'd finished, I filled the glass again.
"Go on," I said.
He shook his head.
"Go on," I repeated. "I want you to."
He obeyed, emptying the glass twice more as I stood over him. I put the bottle down and lifted my T-shirt off, baring the purple and yellowed bruises that covered my chest. He shrunk back, closing his eyes. With my thumbs, I pressed them open again. I knelt before him. I took hold of his loose hands and formed them into fists. He wept. The tears ran down his pale cheeks and dripped from his chin. 62
"Please," he whispered, "let me go."
I slid my fingers along the inside of his thigh. Through his cotton pants, I cupped his balls gently in my hand. I felt his penis swell, his muscles tense. He drew back the fist I had made for him and hit me in the eye, sobbing as he did it.
"Are you happy now?" he cried.
"No," I said.
He swung again and knocked me against the door of the oven. Beneath the tears I saw blood in his cheeks, glow of the boy I'd spent years admiring. I lifted myself to my knees and from the drawer by the stove I took the knife my father used to cut tomatoes and onions on the nights he'd tried to make me dinner, crying as he boiled water in my mother's pots. I offered the knife up to Gramm and when he would not take it I put it in his hand and closed his fingers over the handle. Leaning forward, I hugged him around the legs, burying my face in the warmth of his stomach.
Waiting. Hoping.
W E R E M A I N E D T O U C H I N G like that for several minutes, the rise and fall of his belly against my cheek the only movement. His weeping stopped, and gradually his breath became deep and even. He placed the blade on the counter over my shoulder and then gently backed away. It felt as though a long time had passed, as though we had been traveling some great distance and were now tired, sapped of the force that had brought us here, empty, to this 63
room. I knew a sudden shame at the sight of my bruised skin and stood up to put on my shirt. At the table, Gramm sat motionless, his unblinking eyes turned finally inward. I moved to the window. Outside, the rain had tapered to a drizzle. Weeds in
He came on a Tuesday. Rain was falling through the naked branches of the trees onto a carpet of rotting foliage. Gramm paused in front of the house, his hands buried in his pockets, the hood of his sweatshirt sheltering him from the weather. For several minutes he stood there, glancing back in the direction from which he'd come and then again at the gray shutters and curtained windows.
He was shaking when I opened the door. I led him into the kitchen.
"Are you sick?" I asked.
He shrugged. Under the room's overhead light, he looked pale, worn out, the mockery all gone. I offered him a drink but he shook his head. He was upset. I poured him a vodka anyway and put it down beside him.
"Listen," he said suddenly. "I'm sorry about what happened to your parents." He spoke in a rush, as though he'd been holding the sentiment in for days and needed to be rid of it.
61
I tightened my grip on the counter's sharp edge until I felt nothing but pain radiating from the palm of my hand.
"I just think we should forget about all this," he said.
"Can we do that? Can we forget about it?"
I said nothing.
His shoulders quivered.
"Why did you ask me here?" he said, the resolve drained from his voice.
"I wanted to see you."
"Don't say that."
"It's true."
I crossed to where he sat, and taking his right hand in mine, moved it to the table, wrapping his damp fingers around the glass. He held his breath as I touched him.
"Drink it," I said.
With shaking hand, he lifted the glass to his lips. I watched the lump of his throat rise and fall as he swallowed. When he'd finished, I filled the glass again.
"Go on," I said.
He shook his head.
"Go on," I repeated. "I want you to."
He obeyed, emptying the glass twice more as I stood over him. I put the bottle down and lifted my T-shirt off, baring the purple and yellowed bruises that covered my chest. He shrunk back, closing his eyes. With my thumbs, I pressed them open again. I knelt before him. I took hold of his loose hands and formed them into fists. He wept. The tears ran down his pale cheeks and dripped from his chin. 62
"Please," he whispered, "let me go."
I slid my fingers along the inside of his thigh. Through his cotton pants, I cupped his balls gently in my hand. I felt his penis swell, his muscles tense. He drew back the fist I had made for him and hit me in the eye, sobbing as he did it.
"Are you happy now?" he cried.
"No," I said.
He swung again and knocked me against the door of the oven. Beneath the tears I saw blood in his cheeks, glow of the boy I'd spent years admiring. I lifted myself to my knees and from the drawer by the stove I took the knife my father used to cut tomatoes and onions on the nights he'd tried to make me dinner, crying as he boiled water in my mother's pots. I offered the knife up to Gramm and when he would not take it I put it in his hand and closed his fingers over the handle. Leaning forward, I hugged him around the legs, burying my face in the warmth of his stomach.
Waiting. Hoping.
W E R E M A I N E D T O U C H I N G like that for several minutes, the rise and fall of his belly against my cheek the only movement. His weeping stopped, and gradually his breath became deep and even. He placed the blade on the counter over my shoulder and then gently backed away. It felt as though a long time had passed, as though we had been traveling some great distance and were now tired, sapped of the force that had brought us here, empty, to this 63
room. I knew a sudden shame at the sight of my bruised skin and stood up to put on my shirt. At the table, Gramm sat motionless, his unblinking eyes turned finally inward. I moved to the window. Outside, the rain had tapered to a drizzle. Weeds in
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