Fallout

  her, tell her it’s all a huge mistake.

  But what I really want to say

  is, “Big effin’ deal. Divorce?

  At least they were together

  while you were growing up.

  At least you’ll get to see him

  almost as much as you do now.

  At least you know just who

  in the bloody hell your father is!”

  But that would take Nikki-Complete.

  What I hold here is Nikki-in-Tatters.

  So I take her hand, lead her

  into the kitchen, sit her at the table.

  “I brought a little something

  that will make you feel better.”

  I twist one up, half expecting her

  to say no. She only smokes weed

  on special occasions. Apparently

  this occasion qualifies, however.

  She takes a big drag, fights not

  to cough. Fails, and that makes

  the tears fall harder. He—hack—

  is such a prick. I ca-can’t—hack—

  believe he could just up and leave

  Mom. N-not—hack—f-f-for … her!

  “Who?” None of my business,

  of course. But, hey, she brought it up.

  His goddamn boss! You know,

  the bitch who owns the company?

  She’s old. Rich, yeah, but old …

  Her voice is tinged with hysteria.

  After almost twenty-five years,

  he leaves Mom for … for her?

  “Here.” I pass her the J. “Take

  another hit. A little one this time.”

  She doesn’t cough, but she does ask,

  You’d never cheat on me, would you?

  I BITE DOWN HARD

  On the impending lie.

  Fact is, I’ve already

  cheated on Nikki,

  though I’m not sure

  why. It was an awful

  mistake, and it only

  happened once, post-

  football-game beer

  binge. God, that girl—

  a Vegas Rebels fan,

  and so a rival meant

  to be jeered at, not laid—

  was a real piece of work.

  Anorexic as hell, but

  high-horsepower motor,

  revved to the max …

  Nikki stares at me,

  waiting for an answer.

  Say something quick,

  idiot. I reach across

  the table, take possession

  of her hand, look into

  the depths of her tear-

  glittered eyes. “You

  are my one and only.”

  AS THE WORDS

  Slide out of my mouth,

  I wish I could mean them.

  She is so beautiful, just there.

  A fairy seeking wings, and

  when she finds them, I know

  she’ll fly far, far away.

  Love is like that.

  Suddenly I want her more

  than anything. Like some

  conceit-driven Grimm

  Brothers king, I need to

  capture my sprite with

  trembling hands. Except

  I could crush her.

  Wonder how many small

  things of beauty—flowers,

  seashells, dragonflies—

  have met such a demise.

  Wonder how much fragile

  love has collapsed

  beneath the weight of confession.

  ENOUGH ALREADY

  One too many lit classes,

  I guess. A little too much poetry,

  dredged up at all the wrong times.

  Thanks so much for that, Mom.

  You’ve got a poet’s soul, she told

  me once. And an old soul at that.

  Whatever that means. I don’t feel

  so old, for the most part. I do like

  words, but this is not the time

  for them, nor is it the time for

  confessions. There is invitation

  in Nikki’s eyes. It’s time for that.

  THE WOOD

  In her room is cherry—deep

  reddish brown. Elegant.

  The sheets on her bed are black

  satin. Slick beneath desire-

  dampened skin. Her hair is like

  a sunburst against the onyx-

  colored pillowcase. Its perfume

  spices the air with ginger

  and some exotic bloom.

  The scent fuels my hunger

  for her body. I want to own

  it, merge with it, become part

  of her. Hurry, she urges. But

  the tease is almost the best

  part of the game, so I bring her

  close and closer with my hands

  and mouth and finally I am inside

  her. I can’t get enough, so we go

  and go until the only thing left

  is to finish. And still I want more.

  Autumn Rose Shepherd

  SOMETIMES I SEE FACES

  Somehow familiar,

  but I don’t know why.

  I cannot label them,

  no matter how intently

  I try. They are nameless.

  And yet not strangers.

  Like Alamo ghosts, they

  emerge from deep

  of night, materialize

  from darkness, deny

  my sleep. I would call them

  dreams. But that’s too easy.

  I SUSPECT

  One of those faces belongs

  to my mother. It is young, not

  much older than mine, but weary,

  with cheeks like stark coastal

  cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed

  with drifts of mink-colored hair.

  I don’t look very much like her.

  My hair curls, auburn, around

  a full, heart-shaped face, and

  my eyes are brown. Or, to be

  more creative, burnt umber. Nothing

  like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken

  about her identity. Is she my mother?

  Is she the one who christened me

  Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty

  name. Wish I could live up to it.

  AUNT CORA INSISTS

  I am pretty. But Aunt Cora

  is a one-woman cheering section.

  Thank goodness the grandstands

  aren’t completely empty.

  I’m kind of a lone wolf, except

  for Cherie, and she’s what you

  might call a part-time friend.

  We hang out sometimes, but

  only if she’s got nothing better

  going on. Meaning no ballet recitals

  or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day

  to distract her from those.

  But Aunt Cora is always there,

  someone I can count on, through

  chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.

  Old Texas talk for “thick or thin.”

  GENERALLY

  Things feel

  about the consistency

  of milky oatmeal.

  With honey.

  Raisins.

  Nuts.

  Most days,

  I wake up relatively

  happy. Eat breakfast.

  Go to school.

  Come home.

  Dinner.

  Homework.

  Bed.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  But sometimes,

  for no reason beyond

  a loud noise or leather

  cleaner smell, I am afraid.

  It’s like yanking myself

  from a nightmare only,

  even wide awake,

  I can’t unstick myself

  from the fear of the dream.

  I don’t want to

  leave my room.

  CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT
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  Of people staring, I’m sure

  they will. Sure they’ll know.

  Sure they’ll think I’m crazy.

  The only person I can talk to

  is Aunt Cora. I can go to her

  all freaked out. Can scream,

  “What’s the matter with me?”

  And she’ll open her arms, let me

  cry and rant, and never once

  has she called me crazy. One

  time she said, Things happened

  when you were little. Things you

  don’t remember now, and don’t want

  to. But they need to escape,

  need to worm their way out

  of that dark place in your brain

  where you keep them stashed.

  THAT FELT RIGHT

  And now, when that

  unexplained dread

  boxes me in, I take

  deep breaths, try to

  free those bad things,

  whatever they are. It

  doesn’t always work.

  But sometimes it does.

  And always, always,

  I thank Aunt Cora for

  giving me some smidgen

  of understanding about

  who I am and what

  surprises life might

  have in store for me.

  I swear, without her

  I probably would

  have jumped off

  a bridge the first

  time I got my period.

  Yeah, we’d had the basic

  You’re a Woman Now

  video and discussion

  in sixth grade. But

  textbook “birds

  and bees” cannot

  even prepare you for

  what that really means.

  I HATE WHEN I BLEED

  Can’t tell my period when to start,

  how many hours to make me

  miserable. Can’t tell it not to come

  at all. I have zero control over

  any of that, and that really,

  really bothers me. See, I’ve got

  a little thing called OCD.

  Obsessive-compulsive disorder

  is something people make fun of.

  But when it’s something

  you’ve got, there’s nothing

  funny about it. First off,

  you know you have it, know

  some little piece of your brain

  is totally out of whack. Nothing

  you can do about that, either.

  Not without therapy, and that

  means telling someone you know

  you’re just a tiny bit crazy.

  How do you admit that without

  giving up every bit of power

  you have finally managed to grasp?

  Some people have it worse than I do,

  I guess. I mean I don’t wash my hands

  seventeen times a day or count

  every step I take, then take a couple

  more until the exact number from

  here to there is divisible by three.

  My compulsion is simply order.

  Everything in its place, and spaced

  exactly so—one inch, no more, no less,

  between hairbrush and comb. Two

  inches, no more, no less, between pairs

  of shoes on my closet floor. Black socks,

  upper left corner of my top right dresser

  drawer; white socks in the lower right.

  I doubt Grandfather has even noticed

  how every can in the cupboards is

  organized alphabetically, labels out,

  or that cleaning supplies beneath

  the sink are arranged by color.

  But Aunt Cora definitely has.

  SHE DOESN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

  She thinks it’s funny, and funnier

  still to mess with my mind by moving

  my shoes farther apart

  or puttingmycombinsidemybrush

  or arranging a can of

  yams

  in front

  of the

  applesauce.

  She says I should lighten up, quit

  beating myself up mentally. I know

  she only wants what’s best for me,

  but sometimes she makes me mad.

  If it were easy to throw

  my

  clothes

  into

  a heap

  on the floor,

  of course I’d rather do that than

  spend hours

  folding them

  precisely

  right. Right?

  I AM IN THE DEN

  Arranging Grandfather’s

  eclectic collection of

  paperbacks alphabetically

  by author—Graham, Billy;

  Grey, Zane; Grisham, John—

  when the telephone rings.

  I’ve got it! Grandfather

  yells from the kitchen.

  I peek at the caller ID.

  NV St Prsn—Nevada

  State Prison. The collect

  calls from Trey come once

  in a while. Usually, to listen

  to Grandfather’s raves,

  when his prison account

  needs a cash recharge.

  Little SOB wants me

  to pay for his cigarettes

  and soap? Does he think

  I’m made of money?

  Still, he always sends it.

  Three times convicted

  felon or not, Trey will

  always be his son. His son.

  And my convict father.

  I SLIP QUIETLY

  Along the linoleum. Grandfather

  does not appreciate me listening in.

  But for some reason, my radar

  is blipping. There’s something

  different about this call. Maybe

  it’s the tone of Grandfather’s voice

  tipping me off. It’s not exactly

  hard to hear him. He’s yelling.

  But despite the high volume, a tremor

  makes him sound downright old.

  I don’t give a damn what you want.

  You are not welcome in this house.

  I told you that when you went away,

  and I haven’t changed my mind.

  “Went away,” meaning he was locked up

  by the State of Nevada. Again. That was

  eight years ago. I remember he called to

  share the news while we were planning

  my ninth birthday party. I had no

  idea what “five to fifteen” meant.

  But it sure seemed to take all the fun

  out of talking about balloons and cake.

  Apparently it’s working out to “more

  than five, less than fifteen.” At least,

  that’s what I’m hearing from the kitchen.

  You may have paid your debt to society,

  but you haven’t paid your debt to me.

  Not to mention to your daughter. She

  doesn’t even know who you are, and

  neither do I. Car thief? Drug addict?

  You just stay the hell away from here.

  I don’t need that kind of worry.

  This call is costing an arm and a leg.

  I’m going to hang up now.

  AND HE DOES

  The phone slams against the table,

  loud enough for me to hear it

  from here. I scoot away from

  the door, down the hall, just as

  Grandfather exits the kitchen.

  He looks at me, anger smoking,

  black, in his already dark eyes.

  I suppose you heard all that.

  I hate talking ill about your father,

  but that boy is doomed to go

  straight on down to the devil

  when he dies. He moves toward

  me, trembling slightly. I should’a
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  beat that boy more. He never

  did have an ounce of respect

  or caring for anyone except for

  himself. Not even for your mama,

  I’m guessing. I told Maureen

  he was gonna end up badly

  if she didn’t … never mind.

  GRANDFATHER IS STERN

  To put it too mildly. I love him,

  of course. How could I not

  love someone who gathered me

  in, offered a home and his unique

  brand of love? It’s hard for him

  to love, I think. He has been divorced.

  Remarried. Widowed. Left to live

  mostly alone until Aunt Cora

  reappeared, with little toddler me

  tucked haphazardly under one arm.

  I do love him. But sometimes he’s harsh.

  “Mean” might be more accurate.

  He reminds me of a cop walking

  the beat too long, in a bad part

  of the city—creased and bitter-

  eyed and too early gray. He yells.

  Rants. Every once in a while,

  he leaves a bruise, no apology.

  For my own good, he says, So you

  don’t end up like your father.

  More than once I’ve heard him try to

  blame Trey’s mom for her son turning

  out bad. Maureen never understood

  that kids need discipline, or they’ll ride

  roughshod over you. A good switching

  by a loving hand never hurt no one.

  Quoted directly from his own father

  would be my guess, and the oxymoronic

  bite of the statement slipped

  his notice completely, right along

  with the bigger issue he insists

  on ignoring: Maureen left him because

  of his own drug habit and the reasons

  behind it. The pills he pops like Tic Tacs

  are legal. Prescribed to moderate

  sleep problems and anger problems

  and mood problems that swing him

  from suicidal to crazy happy in

  the space of a few hours. All I can

  say is thank God for modern medicine.

  SOMETIMES, WHEN IT’S JUST

  Grandfather and me, if he’s downed

  the exact right combination

  of pills and brew, he’ll talk

  about growing up in a little

  backwater town maybe

  six hours north of here.

  Sweetwater may not be so

  very far from San Antonio,

  but it’s a wide world apart.

  We were possum poor and not

  exactly unhappy being that way.