coming in after working backhoe.
I remember how he touched
Iris, and how she didn’t
care that her kids could see.
I remember his Marlboro breath
falling all down around me when
he said, Let me show you something.
On Another Day
It wouldn’t have happened,
couldn’t have happened.
Too many witnesses around.
But for some odd reason,
that particular afternoon,
Iris had taken the other kids
to play in the park. You stay
and start dinner, she said.
We won’t be gone very long.
I didn’t mind. I was too old
for swings, and I’ve always
liked spending time by myself.
But it wasn’t more than ten
minutes before Walt came
through the door. He didn’t
ask where Iris was, or why
the house was so quiet.
He didn’t say one word.
I opened a can of refried
beans, spooned them into
a pot. I had no real reason
to be afraid. So why did my
hands shake? I kept my back
to him but could feel his eyes,
carving into me. Finally,
he started toward the living
room. Bring me a beer, sweets.
I dug one from the fridge.
But he wasn’t on the couch,
as expected. Back here, he called
from Iris’s room. He was already
out of his jeans. I didn’t know
much then, but I knew there was
something very wrong about
that. Still, I took him the beer,
holding my breath against his
stench. He grabbed my hand,
jerked me hard against him.
Let me show you something.
I tried to run, but he was faster.
Tried to fight. He was stronger.
Tried to scream. He choked my cries.
When He Finished
(Thank God it didn’t take long),
he rolled off me with a grunt.
Reached for his beer. Slammed it.
Ripped and pried, swallowed
up by the shame of what that
meant, I crawled into the bathroom
to scrub away the evidence.
Not that I’d dare tell anyone.
Not when he followed me,
stood in the doorway, watching
me, finally said, Tell a soul,
I’ll do your sister, too. He knew
that was a bigger threat than
saying he’d hurt Iris or some
other TV kind of shit. Because
I knew he would come back
for Mary Ann. She was only
eight. If he did this to her, she’d
die for sure. It had almost
killed me. I’ll probably
always link sex with pain.
All That Comes Back
Like a sucker punch, mirrored
now in Harry’s corpse-cold
eyes, moving all over my body—
climbing up, shimmying back
down. I hate them. Hate him,
because he’s no different from Walt.
Iris doesn’t notice, or maybe
doesn’t mind. She’s always
saying, You be nice to Harry.
We want to keep him happy.
She’s bold about bringing
Harry around, bold because
Gram is mostly at the hospital.
Her path has only crossed
Harry’s a couple of times,
and when that happens, their
dislike for each other hangs
thick in the air like smog.
Iris pretends that it doesn’t.
Iris is good at pretending.
She breathes make-believe.
Not Sure
If Harry is tuned in to
how Iris earns her booze
and pill money. Don’t think
so, though. She has always
tried to keep pleasure and
business in two different boxes.
Ugh. Bad double meaning
there. A sick sort of laugh
escapes and Iris, who is at
this very moment sitting
across the room from me,
asks, What’s so funny?
Which makes me bust up
even more. All I can do
is snort, “Nuh … nothing.”
Harry, who is sitting next
to Iris, slurping a Keystone,
butts in. Then why the hell
are you laughing? Those crow
eyes take even bolder liberties
with my body, and there’s
something in his voice—
something far beyond mean.
Something approaching
sadistic. People don’t just up
and laugh for no damn
reason, do they, little girl?
Anger firecrackers. I want
to yell. Instead I keep my
voice very low. “I don’t know
who in the fuck you think
you are, but you’re nothing
to me. I don’t answer to you.”
Fists knotting, Harry jumps
to his feet. Iris reacts by
jumping to hers. W-wait,
baby. No need to get mad.
The words puff from her
mouth. She’s just a dumb kid.
A Nuclear Bomb
Goes off inside my skull—
a white-hot mushroom
cloud of rage. “Yeah, well,
at least I’m not a whore! Wait.
‘Whore’ is too good a word
for you and what you do.
‘Hooker’ works much better.”
I hesitate just long enough to
gain some satisfaction from
the look on Iris’s face. Then
I escape out the front door
before the shit smacks the fan.
It’s May, and Mojave heat
practically knocks me off
my feet, but I run. Run from
Iris, from her crow. He’d pick
my bones clean, and I know it.
Run from Gram’s house, not
home without her in it. Run
from shadow into overbearing
sunlight. Run toward town.
I wish I could keep running.
Farther. Forever. Wish
nothing could turn me back.
I run all the way to Alex’s house.
By the time I get there, sweat
streams from every pore, washing
away hurt and anger. Luckily,
when I pound on the door,
it is Alex who answers. Hey.
She steps back, and I fall into
cool darkness. It’s like diving
deep. What happened? she asks.
We are alone in the place,
and that is good, because
for some stupid reason, I tell
her the entire story, including
the stuff about Walt. Words
keep spilling out of my mouth
as if a faucet broke. When I
finally stop, I’m crying.
And Alex is holding me.
No One Has Ever
Held me like this before,
strong but kind. Gentle,
even. Fact is, I’m surprised
I’m letting her hold me.
My MO is to withdraw.
But this feels good, and that
makes me cry harder. What
have I missed? “I’m sorry.
You didn’t need to hear all that.”
Alex brushes the hair from my
forehead, mindless of sweat.
It’s okay. I understand. Men
are dogs for the most part.
Scratch that. Dogs are kind
of cute, and they only come on
strong when the bitch is
in heat. She goes quiet,
lets me finish feeling sorry
for myself. Finally I go quiet
too. I look up, wanting to
thank her. She smiles. Kisses me.
It’s a Soft Kiss
On the mouth, sensual,
and it’s exactly the way
I imagined it might be.
Her lips are smoothed
by a sheen of raspberry
ice, and they make no demands
beyond this sweet three
seconds of connection.
Iris’s men dissolve, salt
in rainwater. There is no
more, no “let’s have sex,”
which leaves me both content
and confused. I think you
need a drink, she says.
As she goes into the kitchen,
a new fantasy springs
to life. “Have you ever
thought about running
away?” I call after her.
She returns with a couple
of Cokes, spiked heavily
with what I think is rum.
All the time. No one would
even miss me. What about you?
“I’d go right now, but who
would take care of the kids?
And anyway, where would I go?”
We sip our drinks in silence.
The afternoon slips by, hazy
with alcohol. Finally I glance
at the clock. Almost six. I don’t
want to go, but someone has to
make dinner. When I get home,
Iris is on the phone. She turns,
smiling. Sandy will be okay.
They’ll release him in a few days.
A Poem by Cody Bennett
Release
I’m not the religious
type. Mom goes to church
but I mostly ignore it.
Not sure
if there is a God or why
some all-powerful being
would give half a damn
about
the likes of me. Lately,
though, I’ve tossed out
a prayer or two, thrown
them like fastballs at
heaven,
if there is such a thing.
I’m afraid they only
bounced back to
Earth, or
spun out into space,
unheard. Either way,
guess I’ll give it another
try. Why not? What the
hell
have I got to lose?
Cody
Falling Apart
That’s how everything feels,
like it’s dissolving one molecule
at a time. I’m scared. Damn it,
I hate to admit it, but my gut churns
night and day. I can barely eat.
Only booze goes down and stays.
Mom is at church right now.
Church, of all places! We haven’t
been regular churchgoers since
we left Wichita. Now she’s not only
religious. Apparently she’s Catholic,
and asking for intervention. Praying
for a miracle. Some sort of Hail Mary
sign that Jack will make it home
again, happy, healthy, and maybe
a little wiser about indigestion and
what that can mean. That persistent
bellyache? Turned out Tums
weren’t going to fix it. No wonder
I can’t eat. Too much information
about what causes stomach cancer
and what happens when it metastasizes,
infiltrating blood and cells to infect
the esophagus, pancreas, and who
knows what else. It’s just about
enough to make me choose a liquid
diet. Water. Bottled. (Tap water can
be carcinogenic.) V8 (low sodium—
salt is a factor in stomach cancer)
for your veggies. A little bouillon
(takes care of the protein requirement,
right?) watered down with vodka.
And for dessert, stiff megashots
of gin. Hey, someone besides Cory
should drink it. He’s developed
a tidy habit and isn’t real good
at hiding it. But Mom and Jack
can’t turn him around. They barely
notice him. Or me. More important
shit on their minds. Like praying
for miracles. Like staying alive
just one more fucking day.
So Cory Drinks
Way too much. Pickling his brain,
and much too young to end up relish.
But how can I say anything when I
drink? And more. I smoke. Snort.
Pop pills. Anything to keep from
thinking about death, come knocking.
When Cory and I finish off Jack’s
dwindling booze stash, scoring more
won’t be a problem. Vinnie will happily
buy. At least as long as I keep bringing
bud to the Friday night games.
I’ve become a regular, and I’ve learned
to play poker, not that I always
win. Not even. I’ve dropped a dime
or two. But the rush that comes
when I do win is worth every penny
down the drain. Gambling is like
snorting cocaine. Up. Down. Up.
And, despite knowing you have to
crash sometime, all you can think
about when you’re doing it is the high.
I’ve dropped two hun in a single night.
That sucked. But once I won almost six.
Oh, yeah! Put me clear through the roof.
A New Rush
I’ve just tapped into is online
gaming. Roulette. Blackjack.
Poker. More. I’ve learned how
to play games I never even knew
existed. It’s fun. Really fun. In
fact, it’s a total, amazing rush,
and you don’t even have to leave
home to get it. All you need
is a computer and a way to deposit
some cash in your own Internet
casino account. And hey, I’ve got
a bank card. Not a whole lot in my
personal checking, but that’s about
to change. All I need is one big win.
And what’s really insane is the casino
gives you a cash bonus to sign up. I put
in five hundred; they threw in three.
I’m ahead already. Well, was ahead.
I’ve gone through the bonus and a little
more. But that’s the nature of gambling.
Win some. Lose some. Just have to
stay on top of things. Walk if it isn’t
your night. Tonight I’m almost even.
All I need is one hand, the right hand. …
Shit!
Okay, that wasn’t the right hand.
At least I only had twenty riding.
Maybe I should switch to roulette.
My brain isn’t working so well right
now. Not sharp enough for poker.
Roll the ball, watch it go round
and round. Come on, twenty-seven!
Just as the traitorous ball drops
into thirty-four, my cell phone rings.
My face flushes hot, like a little kid
caught dipping his fingers in the frosting.
But it’s just Ronnie. Hey. What’s up?
“Uh … not much. What’s up with
you?” She wants me t
o come get her,
and as she waits for my response,
I can picture her face, all pouty
with impatience. Pretty face. Better
body, all sleek and tan and …
Ah, what the hell? I’m not making
much progress here tonight. “Sure,
babe. Give me a few.” Why not?
Would be good to get out of the house,
and boning Ronnie is the one thing that
can take my mind off everything else.
First Things First
Just one more spin of the ball.
Come on, twenty-seven, come on,
twenty-seven. Sixteen? Shit!
Stop. Ronnie’s waiting, something
she’s not real damn good at.
Besides, Lady Luck doesn’t seem
to have joined me tonight. Bitch.
One more. Ten on twenty-seven.
Odds are better if you play the same
number. Yeah, I know I could play
columns or colors, but what’s the fun
of winning even money or two to one
when thirty-five to one puts you over
the top? Come on … Twenty-seven!
Fuck yeah! There it is! Maybe you
just gotta call ol’ Lady Luck names.
Three-fifty in the bank and I’m going
after the finest little piece of pie
in Vegas. In a minute. I’m playing
on casino bucks now, and I’m on
a roll. Think I’ll try a hand or two
of blackjack. Another swallow
of gin to keep the courage flowing.
Oh yeah, it’s definitely this boy’s night.
Damn Lucky Dealer
So much for three of the three-fifty
I won earlier. Blackjack
isn’t my game tonight, that’s for
sure. I need to learn the finer points,
like when to double down. Ah, hell.
The phone again. What time is it?
Almost ten? Where did the last
two hours go, and what does this
do to my odds of getting laid?
Ronnie’s pissed, I’m guessing.
She is. I thought you were coming
over. I’ve got school tomorrow.
Quick! Make something up. “Sorry.
I … uh … Cory came in all messed
up. I had to help Mom get him to bed.”
I’ll probably burn for lies like that,
but I think it worked, so I sign off,
delete all incriminating history.
The extra-long pause means she thinks
I might be bullshitting her. But finally
she gives in. What else can she do?
She so wants me! Come over anyway.
My parents are in bed. I’ll sneak
you in through the window.