Rumble (11 page)

and she puddles on the edge of my bed.

In a rare gesture, she strokes sweat-damp

strands of hair off my face, combs them

with tobacco-perfumed fingers.
I still dream

about him, too. But not like that, and I’m

sorry this is the way he comes to you.

He mostly visits me as a little boy, before . . .

She Leaves the Sentence Unfinished

Her unspoken words trail

like breeze-disturbed smoke,

pale and thin, toward the ceiling.

But I know what they are.

Before he knew.

Before we knew.

Before anyone knew.

I wish she wouldn’t talk.

Wish she’d remember that

even when things weren’t insane,

you couldn’t have called them good.

Before he grew up.

Before he grew aware.

Before he grew into himself.

All I want her to do is keep

weaving her fingers into my hair,

comforting me like good moms

do when their children hurt.

Clatter and Cursing

Shake me awake. I’m still lying on top

of my bedspread, covered by billows of

afghan. I remember last night. Mom’s hands.

Grief, tremoring in the thick mantle

of silence between us. I inhale regret,

listen to Dad crashing around in the kitchen,

punctuating every dropped pan or lid

with invective. Sunday morning and

the lift of silver light informs me noon

isn’t far away. Mom will be at church

while Dad fights his hangover with

beer, or maybe vodka. Hair of the dog,

or pelt of the wolf. No school tomorrow,

coupled with the cupboard chaos,

I’m guessing he’s chosen the latter.

How is it possible for a multiple-

championship-winning basketball

coach to be such a loser when it comes

to domestic responsibilities? How can

anyone so egotistical about his career

completely lack self-respect in regards

to his home and family? I could just

lie here, ignore his tirade. Instead, against

all that is sensible, I fold up the afghan,

straighten the covers, slip into flannel

pants and a clean T-shirt, go see

what, exactly, his current problem

might be. When I get to the kitchen,

he is bending over a raw egg spill,

semi-mopping it up with paper towels.

A tumbler of something tomatoey sits

on the counter. Bloody Mary pelt of

the wolf, I’m guessing. His attention

is so raptly focused on the goo that

he hasn’t noticed me yet. I could sneak

away. Instead, I offer, “Need some help?”

Which startles him and when he tries to

jump, the hand clutching the slippery

paper towels slides, lurching his whole

body forward toward the fridge.

Bam!

His forehead slams into the stainless

door. Then he windmills into reverse,

splatting backward on his ass.
Fuck!

You trying to kill me, you little prick?

“Nice parental vocab, Dad.” Not that he’s

ever been the warm, fuzzy type. I extend

my hand to help him up, but the gesture

goes unappreciated, and he finds his feet

all on his own. When he turns to face

me, I can’t help but wince at the knot

popping up, purple-black, just above

the bridge of his nose. “Ouch. Sorry.”

It would make sense for him to yell.

Instead, he chooses obnoxious laughter.

The Bloody Mary on the counter must

not be his first. Might as well play smart-

ass. It’s expected of me. “You’re supposed

to scramble eggs in a bowl, you know.”

I go to the cupboard for my favorite

Pyrex container. Dad downs his drink

and watches me expertly crack two eggs,

depositing them in the bowl without

so much as a sliver of shell. I beat them,

add a dash of half-and-half, seasoning salt,

and pepper. Then I melt a little butter

in a frying pan, pour the yellow mixture.

Look at that, would ya?
His voice

is sandpaper-textured.
When did you

learn how to cook?
Luckily my back

is turned so he can’t see my eyes roll.

“Really, Dad? I’ve been cooking

since I was a kid. God, wait for you

or Mom to do it, Luke and I would

have starved to death.” It was harsher

than I meant it, and he responds

in kind.
You just fattened him up for . . .

His Last Sentiment

Drops into the sizzle-pop of eggs.

I think about letting them burn,

but then the kitchen would smell

like butt, so I yank the pan off

the flame, push it onto the countertop,

which, fortunately, is granite.

“Enjoy.” That’s what comes out

of my mouth, but what I really mean

is, “Hope you choke on them.”

And as I start to leave, I mutter

an under-breath amen: “Dickhead.”

Apparently, it wasn’t qute far enough

under my breath because he’s quick

to cross the floor and grab my arm.

What did you say
? V8 and vodka

can’t quite conceal the smell of stale

sleep on his breath. His eyes move, side

to side, as if trying to focus, and I really

think he might be considering violence.

“Want to hit me, Dad? Go ahead, if

it makes you feel like more of a man.”

The remark is unwarranted. He hasn’t

touched me since I was around nine, and

even then his spankings didn’t hurt.

His Grip Loosens

But he doesn’t let go completely.

I know what he wants is an apology.

Whatever. No skin off my nose.

“I’m sorry I called you a dickhead,

Dad, but your insensitivity pisses

me off. You were shitty to Luke

when he was alive, and now you’re

worse, if that’s even possible. He’s dead.

Respect him for that, if nothing else.”

He flings his hand off my arm as if

it burns.
Respect? Goddamn pussy,

that’s what he was. Goddamn cow—

“Stop it! He was gay, okay?

That didn’t make him a pussy.

Stop calling him that, would you?”

He was a coward, and a waste

of talent. I can’t stand crap like that.

Not from any kid, but especially

not from one of mine.
He slugs

down his drink.
No goddamn

wonder those boys gave him hell.

“No! Don’t you dare defend them.

What is wrong with you? Luke

was your son, and pretty much all

he ever wanted was for you to be

proud of him. Yes, he had talent.

But he worked his butt off trying

to be the absolute best basketball

player to ever walk on this planet.

Not for attention. Not for fame.

Not even so he could have a friend

or two. He did it for you, Dad. And

you denied him.” All his tension

releases suddenly. He shoulders go slack

and, impossibly, his eyes water. I have

never seen my father cry. Never. Not even

at Luke’s funeral. He disintegrates now,

and I’m not sure which one of us is more

embarrassed about my witnessing the event.

I Have No Idea

How to react.

Hug him?

Slap him?

Break down

and cry with him?

How do you find sympathy

for someone who has never

once offered it to you,

especially when that someone

happens to be your parent,

a person whose arms

should always be open wide?

This is a moment

of weakness, nothing more,

and likely never to be repeated

in my presence. So why

does any part of me wish

it might be the door

to a whole new father-

son relationship?

It’s Over

Almost as soon as it began.

He turns his back, sucks down

his drink. Starts to make another.

Then he notices the frying pan.

Goddamn eggs are cold.

Time to retreat. “Mix ’em up

with mayonnaise and pickle relish

and slap ’em on bread. Egg salad

sandwich.” I leave him to consider

my suggestion, and as I start up

the hall, Mom comes in the front

door, all smiles, at least until

she notices the look on my face.

What’s wrong?

I shake my head. Nod once toward

the kitchen. “Dad and his eggs got

into it. Not pretty.” I lower my voice.

“He and Bloody Mary are melting down.”

So Much for Her Smile

She glances toward the kitchen,

wheels and heads for their room

instead. Personally, I’m escaping

this place before everything turns

to excrement stew—a simmering

pot of shit. It’s well after noon,

and Hayden should be finished

with church. But just in case,

I text her rather than call.
HEY

LADY. YOU READY FOR ME

TO PICK YOU UP?
She doesn’t

respond immediately, so I go

ahead and dress in my favorite

jeans and a dove-gray flannel shirt.

I’m in the middle of brushing

my teeth when her text finally

comes.
GOING BOWLING WITH

WITH MY YOUTH GROUP. PIZZA

AFTER. FINISHED AROUND FOUR.

I’LL CALL YOU WHEN WE’RE DONE.

This Time

It’s an emotional one-two punch

striking my solar plexus.

One: anger.

Two: jealousy.

One.

Two.

One.

Two.

Straight to the gut.

Powerful blows

in repetitive action.

How

could

she

do

this

to

me?

My resident little voice

of reason—the one who

always talks me down

from the reactive cliff—

seems to have

vacated my cranium.

Can’t Sit Around Here

Waiting for the figurative knockout

blow. The interior turbulence

is building, and if I don’t want

it to shake me apart, I’d better

find a way to release it.

Only one thing I know

can accomplish that.

It resides in a lockbox

beneath the seat of my truck.

Technically, I need

a concealed carry permit

to keep my Glock 34 there,

and I can’t get that until

I’m twenty-one, despite

having taken the course.

Pistol and instruction were gifts

from Dad, which led to a memorable

eighteenth birthday, both because

of the most unexpected presents

and the fight that instigated

between him and Mom.

It Started

The moment I opened the box.

Unloaded, unpolished, unpacked

from its wrappings, still the Glock

looked remarkably deadly.

Mom:
A gun? Are you insane?

He’s not mature enough for a gun.

Dad:
Plenty of kids his age have guns,

and he needs to excel at something.

Mom:
What are you talking about?

He’s at the very top of his class.

Dad:
Academically, yes, but he sucks

at sports. Team sports, anyway.

Mom:
What do sports have to do

with this? Shooting isn’t a sport.

Dad:
Don’t be an idiot. Haven’t

you ever heard of hunting?

The volume of their argument

increased as the tension escalated.

Mom:
You hunt with a rifle. This is

a handgun. Only serial killers

go hunting with handguns.

Dad:
Target shooting is a sport,

too. You can do that with a handgun.

Don’t you know anything?

Mom:
Why are you attacking me?

Do you really think this is a good

idea, all things considered?