Fallout

  Maybe someday. For now, I’ll

  just say I used to be married.

  MARRIED?

  Hard to believe.

  Divorced?

  Even harder.

  She’s either

  older

  than she looks,

  or she’s lived

  faster

  than most.

  Probably the latter.

  But why do I think

  that? To be

  honest,

  I don’t know her at all.

  She could be PhD

  smart,

  might trump Rick Denio

  when it comes to being

  witty.

  If I dug deep enough

  beneath the facade,

  who

  would I find? Is Corrine

  standing beside me? Or

  is she

  really Montana?

  AS I PACK UP THE VAN

  I think back to when

  I was a kid, trying too

  hard to be “just like

  everyone else,” when

  I felt totally different.

  Not an outcast, exactly.

  Just different. I tried

  so hard to look normal

  that everybody noticed.

  And bullies pounced.

  I entered public school

  late to the game, after

  a couple of years

  of parochial torture.

  So I didn’t start third

  grade with solid buddies

  to back me up. When

  someone picked on me,

  I crumbled at first. Then,

  when I got tired of it,

  I learned to push back.

  Being about the biggest

  kid in my class helped.

  But I never wanted to

  fight. I wanted friends.

  MAYBE CORRINE

  Just wanted friends,

  and that’s why she turned

  into Montana. Maybe she

  wanted revenge. Wonder

  why her marriage sank.

  Stupid question. No way

  were people meant to be

  monogamous. Not human

  behavior. Human behavior

  of the nonmonogamous

  type is all around me here.

  Guys smooching on girls,

  obviously “their” girls, yet

  checking out other girls

  walking by. Girls aren’t

  a whole lot better, and this

  is only the “checking” out

  stuff. The actually “doing”

  stuff behind each other’s

  backs is almost as bad.

  FOR EXAMPLE

  In the distance, a couple arrives

  very late to the game. Not long

  ago, the cannon boomed the start

  of the second quarter. The man walks

  quickly, two steps in front of the woman,

  up the steep hill from the east parking lot.

  His near lope and the solid set

  of his shoulders tell me he’s pissed,

  or at least determined to reach

  the gate before she does. She, on

  the other hand, seems just as resolute

  to continue at her own measured speed.

  Way to go, lady. Don’t let him stress

  you out. Whoa. Wait. As the man

  crowns the hill, stomps into view,

  his silhouette becomes very familiar.

  I know him. Know him well, in fact.

  It’s my dad. And she, I assume, is my mom.

  THAT DETAIL IS CONFIRMED

  As they get closer, as is another

  assumption I made earlier. Dad

  is definitely not happy. His scowl

  creases his face, makes him look

  a decade older than his fifty-seven

  years. I wave to draw his attention.

  When he sees me, his expression

  softens, but only a modicum.

  Like from “ready to kick someone’s

  ass” to “maybe I’ll just mess him up

  a little.” I’d like to say I’ve never

  seen him like this before, but why

  lie? Dad possesses a temper,

  and patience isn’t his best thing.

  Mom says I take after him that way.

  I have no idea what she means.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls even.

  “What’s going on?” Mom chugs

  up after him, and I add, “Hi, Mom.

  Sorry I missed breakfast.”

  On Saturdays, if Mom is home

  instead of book touring, she tries

  to make breakfast special. There

  was a time when I wouldn’t miss one.

  Mom smiles, and in kind of a polar

  opposite way to Dad, the crinkles

  around her eyes plump up. No prob.

  Sometimes sleep trumps food.

  Dad snorts impatiently. We’re

  late. “Circumstances beyond

  our control” and all. Can we talk

  at dinner? Still pissy. Poor Mom.

  He starts off, leaving Mom

  standing here. Once his back

  is solidly pointed at me,

  I whisper, “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugs. Nothing you need

  to worry about. Kristina’s latest

  scheme is all. She not-quite-hugs

  me. I’d better catch up. TTFN.

  KRISTINA, SCHEME QUEEN

  That could be her epitaph.

  And her obit could contain

  the following resume:

  Job Title:

  Drug manufacturer and trafficker.

  Job Description:

  Make easy money cooking meth and moving it, Point A to Point B. (Caveat: Ingredients are volatile.)

  Job Title:

  Prison inmate.

  Job Description:

  Get paid thirty-six cents per hour painting murals on cafeteria walls. (Caveat: Goes toward restitution.)

  Job Title:

  Boy toy.

  Job Description:

  Low pay, but all the sex you can ask for. Just lay back and spread your legs. (Caveat: Unprotected sex equals babies.)

  Job Title:

  Newspaper saleslady.

  Job Description:

  Pyramid possibilities if you form a crew of loser teenagers. (Caveat: High school dropouts are lazy.)

  Job Title:

  Used car saleslady.

  Job Description:

  No salary, but decent commission for offing overpriced lemons. (Caveat: Lots of used car lots; few suckers.)

  Job Title:

  Rap video extra.

  Job Description:

  Major bucks for slinking around on set, pretending to fawn over rap star. (Caveat: Some rap stars are phonies.)

  Job Title:

  Stage mother.

  Job Description:

  Shuttle your kid from casting call to casting call, hoping he’ll get paid something someday. (Caveat: You and thousands of stage mothers.)

  Job Title:

  Mail-order minister.

  Job Description:

  Perform cheap outdoor weddings for tips because you can’t afford to own a chapel. (Caveat: Most couples prefer a hokey chapel.)

  Job Title:

  Golf tournament caddie.

  Job Description:

  Great tips for wearing short shorts and lugging older men’s heavy clubs hole to hole. (Caveat: Not always talking golf clubs.)

  Job Title:

  Part-time limo driver.

  Job Description:

  Long hours on call, unless you’re ballsy enough to work the airport and dredge up biz. (Caveat: Might as well drive a taxi.)

  Job Title:

  Mother.

  Job Description:

  Not really sure what that is.

  CYNICAL?
>
  You bet. But the truth

  is, for Kristina, the next

  “amazing opportunity”

  is always within sight.

  Why can’t she ever

  get things right?

  Dad believes she came

  into the world hungry

  to break rules, argue.

  Instigate a fight.

  She has a short fuse

  too easy to ignite.

  Mom, who is gentler,

  and carried her for nine

  months, thinks of Kristina

  in a different light.

  She was a special child.

  Beautiful. Talented. Bright.

  I mostly only see her on

  holidays. She has a truck-

  driver mouth. Smokes too

  much, is wound too tight.

  Like a hummingbird,

  denied the freedom of flight.

  Autumn

  CHANGE IS COMING

  The surety of that has augered

  its way into my brain, stirring up

  all those buried childhood fears. I

  deal with the uncertainty of tomorrow

  by über-controlling today.

  Which means getting up an hour

  early to make double sure

  my room is spotless—fresh

  sheets and pillowcase; no

  dirty clothes in the hamper;

  trash emptied; furniture

  dusted; carpet vacuumed—

  before I even think about

  heading out the door to school.

  This morning is in perfect order.

  We’ll see what evening brings.

  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.

  I’LL NEVER FORGET

  The last time Trey blew back

  into my life. I was almost five,

  and he was on parole after

  serving two years for fraud.

  It was not his first time in lockup.

  When he came to the door, I had no

  idea who he was. Grandfather and

  Aunt Cora don’t keep many photos

  of him, and the ones they do have

  are from long before he ever

  started messing around

  with meth. He is handsome

  in those pictures—tall and strong,

  with dark hair and curious gray

  eyes and a killer smile. The guy

  who came to Grandfather’s door

  looked like a derelict. I clung

  to Aunt Cora’s skirt as if I were

  sewn to the hem. It was a safe

  place I knew all too well.

  Hey, sis! Trey planted a big

  not-brotherly kiss on her lips.

  Then he spotted me. Autumn?

  His voice held need, and his

  eyes were steel. Come to Daddy.

  Daddy? No. I didn’t have one

  of those. A big ol’ twister

  started up in my gut. I backed

  behind Aunt Cora, burrowed

  deeper. Trey reached for me.

  “Noooo!” I screamed, and

  turned to run. But not quick

  enough. Bark-rough hands

  clamped around my waist.

  “Please don’t hurt me.”