Open Wounds

Bethany stood on the stoop of the tiny, crumbling house. Cubby told her Louie had let the place go, but she didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten. The cheerful periwinkle blue her mother had painted the house decades before had faded into a dull, sullen grey. The white trim around the door and window sashes had long since flaked off. The wood itself seemed brittle and tired, as if one good stiff breeze could scatter it all in the wind like a dried up dandelion. The front door was nowhere to be found; only a rickety screen stood between the house’s contents and the outside world. And the house was definitely leaning to the right. 

She never should have come back. Long distance phone calls suited her just fine.

“Anyone home?” she called softly in to the cavernous darkness. 

There was no answer, but she didn’t really expect one. 

“Louie? Where are you? It’s Bethany.” She pried the ancient screen door open and stepped inside. Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she peered at the wreckage of her childhood home. The walls were greasy and water stained, and giant cracks in ran from floor to ceiling. She couldn’t tell if there was still carpet on the floor, or if the wood was just hidden under a layer of dirty, ground in newspapers and unopened mail. The detritus of Louie’s various abandoned “projects” were scattered everywhere. On the couch was a disassembled engine of some sort. On the coffee table was a half-finished jewelry box with a mirror in it. The dining room table was covered in mounds of small rocks. From what Bethany could tell, Louie had separated them by color, but she had no idea why. Next to the table were three large stacks of magazines with corners folded down and pages marked. Future projects, no doubt. 

“Bethie?” a squawk came from the kitchen. “Bethie girl, is that you?”

“Yeah, Louie. It’s me.”

His familiar shape materialized in the darkness. His hair had turned grey, and he looked a little worse for the wear (like he’d been “rode hard and put away wet,” as he liked to say) but under all the dirt and wrinkles, he was still the same old Louie. Bethany wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad to find him so unchanged.

He came from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an old t shirt.

“Bethie girl!”

He threw his arms open wide and encased her in a brief, pungent hug. He smelled like sour old sweat, machine oil, and something she couldn’t place. Dead animal, maybe?

“Come in! Sit down!” He hurriedly gathered the engine parts that were on the couch and dumped them in the corner. “It’s great to see ya! How are you? How’s Mark? Want some coffee? How about tea? That’s what you kids all drink now, tea, right? Sit. I’ll get you some.” He disappeared back into the kitchen before she could tell him not to bother. 

Bethany studied the grease stained couch to see if there was one section that was less grimy than the others. There wasn’t. She spied an empty birdcage in the corner of the room wrapped in a large towel, and vaguely remembered Louie saying something about breeding birds a few years ago. After a quick prayer that the two dried husks at the bottom of the cage weren’t the poor victims of another one of his “get rich quick” schemes, she grabbed the towel. She threw it over the oily couch just as Louie came back in the room carrying a chipped teacup with a mismatched saucer.

“I didn’t have any tea, so I made you hot water and lemon. I heard it’s supposed to be good for you.” He pushed the cup at her like a kindergartener giving his mother a necklace he’d made out of macaroni. A bit of the hot water sloshed out and nipped Bethany’s thumb. She peered inside the cup to see three razor thin slices of lemon resting at the bottom.

“Thanks. Listen, we–”

“Did you see it? Did you see the lemon? I did that! I cut it like that!”

“That’s great–”

“Ask me how I got it sliced so thin. Go on, ask me!”

Bethany knew he wasn’t going to let the conversation progress until she did. “How’d you cut the lemon so thin?” she sighed as she set down the saucer.

Louie’s eyes lit up. 

“I’ll show you!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shrunken kitchen where she discovered the source of the mystery smell. Every available surface on the counters and the small breakfast table was covered in cutting boards with varying degrees of rotten food on them. And the knives. So many knives. They all had different handles, different shapes.

“What– Where’d you get all this stuff?” That’s when she noticed that the fingers on both Louie’s hands were covered in thick bandages. “Jesus, Louie! Your hands!”

He waved one of the wrapped appendages casually. 

“If you’re going to make an omelet, ya gotta break some eggs!”

“Did you wash those cuts out, or just slap something over them?” she interrupted, knowing full well it was probably the latter. “Come over to the sink. Let me see.” 

“Sure thing! But first I wanna show you–”

“Now, Louie.” She hated the authority she heard in her voice. She hated even more how easy it was to slide back into the familiar old pattern.

He obediently wandered over and held his hands out to her. A tension headache threatened to settle behind her eyes. She’d thought for sure that by now he would’ve been forced to grow the hell up, but here he was: seventy-four years old and he still hadn’t figured out how to take care of himself. 

There were several layers to his makeshift bandages. She had trouble getting them off, especially the ones wrapped in duct tape. Slowly she peeled away the grimy strata, only half listening to Louie while he went on about the mecurochrome his mom used on his cuts in the good old days.

“It stung like hell. Once I–”

“Jesus, Louie!” The last of the sullied bandages had fallen away. “You look like you tried to shove your hands in a meat grinder!”

“Aw, it ain’t that bad. Just slap some more tape on ‘em.”

Some of the wounds were deep and probably should have been stitched up, but it was too late now. She carefully washed his tattered digits under the tap with a sliver of dirty beige soap she found next to sink. She left him with strict instructions to keep his hands under the running water while she searched for a first aid kit. A brief hunt in the bathroom yielded both bandaids and, surprisingly enough, Neosporin. The ointment had expired five years ago, but she figured it was better than nothing.

“Jesus, Louie,” she muttered. She seemed to recall saying that a lot when she was around him. “You need a tetanus shot. What the hell were you doing?”

“You’re gonna love this!” Louis chattered excitedly while she rewrapped his hands, “I was sitting in front of the TV watching those stupid late night commercials. You know, the ones that are half an hour long? I was thinking about how much better they used to be. Remember that Ginzu knife one? ‘The hand can cut through wood, but it can’t cut a tomato.’ Remember? Some moron would punch a plank of wood in half, then try to karate chop a tomato? Remember that?”

“I–” 

 “You used to love that one! You’d laugh your head off when the dummy smooshed that goddamn tomato. You’d say ‘Who wants ketchup?’ and giggle like crazy. You remember that, dontcha, Bethie?”

She saw desperation in his eyes, and his words were faintly tinged with hysteria. She was about to say, “Sure, I guess so” just to placate him, but he had already moved on.

“So anyways, I’m watching these commercials, thinking about the old knives when it hits me– Hey! I’m good with knives! I used to carve the turkey at Thanksgiving like a champ! Before you left, I mean. I’d slice the meat so thin, you could practically see through it, right?”

“What–”

“So I decided I’m gonna be sushi chef!” he declared triumphantly. “I’m good with knives, and I love the beach, so why not? Hey, do you remember that one time your mom and I took you to the beach? We had–”

“Louie!” Her sharp tone stopped him cold. “What happened to the money I sent you?” Five thousand dollars earned through endless double shifts and her own blood, sweat, and tears. She might as well have tossed the money on a garbage fire.

“Well, I had to get supplies–” He sounded defensive. Not a good sign.

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much of it did you spend? All of it?”

“Listen. You’re looking at this wrong! This wasn’t an expense. This was an investment. See, this time is different! This time I got it all figured out! I’m gonna sell the house and use the money to buy this little shop in the strip mall over on Orchard Ave. I’m gonna call it ‘Louie’s Sushi.’ I’ll be the first self-taught American sushi chef! What do ya think?”

Bethany’s carefully reined in temper exploded past her lips.

“What do I think? I think you’re out of your goddamn mind!” she seethed. “That money I sent you was to fix up the house. You were going to get the foundation fixed so you could sell it and finally pay off the tax lien! We talked about this.” 

“I guess I forgot,” he muttered. “But this is gonna be great! You and Mark can help me fix up the store–”

“Mark and I got divorced six years ago.”

“Okay, just you, then!” he plowed on. “We’ll sell the house and start our own family business! ‘Louie and Bethie’s All American Sushi Palace!’ What do you say, Bethie girl? It’ll be like old times!”

She needed to sit down. The kitchen chairs all had encyclopedias stacked on them, so she rested against the counter instead. She was so goddamn tired.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said with a sigh. “Even if we had the money to fix the house up enough to sell it, you won’t see a dime, get it? The government takes it all because you couldn’t act like a goddamn grownup and pay your taxes like everyone else!”

She could see his mind churning frantically. 

“Then we’ll sell your place! You got a condo, right? Yeah! That’ll work! How much do you think we can get for it?”

“Mark got the condo in the divorce. I’m broke, Louie. Just like you.” 

“Okay, what about–”

Bethany held up a hand to silence him. Enough beating around the bush.

“How long?” she asked quietly, but firmly.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. How long have you been off your meds?”

He didn’t answer.

“Louie, I asked how–”

“I heard you, goddamn it!” he barked and ran a shaky hand over his face. “You’re just like your mother, you know that? Nothing I do is ever good enough, is it? Just ‘Louie do this’ and ‘Louie do that.’ Never ‘Good idea, Louie!’ or ‘Sounds great, Louie! What can I do to help?’ Nothing but pissing and moaning from you bitches!”

“That’s–” 

“You two have been riding my back for years! Your mother never has anything nice to say! Just sits there and tells me everything I ever did wrong. I talked to her for two solid hours the other day. I swear to God, it was like listening to a laundry list of all the times I’ve ever failed her.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“What, are you calling me a liar?” His face went scarlet with rage. “You think I don’t know a goddamn conversation I had with someone? How the hell would you know! You weren’t even there!”

“Neither were you! If you hadn’t stopped taking your meds, you would’ve remembered that Mom killed herself twelve fucking years ago because you drove her nuts with this shit!”

Instantly she regretted the words that had come out of her mouth. He recoiled like she had slapped him with all her might.

“I… You…” His mouth flapped open and closed like one of his imaginary sushi victims. The color left his face, and his shoulders sagged. The confusion in his eyes broke her heart.

“Never mind. Come sit down.” Gently she led him over to the couch. He was muttering under his breath, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She helped him sit and kneeled in front of him.

“Where are your pills, Louie?”

“That stuff is garbage! I don’t need those.”

“Yes, you do. Now where are they?”

“I dunno. I ran out yesterday.”

“Cubby called me. He says you’ve been manic for three weeks.”

“Goddamn snitch. Some friend he turned out to be.”

“He’s just worried about you. We all are.”

“What’s to worry about? I feel great! I’m sittin’ on a million dollar idea!”

“Louie, please. I’ll figure something out, I promise. We’ll find a way to fix the house, and I’ll get you through this. But first you gotta take your meds, okay? I can’t help you if you don’t take your pills.”

“Forget it!” Louie said and shot to his feet again so he could pace frenetically. “That stuff turns me into a goddamn zombie. I feel like I’m wading through mud. Naw, I’m fine. I got this.”

“You aren’t–”

“I’m fine!”

“Please–”

“Don’t worry yourself, Bethie. I got everything under control.”

“No, you don–”

“I SAID I GOT THIS!” he bellowed, momentarily startling them both. Slowly Bethany climbed to her feet. She’d never felt so drained before in all her life. 

“I can’t do this anymore. Last chance, Louie. Please. Let me help you.” 

But as usual, he had already moved on to something else.

“Hey, Bethie! Take a look at this, ” he said jovially as he fiddled with the half finished jewelry box. “Did I tell you about this? Me and Cubby are gonna build these and sell ‘em–”

“I have to go,” she said dully, not really caring if he heard her. “I’m sorry, Louie. For everything.” 

She trudged to her car. The key was in the ignition and she was ready to go when she saw him standing on the front porch waving at her frantically. Against her better judgment, she rolled down the window.

“I’m sorry you missed your mother,” he called out to her, “but I’ll tell her you stopped by when she gets back from the store. Love you, Bethie girl!”

“Love you, too, Dad,” she murmured and drove off into the night.