Tricks

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.