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Too Early For The Circus
Cinnamon


When Casey was fifteen, his grandmother began forgetting things. His parents insisted that it was nothing to be alarmed about. After all, she was seventy years old. Casey figured she was entitled to some forgetfulness.

When he was sixteen, his parents decided it was best if she didn't drive anymore. Casey, driver's license burning in his back pocket, got her car. It was burgundy and smelled of old lady, and he didn't feel guilty about driving it for at least six months.

When he was eighteen, she stopped knitting. She'd always done something with her hands, for as long as Casey could remember, but when he came home from college for the first time, he found her in the living room, unsure of how to use the remote. He showed her how, ten or twelve times, during that first weekend home.

When he was nineteen, she stopped showering, stopped brushing her teeth. His parents never told him this, but his sister did. His grandmother needed to be reminded, hourly, to take care of herself, and Casey's grandfather was getting too old to take care of them both. He asked his sister, incredulous, if they were putting their grandmother into a nursing home. Melinda sighed.

When he was twenty, they moved her into Bethany Home. She cried and begged them not to leave her there. Casey contemplated dropping out of school and taking care of her himself. That night, he got very, very drunk and broke a glass in his hand. He bled heavy drops on the backseat of the burgundy car as Melinda drove him to the hospital.

When he was twenty-two, she died of pneumonia. Casey's mother spent most of the service clutching a tissue to her mouth. Casey's grandfather spent most of the service in the backyard. Casey sat on the porch and watched his sister smoke a pack of cigarettes. He and Lisa left the next day.

Casey rubs the scar on his palm when he tells Dan.

"God, Casey."

He drains a bottle of beer and places it with the others. "Yeah."

"I didn't know."

"You didn't."

Dan leans in, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands resting on Casey's knees. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Casey shrugs. "I don't know."

Their mouths meet awkwardly, noses and chins and teeth colliding. Dan begins to use his tongue but Casey does not, so they place their hands on each other's necks and start again. The hair on Dan's face grinds against the hair on Casey's, and Casey listens to it. It's scraping and barely audible, but he listens until he feels Dan's fingers on his jeans.

Dan's body is heavy against Casey, his movements slowed by alcohol. His fingers fumble against Casey's button fly, and he curses several times before he gives up on the last button and pulls down Casey's jeans.

His mouth is warm and dry, his tongue like velvet against Casey's skin. Casey hardens in Dan's mouth, stiffens and trembles. Dan releases Casey and sloppily laps at the skin and the hair around Casey's penis, then takes Casey again in a way that's too tight, too sharp. Dan leans forward, then rocks back and lands on his ass.

Casey stares at his lap for a moment, then laughs. "How're you doing?"

"I could vomit."

"You talk like this on dates, don't you?"

Dan takes a deep breath, expels it slowly. "I'm sorry."

"If you boot mushroom and broccoli on my carpet, you're cleaning it up." He stands, buttons his pants, and extends his hand. "Come on."

"Did you slip a mickey into my drink?"

"Which one? I think you had about twelve."

"I wasn't drinking alone, my friend." Dan takes Casey's hand and rises unsteadily to his feet. "Bathroom. Bathroom now."

He spends several minutes with his head rested on his arm rested on the toilet, then curls up and places his head against the cold tiles. "God."

"Your face is a funny color."

"Casey, I'll give you money if you stop talking."

"Kind of like pea soup."

"I've got like two hundred bucks in my wallet."

Casey slides onto the floor next to Dan. He leans against the bathtub, crosses his legs, and watches Dan's chest rise and fall.

"What was her name?"

Casey yawns. "Who?"

"Your grandmother."

"Heidi."

"Yeah?"

"No, Danny, I'm lying to you."

Dan tries to sit up, then thinks better of it. "It's a nice name. I'm not saying it's not a nice name."

"My dad's mom was Geraldine."

"That's more like it." Dan sprawls on the floor, rubbing his face and his hands against the green tiles. "I love this floor. Have I ever told you that? I really love this floor."

"She used to bake."

"Heidi?"

"Geraldine."

Dan squints. "What about Heidi?"

"She used to sing."

"To you?"

"To everybody."

"But she didn't bake."

Casey shakes his head. "No."

"Did that make you sad, that she'd never bake for you?"

"Go to sleep, Danny."

"Right here, on the floor?"

"Right there, on the floor."

Dan's asleep within seconds and Casey rummages through his linen closet until he finds a beach towel. It's covered with pictures of parrots and large, gaping fish; he tosses it over Dan, who does not stir.

Casey shuffles into the living room and gathers up as many beer bottles as he can carry. After three trips, his carpet is clear of clutter, and he thinks.

When he was twenty, he sold the burgundy car. Because of the bloodstains and the broken air conditioner, he got only five hundred dollars for it. But that was okay with Casey; he would have gladly given it away.

When he was twenty-one, he went to visit his grandmother. She was wearing a pink nightgown, and it was absolutely sheer. Casey went to JC Penney's and bought her a heavier one -- purple -- and a matching housecoat. When he took them to her, she didn't know who he was. He glanced at the nurses for guidance, and they encouraged him to talk to her, to help her change her clothes. His grandmother screamed when he tried to touch her until he started humming. He closed her door and began to sing, and she watched him with cloudy eyes as he slipped the purple nightgown over her body.

Casey dreams of that nightgown when Dan sits next to him.

"Case."

He rubs his forehead. "You don't look like pea soup anymore."

"Do you want some water?"

Casey's tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. He takes the glass from Dan, then makes a face. "It's ... tepid."

"Yeah, I think there's something wrong with your faucets." Dan trudges to the kitchen and returns with a piece of pizza. He takes a bite, then wipes his fingers on his jeans.

"What time is it?"

"Four something." He takes another bite.

"In the morning?"

He stuffs the rest of the slice into his mouth. "Mmm."

Casey sits up. "Did you at least warm that up?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Dan leans into the couch. "What are we doing today?"

"Nothing."

"We could go to the batting cages."

"I guess."

Dan looks at Casey. "So earlier it was fine, but now it's weird?" When Casey opens his mouth to speak, Dan cuts him off. "Music."

"Danny, if you put on Tom Waits, I swear to God --"

The sounds flow from the speakers, all church bells and piano and that voice.

"Did you bring that over here just for this?"

Dan lingers by the stereo. "Everybody should own one Tom Waits CD, Casey. Even you."

"Is that right?"

"Jesus."

He leans forward. "What, Danny?"

"You didn't kick me in the ribs."

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't hit me in the face."

"I could."

Dan's eyes flash as Tom wails in the background about loneliness and prostitutes. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Are we -- have we been in the same room tonight? You put my dick in your mouth!"

Dan shakes his head. "Fine."

"Is that something you make a habit of doing? I'm guessing not because you didn't have the first fucking idea what was going on down there."

"Fuck you."

"Okay, Danny."

Dan smacks the stereo quiet and searches for his jacket. "Seriously, Casey. Fuck you."

Casey stands, placing one hand on the wall to help keep him upright. "Should I give you some money or something before you go?"

Dan's fist hits Casey sideways, their blood mixing as Casey's teeth cut Dan's knuckle and Casey's lip. Casey's shoulder smacks into the wall, makes a thud, leaves a mark. They stand there, bleeding heavy drops onto Casey's carpet.

Casey presses against his lip. "I shouldn't have said that."

Dan rubs his knuckle. "I shouldn't have hit you."

"I shouldn't have said that."

Dan nods and turns the stereo on again. Tom wails about dead mothers and little boys with unruly hair. Casey looks at the blood on his fingers and walks to the kitchen; Dan follows.

There's ice in the freezer. Casey grabs a couple of cubes for himself and hands a few to Dan. They wrap them in paper towels and place them against their wounds.

Dan balances the ice on the top of his hand and reaches for a slice of pizza. "You're never going to get those stains out, you know."

"Sure, I will."

"How?"

"I will."

"Okay." Dan swallows. "So are we going to the batting cages?"

Casey's eyes flicker towards the table. "Is your hand gonna --"

"Oh, yeah."

"Okay, then."

When he was eighteen, his grandmother asked him if she was sick. He thought for a minute, then told her the truth. When he said the word, she slapped him, said that she hated him. Later that afternoon, she asked him again, and he lied.

When he was nineteen, he found his grandmother in the kitchen. She had a pot of chili on the stove and cornbread in the oven. He was afraid that she'd forgotten the meat or the seasoning or the beans, but she hadn't. It turned out to be the best meal Casey'd ever had

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