The doctors don't know if he's going to make it.

They say we should pray.

Gram's done a whole lot of praying. She's the one who sits by his side, day after day. Iris says it's too hard to see her little boy that way. She's only been to the hospital two or three times. Makes Gram mad.

Makes me mad too. Iris doesn't give two squirts who she p.i.s.ses off. All she cares about is herself.

It's Been a Month A month of worry, of guilt, of my having to play the role of "Mom" even more, because Gram isn't there to help me do it. A month of Mary Ann, withdrawing into a silent, blank-eyed world where accidents don't happen, especially not on her watch. I try to help, but she isn't ready to quit blaming herself.

A month of mounting bills- doctor bills, ambulance bills, hospital bills-that Gram is determined somehow to pay. Where there's a will, there has to be a way.

A month of Iris diving deeper and deeper into bottomless bottles of numb.

She Has a New Boyfriend A big-boned truck-driving son of a b.i.t.c.h, with eyes like a crow's-black, dead.

I've seen eyes like those before, on another of Iris's bada.s.s lays, one I can't forget. I do my best never to think of him, what he did. Try never to remember that place in my childhood, but sometimes it pops into view despite all my efforts to keep it hidden. I was almost ten, and we lived in Pahrump, the b.u.t.thole of Nevada. Iris worked at a cathouse, making money her usual way, only without walking the streets.

Walt was a miner, and though he was a regular paying customer at Mimi's, he had an appet.i.te for younger meat. Iris was younger then too, but even at twenty-six, she was way too old for Walt.

Still, he paid for her, then he followed her home. She let him move in for a while.

I remember his sour sweat, coming in after working backhoe.

I remember how he touched Iris, and how she didn't care that her kids could see.

I remember his Marlboro breath falling all down around me when he said, Let me show you something.

On Another Day It wouldn't have happened, couldn't have happened.

Too many witnesses around.

But for some odd reason, that particular afternoon, Iris had taken the other kids to play in the park. You stay and start dinner, she said.

We won't be gone very long.

I didn't mind. I was too old for swings, and I've always liked spending time by myself.

But it wasn't more than ten minutes before Walt came through the door. He didn't ask where Iris was, or why the house was so quiet.

He didn't say one word.

I opened a can of refried beans, spooned them into a pot. I had no real reason to be afraid. So why did my hands shake? I kept my back to him but could feel his eyes, carving into me. Finally, he started toward the living room. Bring me a beer, sweets.

I dug one from the fridge.

But he wasn't on the couch, as expected. Back here, he called from Iris's room. He was already out of his jeans. I didn't know much then, but I knew there was something very wrong about that. Still, I took him the beer, holding my breath against his stench. He grabbed my hand, jerked me hard against him.

Let me show you something.

I tried to run, but he was faster.

Tried to fight. He was stronger.

Tried to scream. He choked my cries.

When He Finished (Thank G.o.d it didn't take long), he rolled off me with a grunt.

Reached for his beer. Slammed it.

Ripped and pried, swallowed up by the shame of what that meant, I crawled into the bathroom to scrub away the evidence.

Not that I'd dare tell anyone.

Not when he followed me, stood in the doorway, watching me, finally said, Tell a soul, I'll do your sister, too. He knew that was a bigger threat than saying he'd hurt Iris or some other TV kind of s.h.i.t. Because I knew he would come back for Mary Ann. She was only eight. If he did this to her, she'd die for sure. It had almost killed me. I'll probably always link s.e.x with pain.

All That Comes Back Like a sucker punch, mirrored now in Harry's corpse-cold eyes, moving all over my body- climbing up, shimmying back down. I hate them. Hate him, because he's no different from Walt.

Iris doesn't notice, or maybe doesn't mind. She's always saying, You be nice to Harry.

We want to keep him happy.

She's bold about bringing Harry around, bold because Gram is mostly at the hospital.

Her path has only crossed Harry's a couple of times, and when that happens, their dislike for each other hangs thick in the air like smog.

Iris pretends that it doesn't.

Iris is good at pretending.

She breathes make-believe.

Not Sure If Harry is tuned in to how Iris earns her booze and pill money. Don't think so, though. She has always tried to keep pleasure and business in two different boxes.

Ugh. Bad double meaning there. A sick sort of laugh escapes and Iris, who is at this very moment sitting across the room from me, asks, What's so funny?

Which makes me bust up even more. All I can do is snort, "Nuh ... nothing."

Harry, who is sitting next to Iris, slurping a Keystone, b.u.t.ts in. Then why the h.e.l.l are you laughing? Those crow eyes take even bolder liberties with my body, and there's something in his voice- something far beyond mean.

Something approaching s.a.d.i.s.tic. People don't just up and laugh for no d.a.m.n reason, do they, little girl?

Anger firecrackers. I want to yell. Instead I keep my voice very low. "I don't know who in the f.u.c.k you think you are, but you're nothing to me. I don't answer to you."

Fists knotting, Harry jumps to his feet. Iris reacts by jumping to hers. W-wait, baby. No need to get mad.

The words puff from her mouth. She's just a dumb kid.

A Nuclear Bomb Goes off inside my skull- a white-hot mushroom cloud of rage. "Yeah, well, at least I'm not a wh.o.r.e! Wait.

'Wh.o.r.e' is too good a word for you and what you do.

'Hooker' works much better."

I hesitate just long enough to gain some satisfaction from the look on Iris's face. Then I escape out the front door before the s.h.i.t smacks the fan.

It's May, and Mojave heat practically knocks me off my feet, but I run. Run from Iris, from her crow. He'd pick my bones clean, and I know it.

Run from Gram's house, not home without her in it. Run from shadow into overbearing sunlight. Run toward town.

I wish I could keep running.

Farther. Forever. Wish nothing could turn me back.

I run all the way to Alex's house.

By the time I get there, sweat streams from every pore, washing away hurt and anger. Luckily, when I pound on the door, it is Alex who answers. Hey.

She steps back, and I fall into cool darkness. It's like diving deep. What happened? she asks.

We are alone in the place, and that is good, because for some stupid reason, I tell her the entire story, including the stuff about Walt. Words keep spilling out of my mouth as if a faucet broke. When I finally stop, I'm crying.

And Alex is holding me.

No One Has Ever Held me like this before, strong but kind. Gentle, even. Fact is, I'm surprised I'm letting her hold me.

My MO is to withdraw.

But this feels good, and that makes me cry harder. What have I missed? "I'm sorry.

You didn't need to hear all that."

Alex brushes the hair from my forehead, mindless of sweat.

It's okay. I understand. Men are dogs for the most part.

Scratch that. Dogs are kind of cute, and they only come on strong when the b.i.t.c.h is in heat. She goes quiet, lets me finish feeling sorry for myself. Finally I go quiet too. I look up, wanting to thank her. She smiles. Kisses me.

It's a Soft Kiss On the mouth, sensual, and it's exactly the way I imagined it might be.

Her lips are smoothed by a sheen of raspberry ice, and they make no demands beyond this sweet three seconds of connection.

Iris's men dissolve, salt in rainwater. There is no more, no "let's have s.e.x,"

which leaves me both content and confused. I think you need a drink, she says.

As she goes into the kitchen, a new fantasy springs to life. "Have you ever thought about running away?" I call after her.

She returns with a couple of c.o.kes, spiked heavily with what I think is rum.

All the time. No one would even miss me. What about you?

"I'd go right now, but who would take care of the kids?

And anyway, where would I go?"

We sip our drinks in silence.

The afternoon slips by, hazy with alcohol. Finally I glance at the clock. Almost six. I don't want to go, but someone has to make dinner. When I get home, Iris is on the phone. She turns, smiling. Sandy will be okay.

They'll release him in a few days.

A Poem by Cody Bennett Release I'm not the religious type. Mom goes to church but I mostly ignore it.

Not sure if there is a G.o.d or why some all-powerful being would give half a d.a.m.n about the likes of me. Lately, though, I've tossed out a prayer or two, thrown them like fastb.a.l.l.s at heaven, if there is such a thing.

I'm afraid they only bounced back to Earth, or spun out into s.p.a.ce, unheard. Either way, guess I'll give it another try. Why not? What the h.e.l.l have I got to lose?

Cody

Falling Apart

That's how everything feels, like it's dissolving one molecule at a time. I'm scared. d.a.m.n it, I hate to admit it, but my gut churns night and day. I can barely eat.

Only booze goes down and stays.

Mom is at church right now.

Church, of all places! We haven't been regular churchgoers since we left Wichita. Now she's not only religious. Apparently she's Catholic, and asking for intervention. Praying for a miracle. Some sort of Hail Mary sign that Jack will make it home again, happy, healthy, and maybe a little wiser about indigestion and what that can mean. That persistent bellyache? Turned out Tums weren't going to fix it. No wonder I can't eat. Too much information about what causes stomach cancer and what happens when it metastasizes, infiltrating blood and cells to infect the esophagus, pancreas, and who knows what else. It's just about enough to make me choose a liquid diet. Water. Bottled. (Tap water can be carcinogenic.) V8 (low sodium- salt is a factor in stomach cancer) for your veggies. A little bouillon (takes care of the protein requirement, right?) watered down with vodka.

And for dessert, stiff megashots of gin. Hey, someone besides Cory should drink it. He's developed a tidy habit and isn't real good at hiding it. But Mom and Jack can't turn him around. They barely notice him. Or me. More important s.h.i.t on their minds. Like praying for miracles. Like staying alive just one more f.u.c.king day.

So Cory Drinks Way too much. Pickling his brain, and much too young to end up relish.

But how can I say anything when I drink? And more. I smoke. Snort.

Pop pills. Anything to keep from thinking about death, come knocking.