Rumble (8 page)

her sleeve lifting to expose a freckled arm

and nicotene-tattooed fingers. Her forehead

creases, the skin beneath her chin slackens.

She looks old. I think she was born that way.

I Trudge to My Room

In no mood anymore to play, alone or

otherwise. My cell is on my bed where,

apparently, I left it. Wow. I never even

missed it, which seems to have pissed off

the love of my life:
WHERE THE HECK R U,

AND WHY WON’T U ANSWER UR PHONE?

Sheesh. (Heck!) If I didn’t know better,

I’d think she was jealous or something.

I flash back to less than a half hour ago,

smell the perfume of orange over leather,

feel the dance of Alexa’s fingers against

my hand. I did nothing. Except, maybe, lust

a little. But lust without follow-through

doesn’t count as infidelity, right? Too late

to call her now, I text back:
SORRY. FORGOT

MY PHONE. BUT SEE? HOME EARLY. MISSING

YOU.
There. That should do it, and if not,

tomorrow could be either very interesting

or a boatload of boredom. At least I won’t

be hungover, though the way my shirt

smells, I could probably get that way just

sucking the spilt beer off it. I strip, slip

into flannel pants and a well-worn T-shirt,

tiptoe down the hall to the laundry

room, and throw my stuff in the washer.

On the way back, I grab a blanket from

the stash above the dryer, cover Mom

to warm her dreams. Turn off the TV.

Hopefully Dad will let her snooze

right there until morning. Depending

on his mood—good drunk, or evil—

he might. If she’s really lucky, he’ll

be blasted enough to not even notice

she’s missing from their bed. I flop

on my own mattress, roll up in the down

comforter, try to shake the moist chill.

The face of my cell tells me I’ve received

a new message.
1 A.M. ISN’T EARLY.
Guess

that answers that question. Next door

in Luke’s room, I hear a train whistle.

“It’s only one now,” I whisper to no

one. It’s not like Hayden is listening.

It Would Be Nice

To sleep in just one freaking Saturday

morning. But, no. It’s barely eight o’clock

when I startle awake, words crashing

over me, and into me, like a landslide.

Where were you?

Why would you care?

You could have called.

You’re not my fucking mother.

Don’t talk to me like that!

You barely qualify as my wife!

Remind me not to get married in my

lifetime! What is it about marriage

that makes people start to hate each other?

Then again, sometimes I wonder if what

initially attracted those two to each other

wasn’t, in fact, hate. Is it love that makes

sex good, or would any emotion, equally

weighted, create the same kind of passion?

That’s Assuming

Their sex was passionate,

and why would that thought

even cross my mind? Beyond

the thin drywall membranes

enclosing my room, doors

slam. One. Two. They’ve gone

to their separate corners

for now, but it’s only Saturday,

Day One of the Martin Luther

King Weekend standoff. I lie

very still, listening to myself

draw breath, trying to remember

a holiday when this miserable

excuse for a family actually

had fun. Way back when Luke

was little—maybe not quite

three—we drove to the coast

for Fourth of July and camped

on the beach, just the quartet

of us. Mom and Dad set up tents

and a big canopy, and beneath

it, a fold-out picnic table.

The place wasn’t real crowded.

Most everyone wanted to watch

the big fireworks displays,

so they stayed close to city

“hullabaloo,” as my kindergarten

teacher used to call such chaos.

I would have been just past

old Mrs. Mueller’s class then,

and now twelve years dissolve,

just like that. Funny how your mind

works, but I can see that day

as if peering through a reverse

time telescope. I taste the tang

of the salt mist, feel the breeze

lift a forest of goose bumps

off the wet skin of my stick-

thin arms and legs, right up

through the sand crusting them.

But What I Remember Most

Is the music of Luke’s little kid giggles

and Mom’s lilting gossip while Dad

chopped wood for the campfire.

I’ve rarely felt as complete as I did

that day, eating half-cooked hot dogs

and digging for sand crabs and dodging

surf, showing off to my brother what it meant

to be a boy at the beach on the Fourth of July.

Mom sneaked off a time or two to smoke;

Dad quietly sucked down beer, pretending

not to notice. Mom was drinking lemonade

from a big cooler, only when I accidentally

sipped from her cup, it tasted sharper than

mine. I knew what that meant by then.

As the afternoon wore on, Luke and I grew

tired from sand-castle building, but not nearly

as drowsy as Mom and Dad. Once or twice,

I caught them kissing, and that was rare indeed.

At six, I didn’t think much about them being

in love, so it surprised my naive eyes that they

sure looked to be that way. I will never forget

the flush of raw happiness that brought me.

Once It Got Dark

Dad went to the car, returned

with a surprise—a small footlocker

filled with fireworks. We had to wait

for the wind to die down, and I could

see Dad grow antsier as time passed.

Finally, he decided,
I think it’s safe

now, boys. Let me get the lighter.

Mom handed him the butane stick,

cautioned us to take the fire danger

closer to the wet sand at the water’s edge.

Luke and I watched Dad set up a row

of spinners and cones and funnels

in front of some big, gnarled driftwood,

to block any breeze off the water.

Here we go. Ready? Stand back.

Crackle! Whistle! Whoosh!
Okay, compared

to giant sky explosions, it was a small

display, but Luke grabbed my hand, took

one step behind me, peeked out from

around my back, not even pretending

bravery. Then Dad handed each of us

a sparkler, showed us how to hold them

at the very bottom of the sticks.

Careful. These babies are hot, hot, hot!

Hot, hot, hot,
repeated Luke, and then

Dad lit the end, igniting the sizzle spray.

“Wave it, like this!” I demonstrated,

but Luke held his sparkler straight up

and down, right up until one of those

tiny white embers lodged itself in a pore

on his arm. He threw the offending stick

into the sand.
Ow! Ow! Stupid hot.

Then he held up his arm to show the blister.

Dad blew.
Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!

How can my son be such a pussy?

His temples pulsed anger noticeably.

“Hey, Dad. He’s just a little kid, okay?”

Defending my brother, that was my job,

even way back then. Dad, of course, was two

sheets to the wind. I see clearly in hindsight

what I was blind to then. In retrospect,

the next part isn’t really such a shocker.

It Sure Freaked Us Out Then

There were more fireworks

inside that footlocker—

bottle rockets

Roman candles

firecrackers

a couple of M-80s.

All illegal in the state of

Oregon, which outlaws

personal possession of

fireworks that—

fly

explode

travel more than six feet on the ground

or twelve inches in the air.

And boy, they did every

bit of all that! Dad lit them

methodically, laughing

like a lunatic as they—

flew

exploded

shot into the air, with a great

whoosh of fuel before blowing wide.

Dad’s lame attempt

at Fourth of July family fun.

No One Laughed

Except for Dad, and that was totally

swallowed up by the chaos of noise.

Down the beach, people

shouted, a chorus of
Hey!

What the hell was that?

That’s illegal, isn’t it?

Someone call the ranger!

(And someone did.)

Luke screamed

and scrambled toward

the tent, tripping over

his feet and crying even

louder because of that.

Mom came running,

yelling at Dad to
Grow a brain!

Though it was obviously much

too late, and the one he made

do with was stewing in alcohol.

I plugged my ears, but

couldn’t block out the tornado

of sounds, which were scarier,

somehow, than the bottle rockets.

So Much

For sweet family memories.

The rest of that one devolves

into a cacophonous blur of arguments

and explanations and Dad talking

his way out of going to jail,

I thought those were only taboo

in residential areas. So sorry . . .

but only because the park ranger

happened to have witnessed Dad’s

outstanding play for the Oregon

Ducks once upon a time,

Holy Pete! I’ll never forget that

game against Purdue, when you . . .

while Mom kept shushing Luke,

whose sniffling began to wear on

my nerves. I had to agree with Dad.

Luke was a wuss, even if he was just

a baby, and Mom kept him that way.

Quiet now, little man. Everything’s

okay. No more booms. I promise.

All I wanted was for everyone to

shut up so I could listen to the low chuff

of surf and the chatter of wind against

the nylon tent. I remember muttering

into my sleeping bag, “Camping’s

supposed to be good times. Not like

it is at home. Why can’t we ever

just have fun?” But no one heard,

and no one answered. Pretty much

the story of my life, at least where

my parents are concerned. Too caught

up in their personal tangles of pain,

disappointments, and tomorrows

made murky by yesterdays. I’m damn

sure never going to exist that way. No

sir, it’s all about living fearlessly today.

And to do that, I have to get out of bed.

All’s quiet on the western front, so I do

the bathroom thing, then head to the kitchen

where, I hope, the coffee is already made.

No Such Luck

Guess my parents decided to sleep

off their late nights, rather than fight

them with caffeine. At least the silence

indicates slumber somewhere. Two doors

slammed, though. Mom must have chosen

Luke’s bed. Dad never goes in that room.

Good thing I’m familiar with the Mr.

Coffee. I measure the grounds, add extra,

wanting the brew stiff. I fill the reservoir

with cold water, hit the on switch, and as

the machine starts a slow drip, happen

to glance over the kitchen counter into

the dining area, where my essay still

decorates the table. Most of it is stacked,

facedown. But one section remains right

side up, spread slightly, as if someone has

recently been reading (rereading?) it:

And what of this “Imago Dei,” this supposed human creation “in the image of God”? Theologians and philosophers differ in their interpretations, but basically, were one to believe in the scribblings of Genesis, everything started with God. An entity of some kind.
(Who knows his precise nature, or exactly what his origin was? The Bible isn’t real specific about infinity, pre-Genesis.) But God was powerful. No, invincible. The flawless source of all love and reason. Intellect defined.

I suppose it makes a certain sense, if you were all that, you’d want to play around with creation, if it was your preferred pastime, and to believe the scriptures, it was his. Not to mention, a talent. If I were to buy into the whole theory, I’d like to know if the Earth was his first try or if he’d had some practice. I mean, seven days from oblivion to Eden, fully functioning. Now that’s some serious handiwork!