C Is for Corpse

roots. Airborne." He stopped. "And then I was cold and everything hurt and people were talking to me and I couldn't understand a word they said. That was in the hospital and two weeks had passed. I've wondered since then if that's how newborn babies feel. Bewildered like that and disoriented. Helpless. It was such a struggle to stay in touch with the world. Sending down new roots. I knew I could choose. I was barely attached, barely tethered, and I could feel how easy it'd be just to let go like a balloon and sail away."
    "But you hung on."
    "Hey, my mother willed it. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw her face. And when I closed my eyes, I heard her voice. She'd say, 'We're going to make it, Bobby. We're going to do this, you and I."
    He was silent again. I thought, Jesus, what must it be like to have a mother who could love you that way? My parents had died when I was five, in a freak car accident. We'd been on a Sunday outing, driving up to Lompoc, when a huge boulder tumbled down the mountain and smashed through the windshield. My father had died instantly and we'd crashed. I'd been in the backseat, thrust down against the floorboards on impact, wedged in by the crushed frame. My mother had lingered, moaning and crying, sinking into a silence finally that I sensed was ominous and forever. It had taken them hours to extract me from the wreckage, trapped there with the dead whom I loved who had left me for all time. After that, I was raised by a no-nonsense aunt who had done her best, who had loved me deeply, but with a matter-of-factness that had failed to nourish some part of me.
    Bobby had been infused with a love of such magnitude that it had brought him back from the grave. It was odd, when he was so broken, that I experienced an envy that made tears well up in my eyes. I felt a laugh burble and he turned a puzzled glance on me.
    I took out a Kleenex and blew my nose. "I just realized how much I envy you," I said.
    He smiled ruefully. "That's a first."
    We got back in the car. There'd been no blinding recall, no sudden recollection of forgotten facts, but I'd seen the miry pit into which he had been flung and I'd felt the bond between us strengthened.
    "Have you been up here since the accident?"
    "No. I never had the nerve and no one ever suggested it. Made me sweat."
    I started the car. "How about a beer?"
    "How about a bourbon on the rocks?"
    We went to the Stage Coach Tavern, just off the main road, and talked for the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter 8
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    When I dropped him off at his house at five, he hesitated as he got out of the car, pausing as he'd done before with his hand on the door, peering back in at me.
    "Know what I like about you?" he said.
    "What," I said.
    "When I'm with you, I don't feel self-conscious or like I'm crippled or ugly. I don't know how you do that, but it's nice."
    I looked at him for a moment, feeling oddly self-conscious myself "I'll tell you. You remind me of a birthday present somebody's sent through the mail. The papers torn and the box is damaged, but there's still something terrific in there. I enjoy your company."
    A half-smile formed and disappeared. He glanced over at the house and then back to me. He had something else on his mind, but he seemed embarrassed to admit to it.
    "What," I coaxed.
    He tilted his head and the look in his eyes was one I knew. "If I were O.K. ... if I'd been whole, would you have thought about having a relationship with me? I mean, boy-girl type?"
    "You want the truth?"
    "Only if it's flattering."
    I laughed. "The truth is if I'd run into you before the accident, I'd have been intimidated. You're too good-looking, too rich, and too young. So I gotta say no. If you were 'whole,' as you put it, I probably wouldn't have known you at all. You're really not my type, you know?"
    "What is your type?"
    "I haven't figured that out yet."
    He looked at me for a minute with a quizzical smile forming –
    "Would you just say what's on your mind?" I said.
    "How can you turn it around and make me feel good that I'm deformed?"
    "Oh God, you're not deformed. Now, quit that! I'll talk to you later."
    He smiled and slammed the car door, moving back then so I could make the turn-around and head out the far side of the driveway.
    I drove back to my place. It was only 5:15. I still had time to get a run in, though I wondered at the wisdom of it. Bobby and I had spent the better part of the day drinking beer and bourbon and bad Chablis, gnawing barbecued spareribs