“No. Let it drop. We should open
some windows. It stinks in here.”
It does. It smells like sweat and weed
and old booze with a float of tobacco.
We finish the cleanup, windows
open, Syrah flirting obnoxiously
with Gabe all the while, and
the strange thing about that is
I don’t seem to care. To his credit,
Gabe doesn’t bite, but if it’s only
to impress me, I almost want
him to know it’s okay if he does.
Almost. Shouldn’t I feel more
possessive? Is it just because
I discovered something about
him tonight I never expected?
I’d say something completely
foreign, but it’s not. It’s something
I’m intimately aware of, having lived
with it all my life. Dad hides it well
most of the time, and obviously
Gabe does, too. In fact, he disguises
it better, or maybe it only seems
that way because I’ve known him
for such a short while. But beneath
his gentle exterior, way down
in the depths of those lizard eyes,
roils a red-hot mantle of rage.
Maya
For Casey
Oh my God! What’s happening? We’re a long way from New York City, but if it could happen there, maybe it could happen right here. It seems like the whole world’s gone crazy. NYC. North Carolina. There. Here. Everywhere. Crazy. Who would do such a despicable thing? Who? And why?
It’s September 11. Your birthday. I got up early to see your daddy off to work and bake a cake for your party. It’s Tuesday, so I didn’t plan anything big, just a few of your playgroup buddies and their moms, who I can more rightly call acquaintances than friends.
Daddy said we should’ve waited until Saturday, but I think a girl should celebrate the actual day she was born, rather than hold off to accommodate other people’s schedules. But now your party is on indefinite hold.
Not too long after your daddy left, he called me. “Turn on the TV.”
“Why? What channel?”
“All of them. Just do it.”
Every channel showed the same thing. The twin towers of the World Trade Center, the biggest buildings in this whole country, were in flames. Smoking. Falling apart. Someone flew planes into them. On purpose. Big planes. Jetliners.
They showed it in slow motion.
I couldn’t stop watching. Still can’t turn it off, even though I know people are dead. They keep repeating footage of them screaming. Falling. Jumping. Jumping from so high up in the air they could never survive, but they preferred that to burning to death.
One of the towers crumbled. Crashed to the ground, nothing left but rubble, dust, and smoke. And bodies. In pieces. So much carnage. How do you escape when you’re seventy stories up in the air, only stairs to get you down, not knowing what’s below, or if what’s above you will crush you?
Then the second tower broke apart, too. There were—are—people trapped inside. Some are first responders—cops, firefighters. Trying to save the others. You don’t know, baby girl, you don’t know.
It’s like a scene from a movie. Some awful disaster flick. Only it’s real life. Real death. So many must have perished. Men. Women. Little kids. Babies. What if you and I were there in that building or on the ground, when it all came tumbling down?
Now they’re saying another plane crashed into the Pentagon, and yet another in a field somewhere. Hijacked, all of them. Passengers and crew, minding their own business, traveling to or away from home.
“Collateral damage.” That’s what the military spokesman called them. Not wives or parents or brothers. Cold as a mortuary slab. “Collateral damage.”
A pretty newswoman, coaxed not to smile as she usually would, says, “These are concerted acts of terrorism.”
Well, yeah. What else could they be? We don’t know who these terrorists were, or what motivated them to commit this kind of atrocity, and we won’t for a while. But our country is under attack. That means we—you and I—are under attack. This isn’t supposed to happen on American soil.
I’ve never considered myself patriotic. Definitely not a fan of the military. I married a soldier so I could divorce my mother, not because of his uniform or because I believed in some noble cause. But since this morning, love for my country has skyrocketed.
I don’t know a single soul in New York City, but as I sit glued to the television, watching them run for their lives or stand there, staring in shock, I’m crying for all of them, and for every American. We’re afraid. So very afraid.
The base is scrambling, all personnel on high alert, and I’m sure every active installation in the country is the same way. The threat feels foreign, and what might happen next, not to mention when, is anyone’s guess.
Four different people managed to fly four domestic jet aircraft into four separate targets. Well, the one that went down in Pennsylvania probably missed whatever it was aiming for. Even so, how is this possible?
“Don’t worry,” your daddy tells me. “Everything will be fine. You’re safe. I’ll see to it, no matter what.”
I wish I could believe him, but anxiety surrounds me like a prickly aura, vaguely electric. I work very hard to keep you from sensing it. You’ve played and napped through the whole thing, happily unaware.
While you were sleeping, Tati called, and we talked for a long, long time. One of her cousins is a New York City policeman. She doesn’t know if he’s all right. “Air travel will probably be tough for a while,” she said. “But when it eases up, I want to come visit. Think that would be okay?”
It was the best thing I heard all day, other than you trying out new words that you happened to overhear. “Pre-zi-den?”
“Close. President.”
I wouldn’t want to be President Bush right now. Or anyone in charge of anything. I just want to shut the blinds and hide.
Daddy won’t be home, so I fix your favorite dinner—mini corn dogs and Fritos. After you finish, I go ahead and light the three candles on your cake, and as I watch you licking chocolate frosting off your fingers, I wonder about your future in a world gone totally insane.
What will you face tomorrow? In a year, or five, or a decade? How can I possibly keep you safe when I don’t know what might fall from the sky? Will I spend the rest of my life looking up, or scanning the horizon for incoming planes?
Before today, I was only really afraid of two people. My mother. And your daddy. Sometimes he stares at me and I think he wants to take me apart, and I don’t know why except there’s a piece of him that only appears when roused by anger. So I try very hard not to make him mad. Now, with everything going on, he’ll be ridiculously on edge. As long as he doesn’t take it out on you, I’ll make it all right.
Happy birthday, my angel. I’m sorry this day will always be linked to this awful event, but with time the fear will fade and I’ll do everything I can to make our celebrations happy ones. For now, I’ll share a piece of cake with you. Then we’ll watch Dora the Explorer until you’re ready for bed, and after I tuck you in tonight, I’ll worry about tomorrow.
Ariel
Last Night
Post Gabe-and-Garrett nightmare
I immersed myself in the dream
that is Monica. Once Syrah’s house
emptied we smoked a little weed,
and then it was past time for bed.
You two take my mom’s bed, urged Syrah.
“You’re sure she and her boyfriend are
out of town? I’d hate to surprise them.”
I’m sure. She and the nimrod don’t have
sex here. I think she’s afraid I’ll learn
something a girl shouldn’t by listening
in on her mom. So when they’re in the mood
they get a room. And, l
ucky you, that
also means the sheets are mostly clean.
Where’s your sister tonight? asks
Monica. One of us could take her bed.
She spent the night with a friend, and if
you’d rather sleep separately, okay by me.
No Judgment
Either way. I love that about
Syrah. She went off to her own
bed to dream about Gabe
or whatever. I was so happy
when he finished the cleanup,
then begged off for the night.
Not sure if he intuited my
negative reaction or if the act
of beating people to a bloody
pulp tired him out, but he left
right away, reminding me
we’d talk after my game.
Once Syrah shut her door,
I asked, “You want to be alone
tonight? It’s okay if you do.”
It would’ve hurt my feelings
terribly, but I wasn’t about
to say so. “Feliz cumpleaños,
mi bella amiga.” Happy birthday,
my beautiful friend, and that’s
exactly how she looked there
in the low lamplight. Beautiful—
wild and dark and unpredictable,
like some creature of the forest.
She held out her hand.
Quiero pasar la noche contigo.
We spent the night together.
Monica’s Beauty
Was blanketed by darkness,
but every unique inch of her
is pressed into my memory.
All the recent ugliness melted
beneath the luscious mocha
of her skin, a whisper against
mine, promising tomorrows
saturated with love. Love. I hardly
know how to accept the possibility
that it’s real, and available to me.
We had no need to hurry, and
in the tarrying, I found something
unexpected—an exchange of energy
so intense I think we could have
come without even touching.
But touch we did, with mouths
and tongues and, oh, you can hardly
imagine the incredible sensuousness
of the lowly fingertip when bringing
pleasure to a partner is your entire
realm of being for an hour or more.
More. Much more, until, completely
spent, we fell asleep, safe in each other’s
arms. Oh, that was sex as it should be.
What I Can Say
In retrospect
is I still like sex.
But I think it’s better
with trust involved.
I didn’t have to worry
about doing anything
right
or
wrong.
I just had to trust
we’d take care of each
other, there in bed,
but also after,
when maybe cake
becomes the determining factor,
or tamales or a horror flick.
Anything except
orgasm
which is not
necessarily dependent
on someone wanting
to spend the night with you.
What I Can’t Say
With certainty is how
I feel about Gabe
this morning.
Maybe I overreacted
on a purely emotional level.
I mean, he was protecting me,
and had he not stepped up,
who knows what might
have happened?
Still, pulling back
from the situation and
dissecting his response,
I come away
not only disappointed
but also a little scared.
Not so much scared
that Gabe would hurt me.
I’ve never felt threatened
by him before. But then
again, how would I know
exactly what might
set him off?
And that’s what
really scares me—
that I never noticed
even hints of warning
signs before.
Or Maybe
It was just a fluke
and I’m way overthinking it,
when right now
what I should be thinking
about is the game.
I take my car.
Syrah follows with Monica
in hers. I’m sure sooner
or later I’ll try to cheat
the system and allow
someone under twenty-five
to ride with me
before my provisional license
becomes unrestricted
in a year. But for now
I’ll play by the rules.
The high school isn’t far,
and when we pull into
the parking lot, I’m gratified
to see it’s already filling
with spectator vehicles.
A quick scan
doesn’t reveal Dad’s car,
but it’s still an hour
to game time,
so maybe he’ll show.
The GTO, now sporting
a fresh coat of racing green
paint, is noticeable, however.
I park close to the locker
room, go in to suit up
in my shiny blue uniform,
nerves tingling.
This will be my first
actual game
and as starting center
the pressure to perform
well is building.
Coach Booker gives
a short pep talk
that does little to alleviate
the tension bloating the space
between the locker rows.
At least it’s not just me
who’s nervous.
We’re all pacing
or bouncing up and down
on our toes.
It’s a relief
when Coach calls us
to go warm up.
At least until we file
into the gym,
where the bleachers
seem to sag beneath
the weight of so many people.
But hey, it’s cool.
No reason to think we’ll blow it.
From Tip-Off to Halftime
It’s a fairly even match,
the scoring shifting back
and forth between teams.
Syrah misses a couple
of rebounds; I miss a shot
or two, and so does Monica.
But on the upside, I sink
four two-pointers and one
from outside the key that
nets us three. Monica scores
a half-dozen times,
including the free throw
that puts us ahead
going into the locker
room at the half.
As we start in that direction,
I scan the bleachers.
No sign of Dad. Big surprise.
I do catch sight of Hillary,
who’s sitting between Peg
and Gabe. They’re laughing.
One other person stands out,
mostly because she holds
herself painfully straight, which
puts her a good six inches
taller than the man beside her,
and if I’m not mistaken,
she’s staring at me.
When she sees me notice
her, she smiles warmly,
as if we know each other,
which we definitely don’t.
If she wasn’t so pretty,
I might think she was
&
nbsp; some creepy stalker.
Maybe she just likes
watching stellar girls’
basketball play.
In the locker room,
Syrah comes puffing up,
water bottle in hand.
Did you see Gabe, all over
Hillary? What’s up with that?
Why do you care? asks
Monica. Not like he’s yours.
But maybe he could be.
I mean, as long as you’re finished
with him. Addressed to me.
“Listen, if you can snag him,
go for it.” Seems doubtful.
“Anyway, I don’t think
he and Hillary are together
together. Just sitting together.”
Coach Rallies Us
For the third quarter,
figuratively slapping us
on the back and promising:
You girls got this.
Now get on out there
and take ’em down!
We don’t exactly drop
them to their knees,
but two quarters of hard
play put us ahead by four
at the end of the game,
and I can personally take
credit for nineteen points,
second only to Monica.
Syrah even scored six,
so we’re all happy
when that final buzzer
rings. As we slap hands
with the other team, the crowd
begins to desert the stands
and I notice Zelda’s with
Gabe now, no Hillary, Peg,
or Dad in view.
Thanks, Dad. Glad I mean
so much to you.
But as I Shower
It occurs to me that Dad
might have come with Zelda.
He could have been in
the bathroom taking a piss.
He could have been outside
polluting his lungs.
He could have been at
the snack bar buying popcorn.
Nah. The snack shack
would have been closed.
But the other two options
are still valid, so I’ll go in search
of my father, hoping, if not
believing, he’ll be here somewhere.
A phrase that materializes
from the ether: glutton for
punishment. And right behind
that: none so blind as those
who will not see. Wonder if
the idioms will prove wrong.