that looked like giants with big groping
hands reaching for me when the light
was low and the wind blew strong.
I can’t pull images of the furniture,
except for a recliner that had seen
better days. I wasn’t allowed to sit
in it. Leona said it belonged to her
resident ghosts, not that I understood
right away. Eventually, the reference
became clear, in recollections of framed
photos that hung on every wall—
a series featuring a mustached man
and a curly-haired blond toddler, even
younger than I. Turned out Leona’s husband
and child had died in a train derailment
a couple of years before. She didn’t like
to talk about them, and enough time had
passed that loneliness made her ripe fruit
for Dad to pluck. I don’t know what drove
us to finally leave, but his injuries had healed,
and we went in her dead husband’s car.
Over the Years
We’ve probably switched
cars three dozen times.
One way Dad made a few
extra bucks was by selling
a car for more than he’d
invested in it, then finding
another “deal” he could fix,
drive, and dispose of again.
He’s an ace mechanic. Once,
I asked him how he knew
so much about engine repair.
Pops taught me the basics,
he explained. And I took auto
shop in high school. I might’ve
dropped out and made my living
the way I’m making it now, but
the army wanted to see a diploma.
That’s about as much as he
ever told me about his teen
years. He doesn’t talk much
about his time in the service,
either, but oh, the alcohol-induced
stories I’ve heard about the ins
and outs of helicopter rotor repair!
All that thinking about cars
brings me back to why I can’t
have one. That has to change.
But It Won’t Today
This birthday is just about
over, no car for me, and what
the hell was I thinking? I’ll have
to find my own way to autonomy.
But then, I always understood
that, didn’t I? We bump into
the driveway, safe and sound
despite Dad’s compromised state.
“The sleigh knows the way,”
I say out loud, “so Santa, please
don’t sweat it.” The sentiment
floats up from out of the depths,
disturbing Dad, who throws
the gearshift into park, turns
off the ignition. He turns to look
at me. What did you just say?
I repeat the sentence while
trying to discern what’s got
him so riled up. “I have no idea
where it came from. Do you?”
He sits in silent contemplation,
as if searching for the right thing
to say, but ultimately comes back
with, Nope, never heard it before.
My Gut Reaction
To his answer
is one word:
bullshit.
I’m dying to
respond with
that single
word exactly:
Bullshit.
Except that word
requires all caps:
BULLSHIT.
No, more effectively,
rapid all-cap fire:
BULLSHIT
BULLSHIT
BULLSHIT
But that’s my gut,
not my brain, and
my brain is
where my own
bullshit
comes from,
at least, according
to Dad.
I Don’t Dare
Vocalize that, of course,
and not because of bad
language. Dad doesn’t
appreciate my pushing
back on anything. If he
utters it, I’m supposed
to believe every word.
Sometimes I think he
wants to own my brain,
manage it, housekeep it,
scrub it until it’s polished
to a contemplation-free
sheen, then reprogram
every single opinion.
At times I feel he’d like
to keep me in a box, tied
up with a pretty bow,
and truthfully, existing
stuffed in a cube would
be easier than mustering
the will to shake down
the invisible walls, break
free from my history, go
in search of the woman
I want to become, with or
without Dad’s blessing.
Oh, who am I kidding?
Forget the damn “with.”
Dad Will Never
Willingly let me go. Never encourage
me to grow up and detach myself
from his greedy grasp. No, I’ll have
to wrest myself away forcibly.
But then what? It’s not like I’ve got
a whole lot of options. Graduating
high school is goal number one,
and I’ve still got a way to go. I can
barely consider what’s beyond that
horizon. Placid ocean? Tsunami? Icebergs?
I can’t imagine life without my dad
in control. He’s definitely an overbearing
admiral, but what if I’m the kind of captain
who can’t avoid sideswiping the glacier
and sinking the ship? Oh, look. Here I go
again. Whenever I converse with myself
I talk a great game, but when I take a firm
mental stand, eventually I chicken out.
I really need to quit that. Dependency
isn’t only self-defeating. It’s self-perpetuating.
As Dad and I Go Inside
That silly Santa sentence keeps knocking
on the door to a corridor in my brain
I can never quite access. I swear I’ll unlock
the portal one day. Dad asks about TV,
but I’m tired and it’s approaching late,
and algebra comes with a test tomorrow.
I take a quick shower, brush my teeth,
don my pj’s, and climb into bed with
my math notes, not that they’ll do me
much good. Math and I have agreed
to disagree. The only reason I care at all
is I have to keep up my grades so I can
play basketball. The main problem
is, with all the school I missed growing
up, I never got the basics down very well.
Dad, who sometimes played the role
of homeschooler, tried his best to teach
me what he could, but his own education
was lacking. Some people might write
that off as Oklahoma ranchers not caring
about reading, writing, and arithmetic,
but Ma-maw and Pops valued school
learning. Uncle Drew was a good
student, according to Ma-maw, but Dad
always preferred messing around
with engines to building his brain.
That boy always did as little schoolwork
as possible. Just barely enough to get by,
she told me once. Then he’d sweet-talk
his teachers into passing him anyway.
That isn’t so hard to believe, especially
if his teachers were female. Knowing
this now doesn’t bother me much,
but when I was young it used to make
me mad because I loved when I got
to go to school. It made me feel like
a normal kid. Whenever I had actual
classroom time, I gathered every bit
of knowledge I could, and held it close.
But English and social studies came easier
than math and science, so I guess
I’ll always lag in anything numbers related.
One Thing Math Is Good For
Is making me drowsy.
Can’t sleep? You don’t need
melatonin or Lunestra.
Twenty minutes staring
vacantly at notes about
algebraic equations
does the trick every time.
I click off my bedside lamp,
drop my head on the pillow,
close my eyes, and burrow
into the darkness. The faint
sound of Dad’s TV show
is soothing, and somewhere
outside an owl cries whoo-
whoo over wind tapping
against window glass.
A pleasant lull wraps itself
around me and as I wait
for sleep to find me, that
silly refrain surfaces again.
The sleigh knows the way, so
Santa, please don’t sweat it.
Only this time, the faintest
hint of a voice is attached.
It’s a clear, warm soprano,
familiar but not, and now
she sings, You better watch
out. You better not cry. You
better not pout, I’m telling
you why. Santa Claus is coming . . .
It’s at once unsettling and
comforting. The latter because
I know the words are meant
for my ears; the former
because I can’t match a face
with the voice, and I must.
One of Dad’s women? Maybe,
but I don’t remember any of them
singing, at least not like this,
and definitely not to me. I know,
somehow, this person’s song
is meant specifically for my ears.
My mother. That’s who it is,
and I don’t want to listen to this
remnant of my earlier musing.
I put the pillow over my head
so the only thing left to hear
is the rasp of my breathing.
By Morning
My heart
has mostly glued
itself back together,
and my brain
has excised
last night’s unbidden
memory, scrubbed
away most of
the remains,
leaving me slightly
off-kilter. I’ve never
embraced the idea of
chasing
after the past when
the present is difficult
enough. Besides, I want no
specters
inhabiting my future,
so I’ve determined to
exorcise them, banish them
into the realm of nightmares.
I Wake Late
Stumble out of bed
and into clothes.
No time for breakfast,
I grab my backpack,
yell, “Hurry, Dad!”
and go wait for him
in the car.
It’s either ride
with him
or take a seat
on the school bus
that passes by
around the same time
he leaves for work
every day.
Buses are for kids.
Okay, technically
I still qualify,
but considering I
was robbed
of a normal childhood,
I’ve never really felt
like much of a kid.
Once upon a time,
I wanted to. I dreamed
of playing with other kids.
Dolls. Trucks. Princesses.
Army. Go Fish.
Anything but solitaire.
I wished I could share
the playground with someone
about my size who’d swing
beside me, higher and
higher, a race to the sky.
I yearned to ride
a bike or roller-skate
around a block
busy with children
eager for my company.
But anytime
I actually managed
to make a buddy,
it wouldn’t be long
before we’d leave
her in a cloud of exhaust
as we hit the highway again.
I learned not to bother
with connections.
Even once we moved here
and it seemed like we might
hang around a while,
it was months
before I allowed myself
the joy of friendship.
Without Monica’s Persistence
That never would’ve happened.
I have zero clue why she decided
to make me her pet project.
She reached out before she knew
my background, so it couldn’t have
been because she felt sorry for me.
I must’ve looked starved for company.
By then it was much too late to go
back and try to reclaim some kind
of childhood. Nope, I’ve never been
a kid. More like a dad-sitter, and God
knows he needed one. Still does.
Someone to cook and clean, a substitute
wife to make up for the one who split.
Someone to set his workday alarm
when he forgets, to quiet the house
on weekends when he wants to sleep
in. He always says he couldn’t make it
without me, that he needs a small voice
of reason, not to mention a keeper.
Case in Point
Here he comes hustling
out the door. With luck,
neither of us will be tardy.
But I don’t count on luck.
Which is why I’m relatively
sure the stinking algebra test
is going to get the best of me.
Then again, you never know.
Dad jumps in the car, starts
it, and as the engine idles
to “warm,” I remind him,
“Zelda’s making me dinner.”
Obviously, he’s forgotten,
if he ever really knew. What?
She didn’t invite me, did she?
“Um, I wouldn’t know, Dad.”
Definitely in need of a keeper.
“But I’m going over after practice.
She wants me to meet her nephew.”
Oh yeah. I remember now.
He turns, gives me a long, hard
assessment. That’s not what
you’re planning to wear, is it?
I glance down at myself,
unsure of what his concern
might be. “What’s wrong with
what I’m wearing? It’s clean.”
Is that supposed to be a joke?
Why is he so pissed? “No, Dad.
I just don’t understand why
my outfit bothers you.”
It’s a little too provocative.
Jeans and a peasant blouse?
Everything’s covered, though
the blouse is a gauzy material.
I could argue, but maybe he’s right.
“One sec.” I run into the house,
change into a long-sle
eved
T-shirt, hoping we won’t be late.
That’s better, Dad says when I get
back. Never forget . . . He winks
at me. All guys only want one thing.
Not Exactly a Problem
But it could be if I protest too much.
So I nod and wink back. “I’ll remember,
Dad. But don’t worry. Zelda will supervise.”
Engine suitably tepid, he puts the car
in gear, backs out onto the main road.
Guns it. You’ll need a ride home, though.
“Not sure. Maybe Zelda will bring me,
or maybe Gabe has a car. First day,
he probably won’t go for that one thing.”
Yeah, well, if he does—if any dude ever
does—you tell me, hear? I’ll take care of it
so it never happens again, that’s for sure.
If I ever experience something like that,
I think I’ll deal with it and keep it to myself.
I have to admit I’m pretty naive about sex.
Other than a few leering comments, guys
haven’t exactly lined up to take interest
in me. I’ve never even been to first base,
let alone circled the field. Not with a boy.
Not with a girl. I’ve come closer with Monica
than I should have, because I know as soon
as I fall in love, Dad’ll find a reason to move.
Moving away from “home” would be bad.
Moving away from love would be devastating.
School Isn’t So Bad Today
Even algebra goes smoothly.
I know the test answers, or
at least think I do. Pretty sure
I’ll pass anyway. History
is interesting for a change,
and psychology is fascinating.
I took psych as an elective.
Syrah says I’m dumb, that art
would be easier, and I guess
she’s right. But dissecting
the human mind is something
I might choose as a career path.
God knows, just checking out
the people in the halls, mental
health issues are everywhere.
Substance abuse. Eating disorders.
Depression. Thoughts of suicide.
It’s a bottomless bowl of nuts.
Okay, I know a health-care
professional wouldn’t use
the term “nuts,” but right now,
picturing Hillary as a pecan
makes me smile. Usually when
I see her I want to run for cover.
Hillary Grantham
Is one of those girls
everyone pretends to like,
though actually liking her