“What do you think?”
“About being blood brothers? I think it’s a great idea. When would you want to do it?”
“Now! I’ll go get a knife.”
“Whoa, horsey! A knife? Are you nuts? A little pin’ll do just fine.”
“Yeah, but a knife—”
“A pin, Linc. I’ll give you my blood, but not my arm.”
He raced off, thrilled. We were about to go on an adventure together, just us two. His mother and the rest of life would have to wait outside while we did it—it was only ours and that’s how he wanted it.
I did too. Tonight we’d prick our fingers, press them together, and vow eternal brotherhood. A ceremony old as human friendship. We’d smear our shared red over the lens and blot out the imminent rest for a moment. So long as I didn’t know what to do next, being happy with the boy an evening more was as good as things could be then.
Our house had been cleaned the day before. The wooden floors shone, pillows still lay plumped and in line on the couch, a sweet lingering smell of soap or furniture polish was in the air, despite Cobb’s own ripe perfume. It would take three or four days of living in these rooms to make things wrinkled and ours again. I liked both—the clean order followed by the clutter and jumble that came from three people’s full speed ahead across the same space.
“Max, do you think this’ll do?” He came running full tilt into the room, a long sewing needle held in front of him.
“Don’t run! I’ve told you not to run with something sharp in your hand. It’s really dangerous!”
“Yeah, but I—”
“But nothing, Lincoln! Think about it a minute and see how dangerous it is. You trip, you fall on it, and maybe it goes in your eye. Or into your neck–”
“Okay. I believe you.”
“No, you don’t. You’ve got that look that says I’m being a drag. But look here and my expression says you’re a total dope, running around with something sharp like that in your hand.”
“A dope, huh?” Dropping the pin, he came at me in his usual bent-over attack position for wrestling. He went for my knees, but I grabbed him on either side of his waist and, picking him up, turned him upside down—a move that never failed to make him shout his delight.
“Cheater! No fair! You’re stronger. Let me down!”
“Damn right I’m stronger, dopo.”
“Dopo?! All right, you’re dead!” Upside down, he grabbed me around the waist and shook me side to side as best he could. Off balance, I stumbled with him in my arms across the floor. We were both laughing. He bit me on the leg, not hard but hard enough.
“Hey!”
“Attack!”
I loosened my hold just enough to make him think I was going to drop him. He squeezed harder. “No!”
Wobbling us over to the couch, I dropped him there after making sure he’d fall on a soft target. Lying on his back, he puffed and wiggled his fingers at me like tentacles. When I dropped down next to him, he grabbed my head. We went at it on the couch, the floor, the couch again. I let him put a full nelson on me, then slipped out of it and put one on him. You have to be careful, though, because kids are sensitive about wrestling. Some want to win every time, others lose. It’s a diplomatic act which, if you do it wrong, can end up a big insult. Lincoln liked it fifty-fifty. He liked being overwhelmed, held in the air by his feet so he could wail and thrash, but never too long. Next, he wanted you in his power a while—a long headlock or sitting on your chest and twisting your nose usually sufficed. The most endearing thing about wrestling with him was when he had you in a hold, he never tried to hurt. One grunt or yelp and he’d let go immediately and apologize like mad. In contrast, I’d once been foolish enough to wrestle with Elvis, at his insistence. The little germ circus punched me square in the balls. “Accidentally,” of course.
“I got you now!” Holding on tight, Lincoln rode the back of my leg as I elephant-clomped around the living room, trumpeting like I imagined a wounded elephant would sound. Vocal effects were an integral part of our wrestling.
“Death to all Bee Hees!” He spanked me hard on the ass.
“What’s a Bee Hee?”
“You!”
“Bee Hees forever!” I turned and, bending down to peel him off, banged my head a real whack on a hanging lamp. It hit, I went to grab my head, the lamp swung out and back and hit me again. “Christ!”
“Max, are you okay?” His voice was stricken.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Did you see that? It hit me twice! Undoubtedly one of the dumbest things I’ve done in a long time—twice by the same lamp. You have to be very talented to do that!”
“Let me see. It’s bleeding, Max!”
I turned to a wall mirror and saw a thick lip of blood above one of my eyebrows. Gaudy, but nothing serious. “It’s okay. Would you go to the bathroom and get me a wet tissue and a couple of Band-Aids?”
“Sure you don’t want to go to the hospital or something?”
“No, it’s not that bad. Just get me those things, would you?”
He left and I checked myself in the mirror again. The perils of wrestling a ten-year-old. An idea arrived. I called out, “Lincoln, where’d you put that pin? The one we were going to use before.”
“I think it’s on the table there.” He returned with a dripping washcloth and a handful of Band-Aids. “Why?”
“Because this, compadre, is my half of blood brothers! All you’ve gotta do now is prick your finger and touch my head.”
“Touch your cut? That’s disgusting, Max!”
“Hey, I’m ready with my blood, brother. You think I’m going to cut myself somewhere else? This is good, and there’s certainly enough of it. Come on, find the pin and let’s do the deed.” I took the things from him and touched my head with the cloth.
“I found it.”
“Good. Poke yourself in the finger carefully. We don’t need two emergency cases.”
“Will you do it for me? I’m a little nervous.”
“Linc, we don’t have to do this.”
“No, no, I want to! I just don’t want to do my finger myself, you know?”
“Okay, come here. Give it to me. Put your hand out.”
“Is it going to hurt?” Through tightly squinted eyes, he watched me take the pin.
“No, it’ll be one—”
“Ow! You didn’t say you were going to do it so fast! Let me see. Whoa! Look at that blood! Heavy!”
“Look at my head! Want to compare who’s worse?”
“Do you really think I should touch you there? It’s a pretty bad cut.”
“I don’t think you’re diseased. Come on, let’s do it. What should we say? ‘With this blood, I thee wed’?”
“Very funny, Max. You’re a real loser.”
“Thank you.” I dabbed my head. “What about ‘Blood on blood, Brothers in Arms’?”
“That’s the name of the Dire Straits album. Wait a minute, I got it! What about ‘Bee Hees forever’? Just that alone.”
“You don’t think it sounds too much like the Bee Gees?”
“No, Bee Hees. Like I called you when we were wrestling.”
“If you like it, let’s go with it.”
He licked his lips and slowly moved his hand toward my head. “Okay. We say, ‘Bee Hees forever’ at exactly the same time. Right? I’ll count to three, and as soon as I touch you, we say it together. Okay? Okay, one-two-three.” He touched his open finger to my open head.
Blood to blood.
“’Bee Hees forever!’ Hey, Max, say it. Come on!”
She had shipped Lincoln off for the weekend to Elvis’s house. She’d taken the night off from work to cook us an elaborately exotic dinner. She wore a new dress. Afterward, she made love stormily and with delightful originality. Not long after we’d finished and were lying on our backs in the dark, only our fingers touching, she began to cry. That had happened a couple of times before with her after sex, so I lay still and stroked a finger up and down her thumb.