Fallout (13 page)

AUNT CORA

Doesn’t seem to notice

the scent of change in the air.

She sings as she busies herself

in the kitchen, making breakfast.

Usually we all just settle for cereal,

but today I smell a hot griddle.

Pancakes? Something is definitely

going on. The domestic goddess

thing so isn’t her. “Morning.”

Her back is to me, and she jumps

a little before turning, red-faced.

You scared me half to death!

But she’s laughing, and I can’t

help but laugh too. “Kind of

an overstatement, don’t you think?

And what’s up with the pancakes?

Going Rachael Ray on us, or what?”

I watch her ladle thick, lumpy batter.

Rachael Ray? Ha-ha. Don’t think

so. Still, it never hurts to brush

up on your culinary skills, does it?

She flips a hotcake like a pro.

The weird thing is, I can only

remember her ever making them

maybe two or three times in

the past. “So what’s
really
going

on with you? Something to do

with all the late nights out the past

few weeks?” She’s been gone a lot

lately, and I’m pretty sure there’s more

to it than her working part-time at

Olé Tex-Mex and going to school

three days a week to learn massage

therapy.
Better late than never
,

she told Grandfather and me when

she embarked on her new career path.

I don’t want to wait tables forever.

What she didn’t say was she doesn’t

want to stay single forever either.

SHE DOESN’T SAY THAT NOW

But she does say,
Well, you never

know. I just might want to make

pancakes for someone special

someday. Uh … not that you’re

not special. I mean …
If her face

was red before, it’s pickled

beet purple now. The look

on my own face must communicate

something loud and clear, because

her shoulders slump slightly.
Okay
,

might as well confess. I met this

guy. He’s my teacher, actually
,

and he is incredible.
She spits

out a list of attributes:
tall
,

gorgeous, smart, professional.

Then, a major ding:
divorced.

Divorced? Like with alimony

and child support? How old

is the guy, anyway? Might as

well ask. “How old is he, anyway?”

I expect her to say forty-five,

maybe even fifty. So it comes

as a major surprise when she

answers,
Thirty-one. I know it’s

kind of weird to think about

going out with someone

who’s younger. But stranger

things happen every day, right?

She said
think about going

out with …
So … “Does

that mean you aren’t going

out with him yet, or what?”

Not sure why the idea of her

dating this guy bothers me so

much. He’s not like her first

or anything. But something seems

different.
No … yes … uh …

Not like real dates. No movies

or dancing or anything. Just

coffee and stuff. But I hope …

SHE PAUSES

At the
thump … th-thump

of Grandfather lumbering

like an old bear up the hall.

His question precedes him

through the doorway.
What is that

I’m smelling? A hot breakfast?

Aunt Cora puts a finger to her lips,

but it is the uneasiness in her eyes

that swears me to secrecy.

Yep
, she says.
I must have dreamed

about pancakes, because I woke

up half-desperate for them.

Thump … th-thump … thump.

Slower than usual. He must

have had a toss-n-turn night.

Pull up a chair
, instructs Aunt

Cora.
They’re just about ready.

Apple butter or maple syrup?

The only answer is both. I watch

Grandfather ease into a chair.

Aunt Cora sets a heaping plate

in front him. He inhales buttery

steam, takes a big bite.
Hope you

dream about breakfast more often.

He gives her a funny look, one

I can only interpret as sensing

something different about her.

She’s not about to fill him in.

If we had pancakes too often, you

wouldn’t appreciate them so much.

Grandfather downs a short stack,

then he says to me,
I have to run

an errand. Want a ride to school?

Unusual. He hardly ever

goes anywhere. But what

else can I say? “Uh, sure.”

THE FIFTEEN-MINUTE RIDE

Seems to take an hour. Unlike Aunt Cora,

Grandfather is definitely fishing the same

tide of anxiety I find myself trolling.

He is taut as a tug-of-war rope. Impossible

to slacken, despite the fact that lately he’s been

downing bourbon instead of beer, along

with bigger and bigger doses of meds. He falls

asleep in his chair every night around eight.

Even now, with coffee rather than booze

chasing his mood fixers, his voice is muddy

when he finally cracks the wall of silence.

Your father is getting out next week.

Just the way he says it—all quivery

and ice-cold—sends shivers through me.

“I thought it might be soon. I heard

you on the phone the other day.”

He says he wants to see you. How

do you feel about that?
He turns

a corner and the school pops into

view. Trey wants to see me? What for?

And how do I feel about seeing

him after eight years in prison,

eight more years of him being nothing

to me but sporadic collect calls?

“I don’t know,” I tell Grandfather

as he turns into the passenger drop-

off zone, pulls over against the curb.

“I’ll have to think about it.” I get out

of the car. What I said was a lie. I know

exactly how I think about it. I hate Trey

for leaving me. Wish I could love him,

but don’t have a clear idea how.

Do I want to see him? Part of me does.

The other part thinks he ought to take

a flying leap off a very short pier. Maybe

“I don’t know” wasn’t a lie after all.