BY CODY OXLEY
“No. Not in my ass,” she said to Carlos, startled. It was a gratification he hadn’t breached since college,
followed by an awkward terse exchange that yielded to an amicable, more traditional exhaustion. His
name was Charles – never Charlie, but when an appetite fueled an erection, she’d always called him Carlos.
Why the ass now? Nostalgia? Domestic colonialism? He quizzed himself. So foreign, but such a violent
explosion changes a man. That bomb. Almost a month of numbness ago, and he could still feel the heat
tsunami ruffling his eyelashes. With a shudder, he snapped himself back to his wife’s hips.
Unlike he’d done in her dorm room a decade before, he didn’t insist now. He wilted. At once he was
Charles, retreating to another room unfulfilled. She witnessed the exit, surveying his injuries.
CHARLES. DORMAN. He barely registered the sharpie on his black gym bag, still toweling at his hair. The
warm shower didn’t stave off the sting of muscle fatigue. He wasn’t the athlete he had been. He surveyed
the body in the mirror, wincing when his eyes found spots affected by the bomb’s shrapnel. He viewed the
news crawl at the bottom of one of the dozen screens as his hand floundered inside the bag for his
buzzing phone. “I want your salt,” the text read. The wife did try to pepper some flavor into the
arrangement. So much effort. He withdrew his keys. He tendered himself towards his apartment.
He was a theatre major, he reminded himself. He was a costume consultant, a prop manager, a
set designer, a hundred other flowery words the real world used to designate authority, and the stage
used to glorify those who shrunk from the limelight. That was 2003. None of those roles found him. His
major became philosophy then education then business. He’d endured a series of diminishing titles since,
but also added the most vital: Dad.
The first words she’d ever said to him were, “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” They were at one
of those post 9/11 feelings meetings that popped up on campuses across the country. The meetings that,
due primarily to people’s weak grasps at someone else’s grief, rapidly eroded into blaming the
government or just Dick Cheney. It was February, and Charles had heard every theory, and out of youthful
curiosity, had done enough research to refute them all. He’d confirmed it was exactly as the news
reported it. It felt outlandish – childish, even, to dream up such a horrific conspiracy. She was one who
would believe whatever elicited the greatest response when preached. Attention is the religion of college.
After the meeting, he invited her to further discuss ideas. It was their last meeting with that group.
Eight years in, their relationship was akin to the dynamic between a national monument and a pigeon.
Doors buckled, and footsteps tattooed floors. Charles was standing at the kitchen counter, homesick,
using a butter knife to smear strawberry jelly against plain white bread, when his wife posited the theory
that their marriage needed a baby. That was 17 months before Charles began to endure the tragedy.
The wife of Charles banged on the Tuesday evening bathroom door. She inquired of his status. He
monitored the slow signs of healing on his chest, stomach, thighs. He whimpered and shuddered. His ass
had warmed the rail of the bathtub, and when he reset himself, he felt the cold edges bite at his skin.
He tossed the fingernail clippers over the rim of the sink, the stainless nail cleaner still extended like an
acerbic blaming finger. He caressed his wounds, recalling their birth. He’d been on a train. An elevated
train. Like in the Chicago cop movies. He’d only registered the man’s departure from the train as a
difference in space. Maybe he’d had a mustache. Maybe a hat. Boots probably. Charles didn’t know.
Charles’s son was beside him, holding his hand, and when Charles reached down and mussed his hair, he
saw the bright burst of whiteness. Charles lost consciousness.
The paramedic said it must’ve been a dud. Probably some kid who got picked on too much and found
some crap off the Internet. Trying to be famous. Idiot. It could’ve been so much worse. A real tragedy.
Charles asked about his son and got vague answers. Heads tilted at the angle of confusion. No
information.
The media coverage was absent. They didn’t want to give in and glorify another one. It would only inspire
more. The paramedics sized up the sustained injuries, and Charles was free to go. The wife had no idea. He
didn’t have the words to offer any explanation.
It was math. Charles was a variable in an equation of physics and propulsion and impact. His son was
another. In his post 9/11 studies, he’d learned the term “organic shrapnel,” when an explosion destroys
life in such a way that the remains become projectiles that can cause further injury. Human flesh becomes
skin bullets. Charles had those injuries. His son was now part of him. In each tiny hole that peppered his
torso, his son remained, and as he healed, his body pushed out the flesh of his son.
His fingertip cuddled another swell near his ribs. His soul winced at the realization that, like the bomb, his
healing body was also ticking, and his time with his son would soon be gone again. His pain was reborn in
each new cell of his own skin. Which circle of Dante’s hell was this?
Charles looked up from the bathroom floor, adjusting his perception to the reality that his ass had left the
tub and now found the rug. His left kneecap was a mountaintop at eye level; his right foot was angled
against the toilet base. His scrotum withdrew from a draft. The ridges in his hands were stiffening as the
blood air dried. He flexed and heard the hollow thunks like a stereo down the hall.
On the opposing side of the bathroom door, the wife yelled for Charles. She flat handed the center square
until her palm ached. Charles didn’t respond. This time he’s really done it. She struggled with what may
be on the other side. Her panic was an animal in the road, darting left then right – was she going to save
her husband or merely discover him?
Charles heard the wife shovel another load of her weight at the bathroom door. The lock rattled in its
holster. He leaned left, extended, and flipped the dial. The door shot open.
Like the first cold rain drop that finds its way into a collar, the wife bristled. Where Charles was rounded
loops, she was sharp corners. She surveyed the scene in an instant. The blood in the tub, on Charles’s
chest, his stomach, his stained penis tip, his hands, smeared on his face, browned fingerprints clawed at
his temples, the reddened tool in the sink meant for hygiene bastardized as weaponry.
“Charles?” She asked. She knew it would take 20 of these before his eyes started to clear. “Charles?” The
mantra was level and diplomatic.
“I’m losing him. He’ll be completely gone. He’s a scar.” His words weren’t anguished. He didn’t cry. No
sobs. His face blank. His breath deep. His stare was returned in the polished finish of cabinet hardware.
The wife did as the doctors had advised. Firmness. Reason. Hope. She would usually come in close to
speak, but this was getting worse. He was going too far. “Charles, we can keep trying. We can adopt.”
She widened her stance to a more firm foundation. She kept her eyes locked on him as she fished the
clippers from the sink. “You’ve cut yourself again, Charles. No one else did this. There was no bomb, no
explosion. No son. We don’t have a son. We never had a son.”
He looked up at the wife. “I know.” Carlos didn’t look in her direction as his bloodied hand shot out and
snatched her ankle.
