Beneath the Stain - Part 3 by Amy Lane Page A

forgot the words to “Stairway to Heaven” and had to start all over again.
    He leaned into Cambridge’s arm and begged for Trav.
    “T-T-Trav’ll fix it,” he sobbed. “Trav’ll m-m-make it stop.”
    “C’mon, Mackey, just deal. Don’t make it stop, just feel it.”
    “Aw, fuck you !” he shouted and spent the next few minutes catching his breath. Then he sobbed some more. “ F-f-f-uck th-th-thissss ….”
    “Stop fighting,” Cambridge whispered against the side of his head. “Just for once, stop fighting.”
    “Aw hell !”—and he went limp with it, let the pain wash over him, let it burn under his skin, immolating his resistance in grief. No memories of Grant existed in that white-flamed holocaust, no need for drugs, just the need to follow one breath with the next, and another, and another, heedless of the choking, inarticulate word-shit that fell out of his mouth.
    Eventually he stopped cursing.
    Eventually he could breathe.
    And eventually he was still, curled into a ball, breathing in quiet puffs into the cream carpet in the shrink’s office.
    For a moment he just stared at the carpet and realized the light had changed from the long shadows of a late September afternoon to the artificial light of Doc Cambridge’s lamp.
    “I’ve missed dinner,” he said dully, and he was surprised by the little half laugh from Cambridge, who was sitting somewhere behind him.
    “So have I,” he said. “And my wife was making something special.”
    “Your wife cooks for you?” For some reason this was a good subject to talk about. “That’s nice. My mom never had the money. Lots of Top Ramen and hot dogs and peanut butter and jelly.”
    “There are nice things about money sometimes,” Cambridge said. He was still touching Mackey’s back, and his hand moved for a moment and then resumed its desultory, soothing stroke.
    “Trav got us a house,” Mackey told him. He wasn’t sure he’d mentioned that before. “When I get out of here, I’ll live in a house for the first time in my life.”
    “You looking forward to that?”
    For once Mackey didn’t have the strength to resent the probing question. “Maybe he’ll let me get a bunk bed,” Mackey said, suddenly interested. “I’ll text him and tell him that. I want a bunk bed. I’m tired of sleeping on the floor.”
    “I’ll bet that won’t be a problem.” Cambridge sighed and leaned forward, groaning a little as he stretched out his muscles. “Maybe the first step is getting off of this one, you think?”
    “God.” Mackey pushed up on an elbow and stood up, wiping his face on his shoulder as he did so. The fabric of his T-shirt was a mess—snot and tears and spit—but he thought that maybe the doc was right, and it was time to change anyway. “I don’t even care about the food. I need a shower.” That long-ago shower when he’d gotten back from prom echoed in his mind, but right now all he could remember was how the warm water had relaxed him and not the pain he’d tried to wash away. He reached a hand out and Doc Cambridge grimaced, trying to push himself awkwardly from the floor.
    “Oh c’mon and take my hand,” Mackey snapped. “I’m not a little kid.”
    Cambridge grabbed his hand and Mackey hauled, shaking his head when Cambridge came up easily.
    “You’re right,” Cambridge said, smiling a little. “You’re stronger than you know.”
    Mackey shook his head in disgust. “I’m gonna go shower. I feel like I smell bad.”
    “I’ll have my wife bring us leftovers,” Cambridge said. “Bring dinner to your room.”
    Mackey looked over his shoulder, surprised. “That woman must really love you,” he said in wonder. “You should definitely keep her.”
    “Yes, well, third time’s the charm.”
    Mackey giggled. He stopped for a moment to make sure this time he could stop, and then started again.
    “What’s so damned funny?” Cambridge called after him.
    Mackey just kept giggling, shaking his head.
    Yeah, he dressed