Tilt

  they’ve been seeing each other for

  years. And that, as I overheard Gram

  say, Isn’t just sex. It’s a relationship.

  And what she meant by that was love.

  Dad is in love with someone else.

  Which explains why he doesn’t

  always come home at night. Why

  he’s been so distant to Mom and,

  maybe, me. Bastard! I figured it

  was because he couldn’t deal with

  Shelby. But apparently the affair

  began before she was even conceived.

  No, Dad’s “indiscretion,” which is

  something of an understatement,

  wasn’t about “running away from.”

  It was all about “running to,” and

  that is hard to forgive. Mom didn’t

  want me to know, mostly because

  Dad has shifted gears. Don’t ask me

  why, but for some reason he decided

  he wanted to stay with Mom instead

  of riding off into the sunset with Skye

  Sheridan. One very big element in

  that is his so-called change of heart

  toward me. And for what purpose?

  Does he really plan to be around

  more now? Why do I doubt that?

  And why should I care if he is?

  Should I Forgive and Forget?

  Be the bigger man? Luscious irony

  there, I suppose. I mean, being gay

  calls your manhood, not to mention

  your morality, into question, at least

  in some people’s (including my father’s) eyes.

  Right up until he got busted with his pants

  down around his ankles, Dad insisted

  I was the sinner. But I wasn’t fucking

  off on my partner, let alone my wife.

  Is infidelity—conquest—the mark of a man?

  What about promises? For better or worse,

  for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health?

  What about the idea that genuine love

  is about conquering mutual demons?

  Look Up “Hypocrite”

  In the dictionary. Bet you’ll find

  a picture of my father.

  You know, I totally wish

  that it wasn’t so. But how

  can I believe in someone

  who once meant everything

  to me, only to have him turn

  his back, not only on me,

  but also on everyone who

  makes me comfortable

  with who I am? Bastard!

  I was almost past wanting

  his acceptance. I knew, deep

  down, that it couldn’t happen

  like switching on the air con

  on a hot day. When it seemed

  to, I was suspicious, prayed

  for the best. Tried not to expect

  the worst. And so, it stung

  to discover his supposed turn-

  around was all about a bid

  to keep Mom hanging on.

  She’s Hanging On

  For now, I guess. Kind of by her

  fingertips, and just barely. I hear

  her talking—to Aunt Andrea,

  to her old friend, Drew, and to Gram.

  Mostly to Gram, who is staying

  here for now while she and Gramps

  look for a house. Gram says

  she’s tired of traveling the country,

  living like some Bedouin on

  wheels. I’m glad she’ll be closer.

  Mom needs her, even though

  she’d never admit it. Dad’s taking

  her to Monterey for the weekend.

  It’s where they had their honeymoon,

  but I’m not sure the Pacific Ocean

  will be enough to rekindle the romance.

  Mom is taut as a stretched-to-the-limit

  rubber band. Hope she doesn’t break.

  Monterey

  Is supposed to be Mom’s birthday

  present, so tonight we’re having an early

  celebration. Aunt Andrea is already here,

  helping Gram in the kitchen. When

  the doorbell rings, I expect it to be Alex.

  I fling it open, giving little air smooches.

  Nope. Not Alex. It’s a woman, maybe

  thirty-five, and built like a Rottweiler.

  She smiles at my kissy pouts and her face

  radiates humor. Uh. Do I have the right

  house? I’m looking for the Trasks.

  I’m Pamela Anderson. At my dubious

  look, she adds, Not that Pamela

  Anderson, obviously. I’m from the health

  center—a caregiver. For Shelby?

  I step back to let her in. As she passes,

  she says, How do you know her, anyway?

  You’re too young to have been a Baywatch fan.

  “What’s Baywatch? I saw her on

  Dancing with the Stars. How she lasted

  that long is a total mystery.” I lead Pamela

  into the living room. “Mom? Dad?

  The caregiver is here.” The doorbell

  rings again. This time, it is Alex,

  and he’s holding a giant bouquet

  of yellow roses. “For me? Sweetheart,

  you shouldn’t have!” No one’s watching,

  so I kiss his amazing smile. He looks

  a little alarmed. Um. Hi. Sorry, but

  the flowers are for your mom.

  “How come you never bring me

  flowers?” I stick out my lower lip.

  “Well, I guess you can come in anyway.”

  He is dressed in khaki pants and a Levi’s

  shirt, and he’s wearing some exotic

  cologne that makes me want to eat him.

  And at This Moment

  I couldn’t care less about Dad’s motives.

  Alex is here, and welcome, and when

  he gives Mom her birthday roses, her

  thank-you is a kiss on his cheek, which

  turns the color of ripe cherries, matching

  his other cheek and the tips of his ears.

  Dinner is Gram’s made-from-scratch

  pizza. The yeasty scent of fresh-baked

  dough fills the house, and when Mom

  rolls Shelby into the room, she sniffs

  the air. Grins and says, Pri-ee. Pretty.

  I guess it does smell pretty. I wish

  she could taste it, but Shelby only

  eats liquid sustenance, fed via tube.

  She doesn’t seem to mind, but that’s

  all she’s ever known, and thinking about

  things she’s missed always makes me

  more than a little sad. The heaviness

  lifts quickly tonight, though. There

  are no balloons, but there are yellow

  roses and pizza and birthday cake.

  It’s a party and everyone wears

  a smile, especially when Gramps

  goes to the piano and starts to play

  old classic rock songs. I once thought

  I’d be the next David Crosby, he says.

  But Neil Young was jealous, so they

  wouldn’t let me join the group.

  Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Mom

  used to sing their stuff when I was little.

  She harmonizes with Gramps. Teach

  your parents well. Their children’s hell . . .

  Is slowly going by. Shelby loves

  the music, tries to hum along. And that

  makes her cough. Mom starts toward

  her, but Pamela reaches her first.

  Pamela Is Efficient

  Deliberate. Kind, as she instructs

  Shelby to relax, not an intuitive thing

  when you’re hacking up a lung.

  Mom would jump in, but Dad keeps

  a hand on h
er arm. Let Pamela do

  her job. That’s why she’s here.

  She decides the best way to do it

  is to use the lung assist machine in Shelby’s

  room that’s there to vacuum scum

  from her airways. Mom wants to

  follow her down the hall, but Pamela

  agrees with Dad. I’ve got it. No worries.

  Mom has done nothing but worry

  for years. This will be a learning

  curve. Her nervousness grips all

  of us, though we try to get back

  into a party mood. Dad tells Gramps,

  Can you play something slow? I want

  to dance with my wife. Mom stiffens,

  and I think she’s going to refuse. But

  Dad persuades her to sway with some

  old song I know I’ve heard, but

  couldn’t name for money. If I wasn’t

  privy to what’s going on between

  them, I’d probably find it touching.

  As it is, it’s pretty much creeping me

  out. And, judging by Mom’s zombie-ish

  motion, she feels the same way. She’s putting

  on a show. But what’s the point? It’s not

  like everyone here doesn’t know. Well,

  except for Alex. I haven’t told him yet.

  I kind of wanted him to believe Dad found

  a soul. God, how I wish that was true.

  Pamela returns solo. Shelby’s resting

  comfortably, watching a DVD. I’ll be

  back first thing tomorrow morning.

  Mom Pulls Away

  From Dad. Walks Pamela to the door,

  asking questions. Giving directions.

  Gram follows, listening in, because

  she will be here for Shelby this weekend

  when Pamela isn’t. Dad goes into

  the kitchen. Probably looking for booze,

  although he hasn’t been drinking nearly

  as much as he used to. Don’t know if

  that’s voluntary or part of whatever

  deal he has forged with Mom. Either

  way, he’s a hell of a lot easier to deal

  with when he isn’t blotto. Gramps

  launches a Green Day song—one Alex

  knows the words to. Who knew he could

  sing? Who knows what else I don’t know

  about him yet? How long does it take

  to get to know someone totally? Does

  that ever happen? How long before you

  can tell when someone’s keeping secrets?

  Is it ever better simply not to know?

  Alex

  Is It Better

  Not to know what’s causing

  a massive tide—one you happen

  to be swimming in, charcoal

  carbonation frothing the horizon,

  panic

  likely, when limp resignation

  might serve better?

  You can’t outswim a rip current

  and an anxious sea

  swallows

  what can’t remember that.

  Is it wiser to avoid looking over

  your shoulder, intuiting a predator

  is sneaking up behind

  you,

  ascertaining distance? A backward

  glance might cost a limb or liver,

  food chain hierarchy faster

  than you. A sudden shift of energy

  smothers

  certainty. Disregarding it might

  be preferable to overanalyzing,

  if rooting out the source

  of your discomfort only brings

  you

  face-to-face with a monster.

  Harley

  A Monster

  That’s what Chad’s dad is. No

  wonder he never talks about him.

  My dad is kind of weird and all,

  and I remember how he and Mom

  argued all the time before

  they split up. But he never beat

  on Mom or me. How could a guy

  do something like that to his kid?

  I haven’t said a word about

  seeing that Damian ogre. Not

  to Chad. Not to Dad. Not even

  to Mom. But I’m totally dying to.

  I did break down and tell Mom

  about Mikayla being pregnant,

  even though Bri asked me not to.

  That kind of secret is hard to keep.

  Mom told, and everything blew

  sky-high and now Bri is pissed

  at me. I’m sorry, but I think

  her parents really needed to know.

  She’ll get over it. She has to.

  Mom says when I start high school

  I’ll make new friends. That’s all right.

  But Bri will always be my best friend.

  The Worst Thing

  About telling Mom about Mikayla

  was having to hear, from my mother,

  the dirty little details of sex. The kind

  you definitely don’t get in sex ed.

  I know you’re not having sex yet,

  was how she started the conversation,

  boring into my eyes with hers, trying

  to figure out if that happens to be true.

  And I know you got all the basics in

  school, so I won’t go there. What I

  want to talk to you about is the things

  that might convince you to go all the way.

  Go all the way creeped me out

  immediately, and things didn’t get

  better. First, she outlined the obvious

  lines some guys use to convince

  you not to use protection—how it’s

  not possible to get preggo the first

  time you do it; how he’s great at

  pulling out; how he’s def sterile.

  That was kind of funny, actually.

  But then she got into really weird

  stuff, like how foreplay makes you

  want to do more, only she didn’t call

  it foreplay, she called it “digital

  penetration” and “oral stimulation.”

  And that really made me picture

  Mom doing that stuff, and it grossed

  me out totally, so I just promised to

  keep it in mind whenever at some

  way future date I might be in that

  position. And that should have been

  the end of it, except then she felt

  the need to confess that foreplay

  and what came after was the reason

  she and Dad ended up getting married

  their senior year in high school. I might

  have had a big sister or brother, except

  Mom lost that baby. When I asked if

  that meant she never loved Dad,

  she said, I thought I did, at the time.

  I Watch Dad Now

  Futzing around, trying to build

  a campfire while Cassie cooks

  hot dogs on a rusting barbecue.

  Are they really in love? Or just

  thinking they are, at this time?

  Love is a fragile thing. I hope

  theirs can stay in one piece.

  The campground is busy—one

  last reminder of summer before

  school starts up again. The sun drops

  down behind the western peaks,

  but its warmth remains, trapped

  in pine-scented evening air. Camping

  with Dad means age-worn tents and

  sleeping bags, and that’s okay with me.

  Dinner! chimes Cassie, wrapping

  Polish sausages with white bread buns.

  Ketchup and mustard are on the table.

  Dad holds out his paper plate.

  Personally, I like mine naked.

  He winks at Cassie, who bursts

  out laughing. Chad look
s at me,

  rolls his eyes, then douses his own

  bun with condiments. Message sent.

  Wow. Some people probably think

  he’s a total wad. But I understand

  why he’s so cynical. I just wish

  he’d let me break through. We scarf

  down hot dogs, chips and soda. I can

  feel the pounds I’m gaining tonight,

  but I haven’t indulged in junk food

  hardly at all this summer and I’m

  loving every greasy, sugary swallow.

  We throw our paper plates into Dad’s

  pitiful fire, and when they flame

  Chad tosses in some pinecones.

  When those flare, he adds a chunk

  of wood, which catches easily. That’s

  how you build a campfire, he says.

  It’s a Throw-Down

  But Dad responds to the challenge

  by putting his arms around Cassie

  and kissing the back of her neck.

  Chad bristles. The night could go bad,

  and I don’t want that, so I nudge

  Chad’s arm. “Want to take a walk?”

  He shrugs, which is his way to

  agree. Just one second, he says,

  disappearing into his tent for

  a minute or two. When he emerges,

  his hands slip out of his pockets.

  Okay. Let’s go. As we start around

  a long loop of asphalt, I hear

  Cassie call, Don’t be gone long.

  It’s getting dark, and who knows

  what comes out at night around here.

  Chad chuckles. Evil things, Mom.

  She can’t hear him, of course. But I can.

  Evil Things

  Are what I think about

  as we veer off the pavement.

  Dive into a thick stand of trees.

  Pine needles, soft beneath our

  feet, should cushion sound.

  Instead, there is a gentle rustling

  near the ground. “What’s that?”

  I ask, all paranoid. But Chad

  is unconcerned. Nothing.

  The wind. Or maybe . . .

  He looks around. Deer. Or

  skunks. Too soft for bear.

  “Bear?” We don’t even

  have a flashlight. No bear

  is going to sneak up on us,

  right? I consider which

  direction to run. But Chad

  laughs and that means

  everything is okay. At least,

  until he reaches into his pocket.

  Out comes a cigarette—hand-