I started taking the steroids.”
They both laughed, and Ricky finally found some satisfactorily clean clothes and put them on. He put on a fresh coat of makeup and asked Carlos how he looked.
“Fine, but doesn’t your mother care that you go around like that?”
“Like what?”
“With makeup on your face.”
“Heavens, no, child. She even borrows from me when she’s out,” Ricky said. The old Ricky was back and he draped his arm over Carlos’ shoulder and walked with him into the front room.
Their nostrils were instantly assaulted by the smell of marijuana. The first thing Carlos saw when he entered the front room was Fido. He was lying at the foot of the couch, his head between his paws, and he looked a little cross-eyed. He was either suffering from a headache from the bang on the head last night or stoned from the smoke that filled the room.
The second thing Carlos saw was the mammoth of a woman who could very easily have been mistaken for Mount St. Helens. She was wearing a very old bathrobe that had several stains on it that Carlos was certain were older than him. Her hair was in rollers and she wore no makeup. In one hand she held a yellow, generic brand beer can and in the other she held a joint. Her eyes were glued to the TV set. A traveling evangelist was warning his early morning audience of the coming doom.
“Good morning, Mom,” Ricky said. His arm was still around Carlos’ shoulder and Carlos’ heart rate sped up when Ricky didn’t make a move to remove it before his mother saw.
“Hi, son,” the volcano said. “Who’s your new boyfriend?”
Carlos tried to swallow, but a giant lump in his throat prevented him from doing so.
“His name is Carlos.”
Carlos looked at Ricky in horror.
“He’s much cuter than your last boyfriend,” she said appreciatively.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Carlos said, still trying to swallow.
“And polite, too. You hungry, Carlos?”
“Yes, he is,” Ricky answered for him, afraid Carlos would chicken out.
Mount. St. Helens tried to erupt herself from the couch, but was not very successful. Ricky had to go over and anchor his feet against the couch and pull with significant effort to help her stand.
“You boys sit down and have a beer. Breakfast will be ready in about half an hour.”
The two friends sat down on the couch and Ricky reached for a beer. Carlos slapped his hand.
“Are you crazy? You’re still sick. You can’t drink beer before breakfast.”
“Why not?” Ricky asked.
“Because it’ll kill you. Ever hear of orange juice?”
“Sure. Mom drinks it with breakfast.”
“See. It’s good for you.”
“She says it gives the vodka a little flavor.”
“Well, try it straight this once, okay? For me?”
“Oh, all right.”
“Ricky, why did you tell your mom I was your boyfriend?”
“I didn’t. She told me.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
“Because she doesn’t understand. She thinks I fuck around with every guy I know. And until you came around, she was right. So I just let it slide.”
“Oh, stop exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Most guys don’t want anything to do with me. Those that do only want one thing. Kinda funny that the one guy I really would like to get involved with just wants to be my friend, huh?”
“What’s wrong with being just friends?”
“Nothing,” Ricky said. He didn’t like arguing with Carlos because he never won. Carlos was too smart and too logical. “Let’s watch Preacher Joe.”
VI.
Carlos and Rosie were watching Saturday Night Live. It wasn’t Saturday night at all, only Friday evening. And the show wasn’t live, it was syndicated. Rosie’s bedtime was eight-thirty, but she’d been looking forward to seeing the show so badly that Carlos said he’d allow her to stay up late to watch it. Fergie was the guest host, and next to Hannah Montana, she thought Fergie was possibly the best thing since cherry Red Vines.
Rosie knew she had Carlos wrapped around her baby fingers, and at five years old, she knew how to fully manipulate her older brother to her full advantage. When she’d first asked Carlos to let her stay up until eleven so she could see Fergie, he’d said no, as she knew he would. She crawled into his lap and cried softly. Within three minutes Carlos had relented, as she also knew he would. When he made popcorn to snack on during the show, she’d asked for extra butter. Carlos did not like butter on his popcorn, but Rosie batted her baby browns, and of course Carlos melted half a stick of butter. He recognized her little games, but was still powerless against them, and if he were honest with himself, he would admit that he liked it that way.
Rosie was halfway through her cute little bump-and-grind dance to “London Bridge” when her mother came crashing through the front door and fell into the living room. Rosie stopped her dance and stared wide-eyed as Carlos ran to his mother.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Carlos cried as he tried to help her stand. Her face was cut and bleeding, and her eye was beginning to swell shut with what would soon be a very bad black eye.
“Run, baby,” she said, and spit blood. “Get outta here and run to your friend’s house.”
“What happened?”
“Just go, Carlos. He’s coming right now.”
Lydia was still trying to gain her footing, but kept falling. Carlos helped her to the couch, and turned to little Rosie. She was still staring bug-eyed at her mother, and a tiny tear was falling down her cheek.
“Go to your room, princess,” Carlos told her. “Shut the door and don’t come out here, okay? Just go to sleep. Everything will be okay in the morning.”
Rosie stood frozen in her place, and at first Carlos thought she wasn’t breathing. He walked over and carried her to their bedroom. He tucked her into bed and kissed her on the forehead. She was still staring blankly ahead. Carlos thought she might be in shock, but figured she’d probably be all right. He wasn’t so sure about his mom, though, and went out to see her.
“Honey, you have to go,” Lydia told him. “I’ll be all right. Please, just go stay at your friend’s house.”
“Yes, Carlos,” his father yelled from the front door, “why don’t you go stay with your little faggot friend.”
“Oh my God,” Lydia cried. “Please, Juan, don’t be like this.”
“Shut up, you bitch,” Juan yelled.
Carlos had already decided he wasn’t going to back down this time. Seeing his mother beaten like that had made up his mind.
“Don’t call her a bitch,” Carlos said sharply.
“What did you say?” Juan yelled back.
“I said don’t call my mother a bitch.”
“You little punk,” Juan said, and charged Carlos. He landed a punch to Carlos’ jaw, and Carlos fell to the ground.
“Stop it!” Lydia screamed.
Carlos stood up and charged back at his father. He slammed his head into Juan’s stomach and knocked him on his ass onto the floor. Juan pulled Carlos down with him and threw a fist