Raise It Up Read online

  Raise It Up

  By Nick Wilgus

  Secrets can only stay buried for so long before they poison everything. But dragging them into the light is never easy—and it isn’t something Cyrus Hood can do alone.

  Amidst the atmosphere of suspicion brought on by the Cold War, Cyrus struggles to keep a lid on his family’s dark secrets, like the reason for his little brother, Charlie, being “not right in the head” and his father’s drinking, conspiracy theories, and abuse. While trying to hold together a family hell-bent on tearing itself apart, Cyrus is also discovering things within himself he can’t divulge—like his attraction to his best friend Oliver. Yet it might be Oliver who stands with Cyrus when Cyrus is at his most lost and vulnerable, and it might be Oliver to show him that no matter how many times life knocks you down, love can raise you up again.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  BOOK ONE

  BOOK TWO

  BOOK THREE

  About the Author

  By Nick Wilgus

  Visit Harmony Ink Press

  Copyright

  This one’s for Charlie: You’re my sunshine, buddy.

  BOOK ONE

  ONE: Youse a murderer

  IT WAS the morning of Mama’s funeral and while Bob Seger sang about “Night Moves” on the radio, Charlie marched into the kitchen with a bewildered look on his face.

  “Where’s Mama?” He stared at me with sleepy, accusing eyes.

  “It’s cold, Charlie,” I said. “Where’s your slippers? You’re going to get sick.”

  “Where’s Mama?” He hugged his arms to his thin chest, mouth open like a catfish. He’d been asking the same question most of the night, and we both had dark rings under our eyes to prove it.

  “Let’s find your slippers,” I said. I took his arm, hoping to distract him.

  “Mama!” he crowed, pulling his arm away from me. Charlie was eleven and not so easy to control. He was wiry thin, sure, but strong as a snake and stiff-necked like a mule. “I want Mama now!” His nostrils flared as he hugged his arms to his chest, the way he did when he was mad—as if holding himself together the only way he knew how. His right eye drooped heavily because he was fatigued and out of sorts.

  “We talked about Mama,” I said quietly. I put my arm around his shoulders in a friendly, reassuring way. “Let’s find your slippers, bud.”

  “I don’t want slippers, Cee Cee! I want Mama!”

  “Come on, I told you already.”

  “You said Mama went to be with John John, but that’s not right ’cause John John’s not coming back, and I want Mama to come back, so youse must be lying to me, Cee Cee! Youse a lying! Dammit!”

  “Mama was tired,” I said gently.

  “Tired of what?”

  “Mama was old.”

  “Mama was fifty,” he said knowledgeably, albeit incorrectly. “And that’s like the dinosaurs.”

  “Come on.”

  “Youse killed her, Cee Cee!” he exclaimed angrily.

  “I did not!”

  “Youse killed her dead! That’s what Georgie said.”

  “That’s not true, Charlie.”

  “Youse made her so mad she just up and died! Youse a murderer! Dammit, Cee Cee!”

  “Let’s find your slippers. It’s cold and I don’t want you to get sick.”

  “Charlie never get sick,” he said, which was also incorrect, grammatically and otherwise.

  I found his slippers on the floor by his bed, his robe hanging on the door. “It’s cold, Charlie,” I said, handing him the robe. “Put this on. I don’t want you to get sick again.”

  He let his hands fall to his sides, and his face took on a blank expression. He was thinking. Charlie didn’t do so well when it came to thinking. His brain was about as useful as tits on a bull, Daddy always said, or some colorful variation thereof.

  I draped the robe around Charlie’s shoulders, fitted his arms into the sleeves.

  Standing there, his mouth open, short hair mussed, he looked like Alfred from Mad Magazine. Some of the kids at school called him that. Alfred. I hated that. Unlike Alfred, Charlie wasn’t goofy-looking, awkward, and cute. He was just goofy-looking and awkward.

  “John John,” Charlie murmured.

  “John John went to heaven to be with Our Lord and Our Lady,” I said. “You remember?”

  “John John was my friend.”

  “He was your brother.”

  “And youse my brother too,” he said with enthusiasm, as if we’d reached a topic he could speak to with some authority.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m your brother, Cee Cee Hood, and you’re my brother, Charlie Hood. And Charlie Hood’s gonna be good today, you hear?”

  “All right. Charlie gonna be good.”

  “Gonna be lots of people coming.”

  “All right. Lots of people!”

  “Gonna say good-bye to Mama today. Gonna go to mass. You like going to mass, don’t you, Charlie?”

  “I like Father Jenkins.”

  “That’s right. He’s your friend. You gonna be good today, Charlie?”

  “I gonna be good, Cee Cee. Gonna be good good good!”

  If I knew Charlie, he was not going to be “good good good.”

  “But why youse kill Mama?” he asked.

  I sighed.

  “Mama was so mad,” he said, shaking his head from side to side, frowning a copious amount of disapproval. The baby hairs on his lip, I saw with some astonishment, were noticeably darker.

  “We were just having fun,” I said.

  “We was being Sonny and Cher!” he added enthusiastically.

  “We weren’t hurting anyone.”

  “We never hurt anyone, ’cause that’s a mortal sin and youse can go to hell.”

  “Yes, you will,” I said.

  “Youse can go to hell and you do not pass go,” he said solemnly.

  “Nope.”

  “And youse do not get out of jail free.”

  “You’ve got to pay the last farthing, like the Bible says.”

  “And burn burn burn!”

  “That’s right.”

  “But I’m not gonna burn ’cause I’m not right in the head and that’s okay ’cause Jesus loves me anyway. Don’t he, Cee Cee?”

  “He sure does.”

  “Even though I’m a stupid stupid stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.”

  “My brain like balls on a milk cow.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Daddy say that. Charlie so stupid, his brain like balls on a milk cow. That’s what Daddy say.”

  “Don’t listen to Daddy.”

  “I’m a stupid stupid stupid!”

  “You hungry?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Why’d you kill Mama?” Charlie asked, grasping my arm and holding it as if to make sure I didn’t wander away. “Why, Cee Cee?”

  “I did not kill Mama.”

  “But you did.” He pursed his lips as he tried to wrap his mind around the reason why I would do such a thing.

  “Things happen,” I said.

  “She done told you a million times, Cee Cee.”

  “I know.”

  “Told you and told you and told you, but youse did it anyway, and she got so mad.”

  “I know.”

  “And youse killed her.”

  “Please stop saying that, Charlie.”

  “It’s a sin to kill people, Cee Cee. That’s what Father Jenkins say. It’s a sin, and that’s bad. Youse gonna go to hell, Cee Cee. Youse gonna burn!”

  “Don’t say youse,” I said.

  “Daddy say youse all the time.”

  “It’s not correct.”

  “Yous
e just mad ’cause you killed Mama.”

  “I did not kill Mama!” I snapped, a flush of anger swelling through me. “Stop saying that!”

  He became very still, bit nervously at his lip, wouldn’t look at me.

  “I didn’t mean to get mad,” I said softly. “I’m sorry, bud.”

  He lowered his gaze to the floor. You would have thought I had just chopped off a puppy’s head, the way he looked. I rubbed his back, tried to soothe him.

  “Come on,” I urged. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Nobody get mad at Charlie,” he said, not looking at me.

  “That’s right.”

  “You make Charlie hurt, you get mad. Youse make Charlie cry and Mama gone beat you.”

  “Come on.”

  “Nobody supposed to hurt Charlie,” he said, reciting his mantra.

  “Nobody’s going to hurt Charlie,” I said in agreement.

  “We supposed to love Charlie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Charlie a good boy.”

  “Charlie’s a very good boy.”

  “Charlie not right,” he said, his voice now very soft.

  “Let’s get something to eat, bud.”

  “Mama say Charlie like an angel.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Charlie a good boy.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Our Lady love Charlie.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Cee Cee love Charlie.”

  “Yes, I do, bud. Now let’s eat. The food’s getting cold and I’m hungry. Even angels get hungry, eh?”

  He lifted his eyes to look at me.

  Somewhere in those eyes was a little boy whose brain had quite failed him.

  TWO: Where is Jesus now?

  I PUT wood on the fire, stoked it, closed the iron door to the wood stove, wondered how many times Mama had done the very same thing and if she had ever wondered if there would come a time when she wouldn’t, when she would be as stiff as the wood and just as frozen and lifeless.

  I spread out my hands over the stovetop, pushed the grief out of my mind.

  The Christmas tree had thrown off needles on the threadbare carpet. I’d gone into the woods out back and cut down a tree like Daddy used to do and dragged it to the house hoping nobody would see, especially the Kemmells. Wasn’t our woods. Weren’t our trees. Some people got mad when you did stuff like that. The Kemmells had posted a sign by the end of the fence: IF YOU’RE FOUND HERE AT NIGHT, YOU WILL BE FOUND HERE IN THE MORNING. They weren’t big on trespassers, but I had braved the signs because old man Kemmell was just about dead and Mrs. Kemmell was too busy wiping up his piss to much care, and besides, Charlie wanted a tree.

  On the mantel was the nativity scene missing the baby Jesus, and it would continue to be missing Baby Jesus until Christmas morning. Where Jesus was, at the moment, was anyone’s guess, because Mama wouldn’t let us see him until Christmas Day. Now that Mama was gone, I would have to figure out where she hid him because Charlie and Kay would want to put him in his place on Christmas morning before they opened their presents.

  Next to the nativity scene were the advent wreath and a small statue of the Infant of Prague. The third Sunday of Advent was fast approaching with Christmas on its heels.

  George suddenly banged through the door, letting in a blast of frigid Michigan air and dumping snow on the floor as he marched through the drafty living room to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.

  “Mama’s mass is at three,” I said.

  He sat at the table, didn’t answer.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” I added.

  He lit a cigarette.

  THREE: I’ll ask Georgie

  “WAKE UP, Kay Kay,” I called, giving Kay’s foot a nudge.

  She slept in the top bunk in George’s room where I had once slept. She rolled over, pushed stringy blonde hair out of her eyes. “Georgie snores like a pig,” she announced. “It’s cold, Cee Cee.”

  “You hungry?”

  She shook her head, pursed her eight-year-old lips, and frowned.

  “Breakfast is on the table,” I said. “We’ve got a busy day. Up and at ’em, sweet pea.”

  “I miss Mama,” she said, pushing back the covers and climbing down the wooden ladder. “Do I have to go to mass?”

  “You know you have to. Mama would want you to.”

  I put a bathrobe over her shoulders.

  “I don’t want to go,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll ask Georgie,” she said, her answer whenever she didn’t get what she wanted.

  “Come and eat.”

  I followed her through the living room, paused to look in my parents’ room. Daddy was fast asleep, and the smell of sour whiskey drifted from his door.

  “Daddy?” I called softly.

  He didn’t answer.

  FOUR: I think they should all go back to Africa

  “DON’T YOU think you ought to wake Daddy?” George whispered across the table to me as Donna Summer confessed over and over on the radio she felt love.

  “You wake him up,” I said.

  “Shit no,” he said.

  “Shit no!” Charlie repeated, grinning like a goofball.

  “Charlie,” I said in warning.

  “Charlie’s cussing,” Kay said, making a face.

  “Shit shit shit!” Charlie said.

  “If Mama were here, she’d wash your dirty mouth out with soap,” Kay said in disgust.

  “Why are we listening to this nigger music?” George asked.

  “It’s Donna Summer,” I pointed out.

  “Fucking disco.”

  “Don’t talk like that in front of them. It’s better than your John Denver crap.”

  “You know Mama hates that music.”

  “Not so much sugar,” I said to Kay as she poured a heaping spoon on her toast.

  “I like it!”

  “You’re going to be a great big fatty.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are to. You’re not supposed to put sugar on your toast.”

  “Rachel does,” Kay said authoritatively.

  “She also picks her nose.”

  “She does not!”

  “I saw her,” I said. “And besides, her dad’s a communist.”

  “You just don’t like her because she lives on the hill.”

  I didn’t like her because she was a raging snot, but I said nothing.

  George stabbed his fork into his eggs as though harpooning the meaning of life. Or Daddy’s backside.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to do this,” George said. “Without Mama… I just don’t know.”

  He looked at me with his bluer than blue eyes, which were filled with doubt and a heaviness that was rare for him. George was big and beefy, like Mama, solid with a bulldog face and meaty, strong hands. He had Mama’s eyes and her way of expressing a hundred different emotions with the lifting of an eyebrow or a snarl or a snort.

  “How you gonna finish school?” he asked, putting aside his spoon. “And who’s gonna take care of these brats?”

  “We’ll manage,” I said.

  “You’re only fifteen,” he pointed out. “You can’t take care of these kids.”

  “We could take care of them together.”

  “I ain’t quitting my job.”

  “No one said you had to.”

  “I’m saving my money so I can leave. You know that.”

  “And?”

  “Cee Cee, this is serious. What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “And what are you going to do if I leave?”

  I shrugged. I had no idea. George had been talking about leaving for two years now. He was going to work and save some money, find his own place, make his own way in the world. If that meant I had to take care of Charlie and Kay by myself, that was fine. I was willing to do that. I was their bigger brother, after all.

  But we needed money. If
we had to rely on Daddy….

  On the radio, Rod Stewart asked the eternal question, “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?”

  “Do we have to listen to this crap?” George asked. He got to his feet, marched to the radio, and changed the station to AM97, All Country, All the Time. Johnny Paycheck was of the opinion that you could “Take This Job and Shove It.”

  “Now that’s real music,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Beats your nigger crap any day.”

  “Do you have to use words like that in front of them?”

  “They don’t like your nigger music any more than I do,” George said.

  “We hate your nigger music,” Kay offered.

  “Jackson 5,” I said. “Really? You hate the Jackson 5?”

  “I like them,” she admitted.

  “And you’re going to call them a bad word?” I pressed.

  “Well, not them.”

  “I think they should all go back to Africa,” George said. “Bunch of goddamn commies.”

  “I want to go to Africa,” Charlie said.

  “Me too,” Kay said.

  FIVE: You do it

  I SAT on the edge of the tub and waited for Charlie to finish his bath. It was past one already and Mama’s mass was at three. Father Jenkins had driven all the way from Detroit to offer it.

  “Wash your hair and hurry up,” I said, growing impatient.

  “I don’t want to wash my hair, Cee Cee.”

  “Please?”

  “No, Cee Cee,” He shook his head solemnly back and forth.

  “We’re gonna say good-bye to Mama. You want to look nice, don’t you?”

  He opened his mouth, left it open as he pondered that.

  I was tempted to let Charlie finish on his own, but I resisted. Charlie was not to be trusted. Not for a second. Last time I had left him in the tub, he’d gotten hold of Mama’s curling iron and was trying to figure out how to turn it on. Time before that, he’d been swirling about in the water, faster and faster, until he banged his head on the faucet and wound up with a big gash, the bathwater red with his own blood.

  “Don’t you want to look nice?” I asked.