Rumble

intake always makes a person process better.

  I almost hesitate to return to our earlier

  discussion, but why are you worried

  about losing Hayden? You obviously

  care very much about her. Do you not

  think she feels the same way about you?

  She sits patiently while I consider

  the straightforward question. “I do,

  at least most of the time. But lately

  we seem to argue a lot, and since I know

  you’ll ask, over ludicrous stuff like jealousy.”

  The Soft Chime

  Of an alarm means our session

  is technically over. Technically,

  because Martha refuses to honor

  alarms. She shuffles in her seat.

  Our time’s up, I know, but

  I can’t let you go without

  saying that jealousy is far

  from being ludicrous.

  It’s the impetus for many

  bad things, including breakups.

  And now we slip into a short,

  terse-because-we’re-already-

  running-a-few-minutes-late Q & A.

  Q: Who’s jealous? You or her?

  A: “Both of us, actually.”

  Q: Are the reasons real or imagined?

  I almost say hers are invented,

  mine one hundred percent spot-on,

  but that even sounds warped to me. So,

  A: “I really wish I knew.”

  Beyond the Inner Sanctum Door

  There is noise in the waiting room.

  Martha’s next victim is also running

  a little late, which gives Martha

  the leeway to add, Well, since I can’t

  talk to Hayden, you’ll have to do it. Open

  up. Tell her what’s bothering you,

  without accusation. Discourse is a two-way

  street, though. Be sure to ask what’s on

  her mind, and listen without comment

  until she’s finished. Communication

  is the key to success in any relationship,

  but you have to be forthright. Love is a fragile

  thing, easily destroyed by dishonesty.

  Just remember to be honest with yourself

  first. Otherwise, there’s really no point.

  She smiles at my obvious eye roll, stands

  to let me know I have been dismissed.

  All right, then. Go forth. Cause no mayhem.

  Decent Session

  I leave, feeling marginally better

  about myself, Hayden, even my lack

  of friends. They were nothing

  but deserters, and who needs

  traitorous pals blurring the focus

  of your life? Perspective. That’s exactly

  what I needed today, and Martha is great

  at allowing me a broader view without

  accusing me of being a freak for not

  having it in the first place. She’s okay.

  I wish Mom would talk to her instead

  of bending her pastor’s ear, expecting

  the dude to be a human conduit to

  the Great Therapist in the Sky. But

  my parents seem to believe therapy

  is only useful when you’re young

  and not quite over your brother’s

  suicide. What about the self-inflicted

  death of your favorite son? At least,

  your favorite until it turns out he’s gay.

  I Almost Call Martha Myself

  When I get home and find Mom well

  on her way to an alcohol-fueled meltdown,

  instead of busting her butt not selling real

  estate due to the economy. She’s in the den,

  knees tucked beneath her on the window

  seat, and the gentle light through the glass

  does nothing to soften the blotchiness

  of her face. She’s been crying for a while.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, certain

  I don’t want to hear her answer

  or jump into this conversation.

  Too late. He. Wants. To leave. Me,

  Matthew. Tobacco spices her breath,

  and gin punctuates the sentence.

  “Dad?” Ridiculous question, like,

  duh, she means Dad. “Did he say so?”

  She coughs up a laugh. He never

  says anything, does he? Not even

  when Luke . . . Fresh tears splash

  from her eyes. No, he hasn’t said

  so yet. But he will. And I don’t know

  what I’ll do when he finally finds

  the guts to tell me that’s what he wants.

  What Would Martha Say?

  I draw from today’s session, put on

  my best therapist face. “I have no idea

  exactly what brought this on, but just

  today I was informed by an expert that

  communication is the key to every

  relationship. Why don’t you just ask

  him if that’s what he’s got on his mind?

  I mean, there’s no use stressing over

  something that may not happen at all.

  And even if that is his plan, isn’t it

  better to know for certain now, rather

  than wait for him to spring it on you?”

  She regards me with swollen eyes.

  It isn’t real until he makes it real. Until

  then, it’s better to worry in private.

  I should just let it drop, but what

  the hell, I’ve got a little time to kill,

  and I shouldn’t be the only one forced

  to regurgitate his secrets. “I’m going

  to be real direct here, Mom. Seems to

  me you and Dad haven’t had much

  of a relationship for a long time.

  Would it be the end of the world

  if the two of you got a divorce?”

  Her body visibly tenses. I need

  a cigarette. She straightens her legs,

  preparing to stand, but takes the time

  to answer. No, Matthew, the world

  wouldn’t end. But I can’t let that

  happen, because then, he’d win.

  Not sure which Mom I hate seeing

  more—the broken-down blubbering

  one, or the steel-hearted bitch.

  I watch the latter go off in search

  of a nicotene fix, and as I get to my

  feet, notice a newspaper Mom left

  folded back to the announcements

  page. My eyes skim for offending

  news, settle quickly on a divorce notice:

  Plaintiff Lorelei Crabtree versus

  Defendant Dale Crabtree . . . Lorelei.

  Dad’s old girlfriend just became free again.

  Which, to a Point

  Explains Mom’s weeping jag.

  But I still don’t know

  if she was crying from fear

  that Dad might leave her

  or crying from anger because

  now it might be a little easier

  for him to make that choice.

  But does he even know

  about Lorelei? If she lived

  in Cottage Grove, of course

  he would. It’s a very small town.

  Everyone is privy to the other’s

  business. But Lorelei stayed

  in Eugene. The city isn’t huge,

  but it’s big enough that neighbors

  don’t know their neighbors unless

  they make it a point to say hi.

  Big enough so you can live

  there without the people next

  door knowing your history,

  which might include the fact

  that the love of your life left you

  for some other girl he got pregnant.

  Big enough so the news you’re

  di
vorcing the replacement love

  of your life just might get buried

  on the announcements page

  where no one bothers to look.

  Except Mom. Personally, I think

  she’s crazy, and if Dad would even

  consider divorce, with all

  its repercussions, on the strength

  of such a big MAYBE, he’d be

  crazy too. And if Lorelei actually

  encouraged such a thing, she’d

  be the most insane person

  of the bunch, because as Creswell

  Grandma would happily counsel,

  Once a womanizer, always

  a womanizer. Or, why make

  the same mistake twice?

  Sage Advice

  Why don’t more people adhere

  to the practice? Personally, I’m

  going to make it my motto: Mistakes

  are easy to come by. Why make

  the same one twice? Maybe I should

  print it on T-shirts and sell them.

  My customer base would be huge.

  By the time I eat, change, and leave

  for the game, Mom and her Marlboros

  have vacated the front porch, though

  the ghost scents of both linger. I’d like

  to say, “Poor Mom,” and mean it, but

  I hate when she acts all pathetic even

  more than when she plays badass.

  It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who

  will put her own happiness on hold,

  especially when, by her own confession,

  the only reason she chooses to do that

  is to interfere with the possibility of Dad

  “winning,” as if, other than on the basketball

  court, he could ever be a real winner.

  He’s already lost way too much.

  We’ve all already lost way too much.

  I Purposely Miss

  The freshman basketball game,

  not only because Luke should be

  starring in it, but because watching

  Cal Stanton play starting forward

  instead would push me right up against

  the edge. Watching Dad coach him

  would shove me all the way over.

  Cal was always jealous of Luke’s

  innate ability. Like Dad, the work

  ethic part of the equation escaped

  him completely. In elementary school,

  Luke always got picked first, a trend

  that continued in middle school, where

  the basketball coach immediately

  recognized his talent. In seventh

  grade, Luke was the team’s most

  valuable player. Funny how something

  like that buys instant popularity, with

  teachers as well as classmates. That

  included girls, and I think it was about

  then that he started to realize his same-

  sex attraction. Here these pretty

  little girls were wanting to make

  out, and what he told me was, It

  doesn’t feel right. I mean, shouldn’t

  it make me horny? Which made me

  uncomfortable, but not because I

  immediately went to “My brother’s gay.”

  I just wasn’t prepared to hear him

  vocalize the word “horny.”

  Regardless, had he remained in

  the closet, today he would probably

  be a freshman superstar. Instead,

  Cal found out, and revenge was his.

  It’s hard to believe a fourteen-year-old

  kid could have such a vicious agenda,

  but he was determined that Luke would

  never make his first high school team.

  To top it all off, Dad had a heavy hand

  in that, too. Because when those pics

  went live, he told Luke not to bother

  trying out, he wouldn’t let him play.

  He Claimed

  It was for Luke’s safety.

  That something bad might

  happen to him in the locker

  room, or on the game bus.

  He claimed whatever bullying

  Luke was suffering then would

  only get worse in high school.

  He even suggested Luke might

  want to consider private school.

  A boarding school, maybe boys

  only, if that’s what he wanted.

  He was smart; he’d do well at

  a college prep academy. Some

  of them even had basketball

  teams. To Luke, the implications

  were clear: Play ball anywhere

  but here. And: No matter how

  good you are at academics or

  sports, I will never accept you,

  let alone be proud of you.

  Dad Refused

  To defend Luke and I have refused

  to support Dad by going to any

  of his games this year. Not that he cares

  any more about my being there

  than he did about Luke playing for him,

  champion material or not. I’m only

  going tonight to placate Hayden.

  I’ve never seen Dad shoulder any

  blame for what Luke did, other than

  that one weak moment the other

  morning, and I’m not really certain

  he admitted anything except passing

  on pussy genes. I’m relatively sure

  he’d believe that DNA leapfrogs

  generations. But even without accepting

  responsibility, what about love,

  Dad? Didn’t you ever love Luke?

  Or me? We were never really sure.

  I Get to the Game

  Halfway through the JV rout,

  Cottage Grove ahead by eighteen

  points. Go Lions! The gym is packed,

  and I scan the crowd, looking for Hayden.

  There she is, near the top of the bleachers,

  flanked by her do-gooder girlfriends.

  Whoopee. This is going to be great fun.

  Paused by the door, I happen to overhear

  a couple of people talking about the earlier

  game. Sounds like the freshmen lost.

  Too bad, so sad. You can’t win ’em all,

  Dad. Considering both the JV and varsity

  teams are perched on the topmost rung

  of the leaderboards, he’s probably not too upset.

  Championships there are all but assured.

  Wonder if steamrolling games ever

  gets tiresome, or if in some small recess

  of his brain he might actually prefer

  a close score once in a while—something

  that would require exceptional coaching

  skills to achieve the desired result.

  Is it all about winning, or does he still

  love the game for the game’s sake?

  Okay, probably a stupid question.

  The Varsity Game

  Is also a blowout. The most

  exciting thing about it is Hayden,

  a hint of summer in that wants-

  to-be-touched green sweater.

  It’s all I can do to keep my hands

  to myself, although I do rest one

  on her knee, relatively politely.

  Unfortunately, Jocelyn and

  the Biblette crew are sticking

  to Hayd’s opposite side like hot

  taffy, so she gabs through most

  of the game, and not to me.

  Later, I will most definitely

  communicate my displeasure,

  and without accusation, if such

  a thing is possible. Martha,

  my dear, why didn’t you explain

  exactly how to accomplish that?

  For the Moment

  I smile and give a jock cheer
every time

  one of our guys dunks a basket. Dad

  glances my way once in a while.

  Is he happy I’m here? Or pissed that

  I’m drawing attention to myself? Causing

  a scene and all. Which takes me back . . .

  To my aunt Sophie’s wedding. Mom’s sister

  defines Oregon hippie, so the whole affair

  took place in the woods, trilling birds and

  acoustic guitars providing the music as

  the bride and groom skipped down the aisle

  to pronounce their simple Let’s do forever

  togethers in front of a mail-order minister.

  After that came one helluva party. Sophie’s

  husband, Uncle Shawn, grew bud for profit;

  green haze wreathed the trees. My grandparents

  didn’t last much past the carrot cake, but

  the rest of the wedding goers stayed well

  beyond that. Dad didn’t indulge in the weed,

  but hit the champagne bottles hard, followed

  that up with harder stuff. Mom watched,

  uncomfortable, while the younger crowd

  wandered into the trees to do what buzzed

  kids do—get more buzzed, and hopefully,

  get lucky. What is it about weddings that

  exacerbates the horny in people? Anyway,

  Luke was in the eighth grade, and though

  he’d come out to me by then, the rest of

  the family was still in the dark. But everyone

  knew about Shawn’s nephew, Jeremy, who

  at fifteen was open about which way he leaned.

  That evening, he was leaning hard toward

  Luke. It was the first time, as far as I knew

  then or now, that any guy had ever come on

  to Luke, who was obviously attracted.

  I watched, half fascinated, half freaked

  out, as Jeremy and Luke connected.

  Not overtly. I mean, no tongue play or

  inappropriate touching. But you could tell

  they liked each other from the start. It was

  in the way everyone else seemed to disappear,

  poof! Nobody there but the two of them.

  In retrospect, I think I was a little jealous

  of the idea that Luke might come to care

  about someone else more than he looked up

  to me. Back then I would have said no, I was all

  for anything that made him happy. Denial

  is a powerful thing. It makes you believe lies.

  Booze

  Is also a powerful thing,