The Masochist Boy (10) Robby shook his head and wondered at the sick twisting of his heart in his chest. He felt sick already. The anticipation of the pain stood over him like a guillotine. "The week will start on Monday," said Jeff. "Cheer up! You’ll make it, Robby. I’ve got faith in you." "I’ll kill myself," he warned in a whisper. "If you kill yourself," Jeff said sternly, "you’ll have done it the minute before victory. Don’t. It’s one week of your life, and after it you’ll be a new man." "I won’t last the whole week." "You will. You’ll have the methadone, and if you have any family members, close friends, it helps to spend it with them. Goodbye, kid. Good luck to you." Jeff clapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and walked out of the room. Twister started to follow him out, turned to stay goodbye, and then laughed: "Man, you look so freaked." "Can’t do it," he managed to say. "Can’t-can’t do it." "Sure you can." "All at once. Just-just bam, no heroin, no…no coke, no heroin, no…no food, no water." "Hey, don’t go on a binge," warned Twister, waving one finger at him. "I did that once when I was trying to stay off drugs-ate like two thousand twinkies, by the end of the week I weighed so freakin’ much I couldn’t get out of bed. Not worth it, man." "It’s like asking me to not breathe for a week." "That’s what you think. Don’t worry, kid. You’ve got the methadone." "Methadone?" said Robby miserably. "What the heck, so now I’m going to be addicted to methadone?" "Not addictive if you take the right doses." "I don’t care. I’m not ready for this." "I think you are," said Twister quietly. "Trust me. It’s a hell of a week-but when it’s over, it’s over, and what’s more: ain’t it better to go through hell when you’re seventeen and have all of your life to live as you please than be a slave to heroin until you’re forty-six and have to go through it then, when you’ve got a wrecked marriage, three disappointed kids, a botched job and a filing for bankruptcy?" Robby looked at him for a moment. When he could find his voice again, he said: "Man, I don’t know how you do it, but it’s just so wrong that you can." "Yeah, I scare myself sometimes," Twister nodded, half-smiling. "’Specially on days like this; I’d just like to get a restraining order against my little Voice of Reason." "PA system Voice of Reason," said Robby seriously. "You’ll survive, kid," Twister laughed, swapping his shoulder. "You got irony. Worst comes to worst, you can lie on the floor and dwell on the carpet fibers." "Jake," said Mrs. Llewelyn, "we need to talk." Mr. Llewelyn groaned. No conversation he ever wanted to have had started with those words. He set down the newspaper, leaned back in his seat, braced himself, and said: "Then let’s talk, Anne." "We’ve got to do something about Vivien." "What’s the matter with Vivien?" said Jake, alarmed. "What’s the matter with Vivien!" She shot him an exasperated look. "Our daughter comes home on the arm of a suicidal drug addict, throwing up, obviously high, locks herself in her room, and you ask me what’s the matter with her?" He looked down at his plate. Frozen lasagna. He couldn’t remember the last time Anne cooked. It wasn’t efficient, she said. "I’m so worried about her, Jake. What if she’s joining a gang? What if she’s becoming one of the girls you read about in Dead-End Kids? What if she’s selling drugs and going to parties, what if-" The violent ringing of the phone interrupted her nervous tirade. "Would you get that, Jake?" she said irritably, cupping her forehead in her hand and leaning against the table. She looked tired. She looked like she had a hangover, Jake thought. It was a pretty startling idea. He picked up the phone. "Hello?" he said automatically. "Llewelyn Consulting!" "Con-consulting?" the voice at the other end said awkwardly. It sounded tired and edgy at the same time. "Oh-oh, I’m sorry sir-I thought this was your home number." "It is my home number," Jake admitted. "But you know I take clients whenever they need to reach me, and I just thought-" "Is-Vivien around?" "Hold on a minute." He covered the mouthpiece, and called: "Vivien! Vivien, sweetheart! Telephone!" "Jake, what are you doing?" cried Mrs. Llewelyn sharply. "Who’s calling? Is it that druggy boy? Jake!" "He seemed polite enough," Jake shrugged. He uncovered the mouthpiece. "Sorry, kid, my wife wants to know who you are first." "I was afraid of that," the boy said sadly. "What’s your name?" "Rob," the kid said. Then, painfully: "I just want to talk to her for a minute, sir. Please. Just a-just a minute." "Alright," he said into the phone. Then, to his wife: "It’s alright, Anne." "Daddy, I got it," said Vivien on the phone. "Hang up." He hung up. "Now, what was I saying?" Mrs. Llewelyn muttered. "Oh, right. Listen, Jake, we need to do something about Vivien. I think maybe family counseling, or just getting her a-" "Family counseling?!" cried Jake, alarmed. "I don’t know what else to do with her. She needs to be honest with us. Maybe we should start imposing a rule that prevents her from going anywhere at any time with anyone without telling us all the details first. And if I find out she’s lying, G-d help her! I want to find out exactly what’s-" Vivien walked into the room, the cordless phone on her shoulder. "What is it, sweetie?" her mother asked impatiently. "Can’t you see your father and I are busy?" Vivien looked from one parent to the other, and bit her lip. Her eyes were very sad. "Is something wrong?" Jake asked. "Mommy," she nodded to her mother, "Daddy," to her father, "we need your help." "Who is we?" her mother asked automatically. "Me and-and Robby. No, wait. I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want you to say it until I’m finished. You know Robby, right? He was addicted to heroin. Stuff like that." Jake felt his eyeballs pop. "Yes. But anyway, over the past couple months, he’s been getting help for it-you know, he’s joined NA and he’s been going to meetings and reducing the amount he’s been taking." She finished quickly: "And anyway he did such a good job that his counselor put him on detoxification and he’s really in a lot of pain at home because of the withdrawal stuff and his uncle’s there beating him up and he’s having a lot of trouble trying not to steal his mother’s coke and he’s just really miserable so he wants to know if he could stay here for a few days or something maybe in Penny’s room or wherever we have space for him." There was a slight pause of silence. Mrs. Llewelyn and Jake looked at each other. Mrs. Llewelyn said: "What?" Jake said, not as loudly: "Why does he want to stay here?" She sighed. "I’m good friends with him," she said at last. "I’m his only friend. His uncle is verbally and physically abusive…he doesn’t get any peace at home. Daddy, you remember how it felt when you were trying to quit smoking, right? Imagine if you had to do it all at once, without being allowed to have any kind of cigarettes or cigars or whatever, and to top it off you had to spend the entire time in a very stressing situation where there was no other way to relax. That’s what it’s like for him." "Oh." "Sweetie, you can’t seriously be suggesting this," her mother said firmly. "You can’t seriously be suggesting that I house a man who gave my daughter highly dangerous pills and-" "That wasn’t him, Ma! That was Jason, ok? Jason gave me those stupid pills. You people just can’t-" "Jason?" her mother interrupted unbelievingly. "Jason Wayte?" "Yes." "From the bungalow colony?" "Yes." "He’s an honor student!" "Yes, Ma. He’s an honor student. He’s also a jerk. He gave me the pills and left me there. Robby saw me, and took me home. Then you people slammed the door in his face and made this whole tirade about how he was never allowed to come back again." Her mother looked at her. There was nothing she could say. A distant boom of thunder sounded outside. A bird tweeted. Her father said: "Give the kid a rest, Anne. He’s trying to do the right thing." "Please, Ma," she whispered. Mrs. Llewelyn nodded wordlessly. She smiled. She said into the phone: "Pack your bags, Robby. We’re set." He leaned back against the wall and looked at the decorations. It was Penny’s room. He guessed she must have gone home. Her decorations were intimidating enough. A brochure for Harvard was stapled neatly in one corner; in another was a skillful imitation of a Van Gogh painting. The rest of the room was sparse; law books stacked on her dresser, the bed he was sitting on, and the bag with his things by the closet door. And the garbage bag he threw up in. He tried to breathe out. Today, at least, was much better than yesterday. Yesterday had been the purest form of hell. It was the second day into his detoxification period-the second day without heroin. He felt sick and sweaty, cold and hot. His pulse pounded in his skull like a jackhammer. His heart palpitated in his chest. Every fiber of his body screamed: "Heroin! Heroin! You need the heroin!" but there wasn’t any; he’d gotten rid of it before the week started. Even after the methadone, when most of his body was relatively numbed, his heart still wanted it; still wanted some kind of comfort. His uncle took advantage of his weakened state, taunted him, threw him around the house. Just for the heck of it. Every shove, every punch, exploded in his bones like a shattered bullet. Every carefully chosen word rang in his skull. His mother called out a few half-hearted times to her brother to stop, the kid had learned his lesson, he could lay off now, but she didn’t stop him, and Robby had come close to hanging himself. He told them this when he crawled to the methadone clinic, and they suggested he stay some place less stressful. He’d asked them if he could stay at the clinic, but the workers had only looked at each other and laughed. Now he was in the third day. He felt like an eighty-year-old man. Some of the pains weren’t as bad; some were worse; he hadn’t eaten anything for two days, his stomach wouldn’t tolerate more than a few sips of water. He just laid there on the bed and tried to breathe. But it wasn’t as bad with Vivien. She brought back his homework from school, sat next to him, told him jokes, smiled. She was like a little ray of sunlight, one that didn’t blind him and instigate another forsaken headache. Sometimes he even forgot a little of the pain. She stuck her head through the door now, and smiled at him. "Hi there," she said. He managed a little smile. It hurt so much. She came and sat with him on the bed. "So, how are you doing?" He nodded. He felt ready to die. She nodded too, understanding, and started into their usual routine. "You should be so glad you weren’t in school today. You wouldn’t believe what that Mr. Guitone is making us do in English. And that creep Peter! He let his pet frog loose in the classroom. It was just-" She turned and looked at him. "You look really…sick," she frowned. He shook his head, bit his lip. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t in front of her. No, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t some weak pathetic loser who went blubbering to his friend just because of a couple aches. He felt lame enough for having to come to the Llewelyns at all. "You poor baby," she murmured. She hugged him, rubbing his back soothingly, murmuring her little lullabies. He put his head on her shoulder and listened. His pulse pounded in his temples, his heart twisted and lurched sickeningly; but it was alright. He could only wonder numbly how much better this was than being at home. They sat this way for a long, long time. "Did you eat anything today?" she murmured. He said glumly: "No." "You have to eat something, Robby. You want to come downstairs?" He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "Your parents," he said hoarsely. "Oh, that’s alright. They won’t mind." She gave him one last squeeze, then stood. "Come on. You need to eat something. You’re losing weight." He shook his head, tilted it to one side, and rubbed his throbbing temples. "I’m not hungry." "Uh-uh, Robby. You haven’t eaten anything in two days." "I’ll throw it all up." "Come on, Robby. Your body needs stuff and you’re not helping it. Get up." "I can’t eat anything. I’m alright, Vivien. I can take care of myself." "Robby. You came to my house. I’m going to take care of you." She said quietly: "You can’t get up, can you?" "Yes." He said determinedly. "Yes, I can. Watch." Cautiously, cautiously. His body felt strange and creaky. He put his hands at the edge of the bed, pushed himself up. His head felt ready to explode. The world lurched. He stood as straight as he could, and said: "I’m alright, Vivien." She blinked, surprised, then shrugged: "I guess so. Come on." She turned and walked from the room. He tried to walk, a little bit, but the world spun and lurched violently. He lunged for the wall, stumbled into it, pulled himself up and dragged himself along it, leaning all his weight onto it for support. Vivien stood on the top stair and watched him struggle, as she had watched him struggle since the day he came. She didn’t know exactly how weak he was, but it was plain to see he was in more pain than she’d ever experienced. He was pale; he sweated a lot, even though he was cold. He never seemed to be comfortable; he coughed, he threw up, he looked generally miserable. And yet, he seemed determined the whole time he was there to act like nothing was wrong. He just laid on the bed in Penny’s room and tried not to be seen. She would say, "Why don’t you come downstairs?" or "Why don’t you eat something?" or "You want to go outside?" And he would just shake his head, smile shakily, and shrink back against the wall. Every day at three thirty in the afternoon, he would stumble down the steps, ask Mrs. Llewelyn awkwardly if she could drive him to the methadone clinic, and come back an hour and a half later so weak he had to crawl up the stairs on his hands and knees. And Vivien would ask him: "Are you alright?" and he would nod. He would never admit it. Never. "Robby," she said now, "do you want some help?" "I can make it," he mumbled. "I can-I can-" He stopped suddenly, eyes wide, and sank to the floor. "Robby?" she cried sharply. He said suddenly: "I want to die. I want to die." "What are you saying?" "I’m going to jump out the window." She stared, then scrambled back up to where he sat. His eyes were bright and burning as he spoke. He breathed quickly. "I’m going to jump out the window. I’m going to cut myself up until I die!" "Why are you saying that?" "How can you ask me that?" he whispered fiercely. "How can you ask me that? I hate it. I hate it! I can’t live the rest of my life this way. I can’t live with this-I can’t live with this. I’m going to throw myself out the window. I’m going to-" "Robby-" "No! No more words! Just-just leave me alone. I want to kill myself!" She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard. "Knock out of it!" she cried. "Knock out of it, Robby!" "No!" he shot back, his voice cracking on the words. "I’m going to kill myself and I’ve had it! I’ve had it! I need something-" "You don’t need the heroin." "I’m going out of my mind! I’m going to bleeping kill myself!" "You aren’t-" "Yes!" He tried to get to his feet and stumbled. He was hardly breathing at all now. "I am-" pant "I am tired-" pant "I am tired of-of feeling-old-and low-and-and-and miserable-painful-aching and-and throwing up-and wanting and not having. I-I-am tired of being-being yelled at-" stumble "-by my-my uncle and my-my stupid mom for things I-I can’t bleeping help-I-I’m tired of suffering-I-I tried, you saw me-I-tried but-damn it all, Vivien, it’s too bleep-it’s too bleeping hard-"
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