Air travel turns normally sane people into animals. They block the small walkway outside the gate and won’t let the American Airlines staff move wheelchairs to the jet bridge. They elbow one another. From my view, perched on a barstool only five feet from them, they look afraid, as if the flight were being piloted by kidnappers, and yet eager to get it over with.

  I’m hungry.

  Dad has half a drink left.

  The Dairy Queen down the concourse has hot dogs and we both know it. Only Dad has the money, and I have the stomach that never stops sending signals to my brain.

  “Go get one,” he says, and hands me ten American dollars.

  We do this every time.

  I look back and he’s giving his card to the woman at the bar as she joins the animals in the great battle to board flight 860. He always gives them cards, even if they’re uninteresting.

  Business.

  By the time I’m back with my two hot dogs, there are ten people left at the gate. Dad’s just walking out of the bathroom and checking whether his fly is up. He runs his hand over his bald head, adjusts his sunglasses, and puts his hat on.

  “Let’s do this thing,” he says.

  He pulls out two pieces of paper and our passports from his leather man-purse, and the gate worker scans them and smiles at me.

  “All set, guys.” She hands the passports back to Dad and lowers her eyes at me. I walk behind him as we go down the jet bridge and he’s not stumbling today at least. Sometimes he stumbles. It’s not a big deal.

  These are my father’s last six months on planet Earth.

  He can stumble all he wants to.

  He can “do business” all he wants to.

  Nobody knows what he’s really doing this for—but I think I’m slowly beginning to figure it out.

  He wants to find out the point of all of it.

  He’s trying to comprehend the meaning of life.

  He’s trying to finish the puzzle before it finishes him.

  * * *

  We end up in first class again.

  No one in first class can figure out why the bald beach bum and his scruffy kid are in first class alongside them. Same every time. They think there are rules to first class. I hear Dad talking already to his seatmate—this time a guy from a suburb outside Philadelphia who likely has never smoked a joint in his life. My seatmate ignores me because I am a fifteen-year-old beach bum. They either think I’m so rich I can afford to look this ragged, or they think I’m some first-class anomaly, like a rotten cashew, a crying baby, or a lack of champagne. Never would they guess what I’m really doing on this plane two times per month.

  I hear Dad say, “Oh no! You got rain every single day? Where were you staying?” This morning he had a two-hour-long conversation with Bradford, our friend and driver, about the obvious link between slavery, poverty, and mass incarceration. My dad is not a shallow conversation kind of guy, but he can talk about weather from wheels up to wheels down if he has to.

  Judging from our last fifteen flights, I can tell you that poverty is not a popular conversation choice in first class. Or any class. In any plane. Going anywhere. Which is really handy for the people on the plane, I guess.

  * * *

  First class is a bummer on the afternoon flight. No warm meal, just snacks in a basket. I’m always annoyed by the basket—like, they pack that for the sake of what? The ten or twelve first-class passengers who would be offended being served out of a bag? We need baskets now in airplanes? This isn’t my dad thinking; it’s me. I can’t help that I’m like him. I’m trying to be more like him the longer time goes on. So maybe once he’s gone, there will be one white, scruffy guy on the island left to talk to Bradford about real shit.

  I go to the bathroom and look at my tongue. It’s still black. As I walk by Dad on my way to my seat, I smile and he smiles back. I stick my tongue out and he mimics me and his tongue is still black, too.

  We’ve had a long weekend.

  And we already have tickets for the next trip. In between, we will wear sweatshirts and winter coats and fit in as well as we can in Pennsylvania but really our souls are still on Negril’s seven-mile white sand beach. Dad won’t be in the hospital getting treatments, he’ll be on a sun lounger curled up sleeping, a Jamaican beach dog lying by his side. I won’t be in class learning algebra for the third time, I’ll be with Eleanor, weaving bracelets, talking politics, and trying not to look too long at her ankles.

  Malcolm Ate Bad Shrimp

  My tongue is black because Pepto-Bismol couldn’t keep the bad shrimp down. It’s the risk of the pink stuff. If it works, great; if it doesn’t, the bismuth and the sulfur in stomach acid play chemistry class in your mouth. Probably the esophagus, too. I can only see my tongue, though.

  I don’t even know why Dad took it. He has special anti-nausea pills because he pukes a lot from the treatments. I think he was trying to make me feel better. Drank it right out of the bottle after I’d measured mine into the little cup.

  Food poisoning was surprisingly freeing. The primal way in which my body purged the shrimp from itself was like a peyote trip. I’ve never had a peyote trip, but going on what Dad says about it, I’d say food poisoning compares. It was two nights ago and all my muscles are sore—the ones around my rib cage—my puking muscles. I sneezed today and it was agonizing.

  But there was something about the way the vomit came—the way it pushed itself out of me before I knew it was coming—that made me feel free. Like Dad, I have no control over my body. Somehow, kneeling in front of the toilet, Dad’s hand on my forehead so I wouldn’t slam it on the toilet seat as I heaved, made me see that he can’t do anything about dying. None of us can.

  I wasn’t angry with him before then. I was angry at death and cancer and doctors. I haven’t been angry at him during treatment. I was angry with bills and insurance companies and pharmaceutical companies and how nobody really cares that Dad has cancer. That Dad is a man. That Dad is my father. That Dad has a son. Nobody cares. I was angry at all that, but I wasn’t angry at him. Or maybe I was. Either way, puking my guts out in the middle of the night changed me. I woke up feeling wiser. I had black tea for breakfast instead of Jamaican coffee. I had plain toast instead of saltfish. Dad talked to the owner about our next stay, and I surfed the Internet on my phone to find out who invented the flush toilet.

  Food poisoning makes you really think about some stuff.

  It turns out flush toilets were invented over time. There’s evidence that the concept of a toilet was around in the Stone Age, which I can’t even wrap my head around, but the flush toilet, as we know it, started about four hundred years ago. Some dude named Harington—Queen Elizabeth’s godson—invented the basic idea in the late 1500s. In 1775, a guy named Cumming invented the S bend so the sewer smell would stay in the sewer, which is handy as hell. Then, a guy named Crapper invented the ballcock, which is, without any doubt, the funniest word in the English language. Ballcock. Say it ten times. Hilarious.

  That was in the late 1800s.

  Frankly, I think they could have fast-tracked the whole thing. How did it take from 1590-something to 1890-something to improve on one of the best inventions ever? Three hundred years? That’s way too long. What were they busy doing in that time? A few wars? Some genocide? Burning witches? None of that was worth ignoring the flush toilet.

  Anyway. Food poisoning makes you appreciate things more. I recommend it to anyone who thinks their life is shitty. Believe me, when that fire hose of diarrhea starts, you will realize that up until that moment, your life was fine. Also, you will appreciate the flush toilet even more than you did twenty minutes before when you were puking your guts out.

  I’m not trying to minimize your problems. Maybe you have big ones. Maybe you can’t let go of some stuff. Maybe you have an uncontrollable body like Dad does. Maybe you don’t care about the flush toilet. Maybe you had something really bad happen to you already. I’m just saying that in the here and now, food poisoning can help you prioritize things pretty quick.

  I made some decisions.

  This time when I get home I’m not going to stay with my grandparents. I’m staying with Dad.

  This time, I’m going to tell him the truth about me. About Malcolm. When he dies, I’m getting out of Pennsylvania and going back to Eleanor and I’m staying on the island with her forever. He says he has my college tuition arranged in his will. He says, “It’s all in the will, son.”

  He can write whatever he wants into his will. It’s his will, not mine.

  * * *

  The driver is waiting for us at baggage claim. Dad walked with his new weather-obsessed buddy from the plane and handed him a card before he went into the men’s room. He’s still wearing sunglasses and it’s dark outside. I wait at the bottom of the escalator and watch the driver wait for us. He looks up the escalator trying to figure out who he’s looking for. He has an iPad open, facing out, with our last name on it. I’m standing ten feet from him and never in his life would he think I’m the one he’s looking for.

  Dad comes out of the men’s room and is still wiping his wet hands on his pants. He flags the driver and then we all walk out into the chilly Philadelphian night. By the time we’re on the road, Dad rips off a bite-sized chunk from his business card, eats it, then cranks his seat back and falls asleep. I have the back seat to myself and I feel like lying down but I don’t. Instead I watch the suburbs go by and then I close my eyes and listen to the rhythmic cracks in the turnpike.

  Dad has to wake me up when we get home.

  The apartment smells like cheese.

  Dad turns the heat up to sixty-five and puts on dub reggae and starts making a grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I say I’d like one, too. He says, “Marla will be here any minute to get you.”

  “I’m staying here,” I say.

  “Don’t piss off your grandmother. Trust me.”

  “That’s not the point,” I say. “I want to go to treatments with you this week. I want to hang out.”

  He waves the idea off with his hand. “Nothing to see. Nothing to do. I can’t have you hanging around while I’m being all sick and shit. Depressing. Plus, Marla loves you and she makes great pierogies and real food.”

  “I can make my own pierogies.”

  “Not like Marla’s.”

  This is true. Marla does make the best pierogies you ever tasted. But mine are getting better.

  “After the weekend you just had, I’d avoid eating anything exotic,” he says.

  “She’s crazy with the food thing.”

  “Just steer clear of anything hard to digest until Wednesday. Tell her we caught a bug or something. Do not mention the V word.”

  “I know.”

  “She’ll make you bathe in Lysol,” he says. “Or spray you with furniture polish or something.”

  “I know.”

  He hands me a foil packet with pills sealed into it. “Take one of these if you feel like barfing. Should keep things down. Otherwise, head for the woods.”

  Jake & Bill communicate via brain waves

  Jake Marks sits in the in-school suspension room staring at a book. It’s a stupid book. It’s a history book. It’s a math book. It’s a science book. Books are for pussies. Jake knows that because his brother, Bill, has explained it many times. Even when Jake was little, Bill said his picture book about underpants was stupid. That book made him laugh and he always tried to count the underpants, but Bill wouldn’t do it with him so he stopped.

  Bill’s at work, baking pies. He’s not some expert baker or anything. It’s a factory bakery. All Bill does is put the pies into the long conveyor-belt oven. Some other guy takes them out. Another guy puts them in their packaging once they cool. Another guy loads them onto a forklift. Another guy loads them into a truck. Pies-in-transit. Bill thinks of Jake in the in-school suspension room. He’s proud of his brother for being cooler than he was when he was in school. Bill Marks didn’t get laid for real until after he graduated. He doesn’t tell Jake that, though. He has a reputation he invented and he can’t stray. Boxed in. Like the factory pies.

  Jake thinks of his brother, Bill, at work. He can’t wait to have a job. Get a car. Be free of this place. He sends Bill a mental message. Let’s get drunk again tonight.

  Bill, on his lunch break, drives to the liquor store and buys a bottle of Southern Comfort on sale. Thinks of Jake. The kid has a lot going on. This’ll help him forget.

  Malcolm Isn’t Supposed To

  Marla is an hour late and Dad can’t stand it. It’s like he has something to do, but he can’t do it while I’m here. I don’t know what that could be. I’ve seen him smoke giant ganja spliffs on the beach and veg out on pot brownies. I’ve seen him hit on women. I’ve seen him with his girlfriends over the years, and I saw his girlfriend Ruth in the shower once by accident.

  “Her phone is going straight to that stupid answering machine,” Dad says. “I’m not leaving a message. She should know by now how this train works.”

  “Okay,” I say. Dad checks the time on his phone three times inside of a minute. He still hasn’t taken off his sunglasses.

  “I’m hungry,” I say.

  “She should be here by now.”

  “Can I have a snack?”

  “I have a friend coming over,” he says.

  “Ah,” I say.

  “You can’t be here.”

  “I can take a walk or something. The gas station has free Wi-Fi.”

  “She should be here by now.”

  “You said that.”

  “It’s not like she has anything to do. She just watches TV all day.”

  That’s not true. Marla does a lot every day. Mostly she cleans and tells Gottfried what to do. She makes a lot of food and stores it in the freezer. She volunteers at the animal rescue, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like animals. She’s never rescued one, anyway.

  The door buzzer sounds. Dad tells me to go to my room.

  I hear mumbling. The visitor is a man. His laugh is real and I don’t recognize his voice at all. Most of Dad’s friends don’t live around here. Or if they do, they’re the ones who can’t handle that he’s dying so they’ve distanced themselves. That’s how it works. Have no problems? Plenty of friends. Have problems? Friends suddenly have a lot to do. I’ve been planning what to say to them at the memorial service. I have a list of Dad’s bad friends. But this guy seems like a good friend, and since I haven’t met him yet, I think I should.

  I’m telling you. Food poisoning dropped my balls for real.

  I make sure Dad can hear me coming out of my room. Just so I don’t piss him off, I say, “I’m grabbing some crackers and cheese from the kitchen. I’ll be out of here in seconds.”

  “I tossed the grapes,” Dad says. “Mold.”

  What a messed-up duality I live. Three days a week I’m eating food that requires me to pick bones out of my mouth. Chicken bones, goat bones, ox bones. But here I get cheese and crackers as if my American life is one giant art exhibit.

  “Hi,” I say to the stranger. He’s wearing blue-green hospital scrubs with hippie sandals even though it’s winter.

  “Hey, Malcolm. Nice to see you!”

  I have no memory of ever meeting him before.

  “You probably don’t remember John,” Dad says. “He’s a friend of mine from high school.”

  “Voted most likely to cure cancer,” John says.

  None of us laugh. Dad tells me to go back to my room.

  Look. Dad doesn’t need a pot dealer because he has a stash the size of Utah. John is clearly here to do business with Dad with a line like that, but Dad does business in front of me all the time. It’s not like he’s a druggie. He’s helping people.

  I think maybe Dad and John are more than friends. Dad’s been known to do that. Back in art school he had a boyfriend and one time in grad school, he told his brother, Matt, he was bi. Matt didn’t talk to him after that, and then my mom came along. They had me. And then Mom died. And now this guy, John, is in my living room and I really don’t care why, but I’m not supposed to wonder.

  That’s how it’s supposed to be. Dad’s supposed to have a life and I’m supposed to not notice. He’s supposed to have cancer and I’m supposed to not watch.

  * * *

  When Marla rings the doorbell, it’s louder than when anyone else does.

  Dad and John are watching Monday Night Football, even though Dad hates football. They’re totally waiting for me to leave and I’m happy that maybe Dad is getting some love right now. These are trying times, the worst of times, and everyone needs love.

  I throw some winter clothes into my backpack and grab my school bag. I look around my room like it might be the last time I’ll ever see it. I don’t know why, but that’s how I look at it every time I leave.

  I don’t say it because I’m not supposed to.

  I’m fifteen.

  I have to take this like a man.

  I stop in the bathroom for my bathroom bag. I look at the toilet and think of all the people who’ve gone before me who marveled at its construction. I stick my tongue out in the mirror and it’s still black.

  Malcolm Doesn’t Eat Lamb

  Marla talks the whole way to her house. About random bullshit.

  Like her car. She acts like I haven’t seen it before, but I’ve ridden in it a bunch of times since she bought it in January. “Your grandfather said I shouldn’t splash out but I’m old. Why not splash out now?”