Good Things Fall Apart

Heretical

Victor taps his foot, beating a staccato rhythm into the ugly, outdated carpet of the waiting room. His mother sits to his left, clutching her purse; his father is to his right, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Of course, nobody feels that more deeply than Victor himself. The past forty-eight hours have been spent in a state of mild suppressed panic; he's been jumpy, irritable, quiet. He hasn't slept very much, either.

For one thing, he'd managed to completely blow off Benji twice in one day. It's beyond frustrating, because that's not who Victor is. Victor shows up. Victor doesn't let things fall through—even little things like FaceTiming while doing homework. And that's another thing. School has never been a topic about which Victor is particularly motivated, but his mind has been so far from Algebra II or The Merchant of Venice.

He'd apologized to Benji profusely the next day, but for the most part, Benji avoided him in the hallways at school today. Because Victor needed something else to worry about. And yes, it's his own fault, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear.

If Benji only knew what I'm going through, he thinks. But he could. Victor could do something completely outlandish and communicate openly with him, the thing he'd already promised to do while sitting in Benji's car outside Brasstown.

A man comes out into the small room from the hallway that leads down into a few offices. He's tall with an oddly shaped body: thin legs and neck, face like a rat, pale skin with beady eyes, but with a robust midsection. Victor recalls a morbid fact about drowning, that gases build up in your abdomen if your body is in water for too long. This man has a vaguely drowned look about him.

"Are you the Salazars?" he asks.

Victor's mother stands, still clinging to her purse. "That's us," she says with a forced smile, voice breathy and high.

"Perfect. So. We took a look at your paperwork and Eileen and myself decided it would be more lucrative to have Victor work with me instead of her. I hope that's all right with you."

Victor has a staring contest with the carpet, lets his eyes swirl around the ugly purple curlicues, transplanted from a bowling alley in the 90's.

"Oh!" his mother says, still faking pleasant. "Armando?" she asks, turning.

"I can't see why it would make a difference," he says, indifferent,

"Victor?"

"Yeah. Sure. Fine."

The man smiles. Victor very much does not smile back.

"Excellent! My name is Doctor Russo, but I prefer Evan. The three of you can come on back now."

"All of us?" Victor's mother asks.

Drowned-doctor smiles patiently halfway through a turn back towards his office. "About halfway through I'll ask you and your husband to step out," he says. His eyebrow twitches; both of Victor's parents have had some kind of facial reaction to the word 'husband.'

"All right, let's do this," his mother says. "Victor?"

It feels like a daunting task to stand and follow this man back through the hallway, but Victor knows failure to comply will only cause a scene.

His first thought: This office is fucking ugly.

There's a desk toward the corner: old, chipped wood with faux gold decals, some of which have gone a bit green. The walls are painted an unwelcome shade of beige, and the furniture all matches, a set of olive green couches and chairs that have seen better days.