Stains When Broken by Force

That summer while I waited for the new school year and the new school, the promise of adventure and a reunion with Stacy, I spent most of my time with Jamie. The latest move had closed half the distance between us, and we were both grateful. He rode his bike to my house and we climbed out my window to sit in the sun, stuffing handfuls of Big League Chew gum in our mouths and popping tar bubbles on the roof. Much of the time we spent together passed in comfortable silence. Our thoughts kept us busy and we were content with just being together.

There comes a point in the chewing life of a wad of gum where it reaches a rubber-like consistency, void of flavor, no longer capable of being pulled over the tongue and braced with the lips for bubble blowing. At this stage, it is necessary to take the wad of gum out of your mouth and stretch it into a thin membrane manually with your fingers, then place it back in your mouth to wrap around your tongue and blow the bubble. Jamie taught me this. Genius! The trick is getting your fingers free enough of tar from popping hot tar bubbles to handle the chewed gum somewhat sanitarily. Wiping them off with your shirt works as long as the tar is still warm and relatively viscous. Otherwise, dragging them across the rough denim of your cut-off jeans works well.

Sitting on the roof one hot Sunday afternoon, the sun teasing beads of sweat from our pores, the breeze running its fingers through our hair, Sophie and Heather running in a sprinkler in the back yard beneath us. Jamie lifted his black, tar-covered fingers to my face and said: “Jessie says this’s what my blood looks like.”

Jessie was Jamie’s new girlfriend. We had spent hours earlier that same afternoon talking about the prospect of kissing and how it would be done.

“Nonsense. You’re blood is red just like mine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, stupid. All human beings have red blood. Animals, too, for that matter.”

“I’m black.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You never seen my blood.”

“Have you seen your blood?”

“I think so.”

“And was it like tar?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I promise you, it’s not like tar.”

“But how do you know? Jessie says—”

“What is Jessie doing talking to you about blood anyway?”

“She asked me to be her blood brother.”

A hot, slithery length of jealousy snaked its way around my stomach and up to my neck; my face blanched.

“You didn’t, did you?”

“No way. I thought I should be your blood brother.”

Relief.

“What makes you think I want you to be?”

“You’re my best friend! I just thought—”

“I’m kidding. It’s a perfect idea. This way, I can prove to you what color your blood is.”

We went inside and found a needle in my sewing kit. We struck a match and held the tip of the needle in the flame until the matchstick burnt down to my thumb and forefinger. The chrome tip of the needle turned as black as our tarred fingers. Jamie held out his thumb. I took it in my hand and pricked the padded center. It resisted at first, but I pressed harder and twisted the sharp tip. A bright red pearl emerged from the small puncture. We looked up at each other, Jamie smiling brilliantly, the whites of his teeth and eyes glittering against his dark face. He held his thumb carefully so as not to spill the drop of blood while I pricked my own thumb. The pain took my breath in sharply; but because he hadn’t made a sound, I kept myself composed. We pressed our thumbs together and held them there for a full minute.

Neither of us spoke. The moment was much too serious for words. We sat for a few moments longer looking at our blood-covered thumbs, then crawled back out on the roof. Now he really was my brother. I lay back on the shingles, rested my head on my hands, turned my face to the sun, closed my eyes, smiled. I heard Jamie lie down next to me and listened to the sounds of Sophie and Heather laughing below us.

Jamie began talking about his sister and Sophie and how he hoped they would become good friends. His parents had been pressuring him to take Heather with him when he went anywhere; otherwise, she would be left at home alone. I sympathized with him. I could tell he considered her his own responsibility. People would often stare at her when we were out together, drawn to look closer at her twisted mouth and make sure that what they thought they saw had been real. One time in the White Hen, a boy stood and stared in Heather’s direction with his mouth hanging open. Jamie became very defensive, standing in front of her, and glaring back with a scowl. The boy saw him and quickly looked away. Heather slapped Jamie on the back. “Quit standin’ there, Jamie; let’s get some candy,” she said, looking at the rows of sugary snacks, oblivious.

After talking about Sarah and Sophie for a while, Jamie turned the topic to my mom’s new husband. How did I like him? Was he nice to us? Instead, I talked about my mother, her drunken parties and the strange men, her fights with Gram and her empty promises.

“Why don’t you call your Gram, tell her your mom’s being crazy and stupid?” he suggested.

“She’s not stupid,” I said. “She’s not crazy either. She lost her husband. She lost our dad!” I was surprised at my defensiveness.

“All right, take it easy,” he said. “I know it must be hard for her, but she needs to act better, take care of you guys.”

“I know, but I think she’s getting a little better. Jake’s nice. He’s not like the other losers she brought around,” I said.

“Jaaaaaeeeeeeeeeem!” Heather called.

“Yeah,” he called back.

“I’m ready to go! You gotta walk me home!”

“OK, be right down.”

He turned to me and held up his thumb then kissed it and held it against his chest.
“Blood buddies,” he said.

“Blood buddies,” I answered.

He hopped out the window and left. I sank my index finger into a large tar bubble I had been letting grow for at least five minutes and wiped it against my shirt. I looked at my bloody thumb and lay back. I fell asleep under the shade of a maple tree and began to dream.

I was in bed with Sophie asleep when I heard the door opening and looked up to see my mom and a strange man coming in. The strange man walked over to a dark hump on the bedroom floor and began doing something to it. When the door opened wider, light fell across the hump revealing it as the dead body of my father. The strange man was cutting a hole in his chest and pulling out his heart as well as other organs and clumps of veins. My mom was slowly advancing toward me, her eyes wild, her body hunched forward, and her hands reaching out before her in my direction. She was holding something large in her right hand. Soon I could see it was some sort of device with a long, wide, tapered needle and a trigger. When she reached me she grabbed my hand and shot the needle through the meat between my palm and thumb. She pulled the trigger and a large plastic tag released from the device and attached to my hand. As she shot the needle through another part of my hand, I screamed.
“MOM, OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT IS IT?”

“It renders stolen garments unusable by releasing a dye stain when the tag is broken by force, thus removing the benefit of stealing the garment,” she droned mechanically without looking at me. I started trying to fight her off but felt incredibly weak as she continued shooting tags into me all up my arm while calmly telling me about the device she was attacking me with in an eerie, low monotone.

“At its heart, the tag has a dye container, comprising a patented glass ampoule with gas pressure designed to explode if broken and thus spray dye over the garment.”

At this she grabbed one of the tags and bit it in a snarling, animal-like manner, crushing the plastic gadget and exploding thick, hot, black tar all over both of us.
When I woke up, I was covered in sweat and could feel the sunburn on every exposed portion of skin. I crawled inside to find Sophie in our room cutting out new paper dolls.