It’s Bone-Chilling Here
In this memory. Nothing
can thaw me. Not quilt. Not
whiskey. Not even opiate.
I’m frozen solidly in place,
just like I was that night,
the first time Daddy came.
A night Kaeleigh can’t (or
won’t) remember. But I do.
It was a year or so after
the accident. Kaeleigh
and I were nine, give
or take. Mom had gone
in for another round of
surgery. She was already
lost to us. Lost. Long gone.
I could barely remember
how her kisses felt. They
rode away on the bumper
of that fucking semi. How
we hungered for them!
Daddy smelled of Wild
Turkey. Each night, we knew,
he drank more and more.
That night, he had drunk
just enough. Kaeleigh, girl.
His voice was a soft hiss.
Are you awake? Talk to me.
Daddy ish-is sh-so lonely.
I’d never heard him sound
like that. Like a stranger.
A drunk, slurring stranger.
Where was my daddy?
Kaeleigh, all sweetness,
wanted to comfort Daddy,
who drew her onto his lap.
Stroked her hair. Kissed
her gently on the forehead.
Cheeks. Eyes. Finally, on
her lips, but not nasty
or mean or with tongue
or anything but misplaced
love. Love meant for Mom.
He just held her, kissed
her. Breathed Wild Turkey
all over her until they both
fell asleep, woven together.
Woven
Knitted together,
threaded by pain-
sharpened needles.
That one innocent
joining was only
the beginning, but
neither realized it
that night. And all
I could do was linger
in a dark corner,
sharp jabs of envy
tearing my eyes.
The Innocence
With which Kaeleigh
accepted that gesture
was to be corrupted,
but not immediately.
Maybe this is the place
she settles into, when
forced to escape the
reality of what came
later, what continues
still. See, she doesn’t
really remember the
details. It’s a defense
mechanism, a gift
from nature around
post-traumatic stress.
Remembering the ins
and outs, so to speak,
is left up to me. I am
almost always there,
or at least close by,
though I have never
interfered. Oh, I did
try to tell Mom once, but she closed up like an
oyster around that pearl of truth. I guess I could
have offered descriptions of Daddy’s “privates”
(his word), the way he wears his scars. But hey,
if she didn’t care, why the hell should I? Instead,
I stood by and watched father love turn to U S T.
What Came Later
Belies the purity of that first night.
Time crept by in slow motion,
and I felt a million miles away.
I watched
the two of them dozing, father
and mother/daughter, until
weariness weighted my eyes.
I slipped
into the river of their breathing,
floated in the current of Daddy’s
all-encompassing need.
I fell
asleep, thinking about Daddy
kissing Kaeleigh, craving his kiss,
understanding its significance.
We unraveled
that night, and I don’t think
things can ever be put right
again. Sad, that lives can be
shattered,
into so many pieces that they
can never be put back together,
by the relentless force of love.
Irreparable.
Kaeleigh
Can’t Believe
I got the lead in Grease, the winter musical.
I’m a pretty good actress, but my
dance is rusty and my singing, well…
I watched
as Ms. Cavendish posted the cast
list. Everyone gathered around
the bulletin board, exhaling loudly.
I slipped
in between Ian and Shelby to get
a better look. Sorry you didn’t make
it, poked Shelby. Stupid me,
I fell
for it, until she and Ian cracked up.
“You may be sorry I did make it.”
I broke into an off-key rendition of “Fame.”
We unraveled
into a giant fit of laughter. People
stared, including Madison, who got
a big part too. The look she gave me
shattered
any idea that this play might be fun
after all. The slim chance rehearsals
might go smoothly shredded.
Irreparable.
Drama Is Last Block
On Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today, however, being Friday,
last block is PE. I wish I would’ve opted for modern dance.
Instead I’m dressed out for volleyball. And lucky me, my
dear friend Madison is across the net, getting ready to serve.
Even better, I’m in front, where I can’t miss the vile promise
in her eyes: I’m gonna ram this ball right down your throat.
Fortunately, her anger sends the ball clear out of bounds. We
rotate, and it’s my turn to serve. Madison moves left one slot.
I swear, even from here, I can see the steam rising off her.
Whoo-ee, is she hot! I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does.
I serve into the net. Side-out! yells Madison, and my teammates
groan. “Sorry,” I try. “It slipped.” Okay, lame excuse.
Here comes the ball again. Long volley. On the far side
of the net, Serena sets up. Madison spikes. Damn! The sucker
slams right into my chest, bounces undeniably out of bounds.
Madison smiles. Too bad you don’t have much padding there.
Everyone laughs. My face flashes, hot. But for once the perfect
retort comes to mind immediately. Love when that happens.
“Yeah, well, I guess you’re right. I don’t have much padding,
but at least what I’ve got is all mine, not Victoria’s.”
Victoria? Madison stops. Thinks. Gets a “duh” look on her
face. Shakes her head and I’ve got her. Who’s Victoria?
“I don’t know. But she’s got a secret. And you’re wearing it.
Oh, wait. Let me look again. Never mind. Can’t be Victoria’s
Secret. Anything that lumpy must have come from Wal-Mart.
Wait, wait. Not even Wal-Mart. More like Salvation Army.”
Wha…? Hmph! You shut the fuck up, bitch! Madison storms
off, intensely pissed. A chorus of howls follows her.
Not Sure Why
I felt the need to provoke her.
She and her inner circle carry
a lot of weight around here.
I’m just sick of that pissy look,
the off-the-wall snipes. I had
nothing to do with her problems
with Mick. What wasn’t her
/> being a bitch was him, being
a creep. All I am is fallout.
The bell rings. Okay, girls! yells
Ms. Petrie. Hit the showers!
Showers. Oh, goody. Can’t wait.
Yeah, I’m dripping sweat. It’s
not what you might call fragrant.
Not good fragrant, anyway.
But public showering is
my least favorite thing about
PE, and considering I hate PE,
that says a lot. Ugh! Stripping
down to skin and hair, showing
everything to everyone else.
That includes Ms. Petrie, our
elderly PE teacher, who seems
more interested in our hygiene
than in our physical fitness.
The one job she takes seriously
is making sure we shower.
It’s kind of creepy, although
I suppose some people might
never de-sweat without a Ms. Petrie
to check up on them. Anyway,
today I want to make sure Madison
is scrubbed and dressed before
I even look at the shower. I help
Ms. Petrie bring in the balls and nets.
By the time I shed my shorts
and lather up, the locker room
is mostly empty. The final bell
rings and I’m still under water.
When I exit, hair dripping, out
the double doors, I’m mortified
to find the bus has already gone.
I Need to Get My License
I’ve been old enough for months.
Problem is, you need a parent to sign
off for you. And I do not have
the luxury of parents who are able
or willing to do that for me.
Mom is always traveling. She only
drops by long enough to pick up
a change of clothes and maybe,
if we’re very, very lucky, share
a meal. She has completely
forgotten what being a mother means.
Kitchen duty and housework fall
mostly on Manuela, who comes in
three times a week to do laundry, dust
and vacuum, cook and freeze meals.
As for Daddy, well, he pretty much
works from early morning until
the sun creeps toward the western
horizon. The closest DMV is in Lompoc,
a half hour from here. Closed Saturdays.
Not that Daddy is likely to let me
have my license anyway. A car means
escape. And I’m pretty sure he plans
to keep me his prisoner forever.
The More Immediate Problem
Is I need a ride home and the parking lot
is deserted. Everyone bails as soon as
the last bell rings. Walking home
isn’t impossible, but it’s five miles away.
Who can I call? Ian, of course. But his cell
rings four times, goes to voice mail.
I try Shelby. Katrina. Lisa. Danette. No luck.
Everyone’s busy, grounded, unavailable,
or simply not picking up.
Just as I think I’ll have to walk after all,
a black Charger draws even, window lowering.
Something wrong? It’s Mr. Lawler.
“Kind of. I missed the bus. I’ve called everyone
I know but can’t seem to find a ride home.”
Hop in. I’ll take you. I’m going that way.
Does he know where I live? I give the parking
lot another scan. He smiles at my hesitation.
What? Don’t tell me you don’t trust me?
Not at All
You can’t trust a man,
any man,
any more than you can
put your
faith in a rabid dog, not
even your
own dog, one who would
never hurt
you, except he’s rabid.
Not sure why I believe that.
But I solidly
do. I’ve seen guys act
like they
are just so in love with
their girl-
of-the-moment, only
to turn
around and dump her cold.
And as for adult men, men
who should
not look twice at someone
half their
age, well that rarely turns out
to be their MO.
No, their method of operation
is to hang
out their tongues and pant.
To Be Fair
I haven’t seen Mr. Lawler
actually pant. And the only
time I’ve seen his tongue
is when I’ve bothered to look.
So I say, “Of course I trust
you. Thanks for offering.”
And, mostly against my better
judgment, I open the door, slip
into the shelter of his car.
Promise not to tell, okay?
I could get into all kinds
of trouble, you know.
My turn to smile.
“What? For rescuing
a damsel in distress?”
For others’ perceptions.
But I promise to be the
perfect gentleman.
He turns toward town,
drives cautiously, completely
the perfect gentleman.
Some Girls I Know
Talk about Mr. Lawler like he’s
on their “available” list or some-
thing. He’s not married, at least
I don’t think
so. I guess he could be closet
married, but why bother?
Teachers and students?
Absolutely taboo! If
I could ever
get past my private taboo,
I’d have to call Mr. Lawler
“cute.” But how could I
get beyond
the fact that he’s almost
as old as Daddy? And yet,
as we drive along, I find myself
moving closer to him,
pretending
I can’t quite hear what he’s
saying with his frothy, smooth
cappuccino voice. One time
in class a couple of weeks ago,
he was
lecturing about immigration.
I was lost in reverie about the night
before, and when Mr. Lawler called
on me, I almost answered, “Yes,
Daddy?”
Raeanne
Kind of Funny
Watching Lawler and Kaeleigh
pull up at the house together.
I don’t think
I’ve ever seen her alone
with a grown man (well, except
for Daddy and he doesn’t count).
Maybe I need to miss the bus. If
I could ever
find a good excuse to get Lawler
alone, he would discover a different
Gardella girl, one who could easily
get beyond
not only his age, but also any
stupid notion of impropriety.
I would never act like Kaeleigh,
craving his proximity, his touch, yet
pretending
not to notice the cut of his silk
trousers, the way his biceps fill
his tailored shirtsleeves. Even
from a distance, I could tell
he was
interested in more than just giving
her a ride home. She should
consider it. After all, there happen
to be better men out there than
Daddy.
Other Men, Anyway
A whole big, giant world,
>
full of men. Men with blue eyes.
Brown eyes. Green eyes. And indescribable
shades in between. Tall men. Short men. Skinny men.
Built men. And all combinations thereof. Nice men (so I’ve
heard, but never really seen). Mean men. Decent men, indecent.
And who knows which is the best kind to have, to hold, to love?
I’d say, with so many men in the world, it would pay to sample
a few. Scratch that. More than a few. Lots and lots. And then
a few more. And maybe, after years and years of research,
taste testing, and trying ’em on for size, just maybe,
you might find one worth not throwing back.
But hey, the fun is in the fishing.
Kaeleigh’s Not into Fishing
Too much effort, too few rewards.
Watching her work Daddy now,
you’d think she reeled in the big one.
Selective amnesia?
Putting on a show?
She is a good little actress.
Daddy is already home but
hasn’t yet waded into his bottle.
“You’re home early today,”
she soothes. “Special occasion?”
He’s jonesing for a swig. Can’t.
Your mother will be here soon.
Press conference on the lawn.
“Oh, right. I forgot. Do you want
me to iron a shirt for you?”
Daddy shakes his head.
A jacket will do. You should
put on something pretty, though.
She nods and we go to change,
knowing where his eyes are.
No Doubt
He’ll be watching the sway
of Kaeleigh’s hips, craving her.
And a drink. Not sure which one