Rumble

  I thought he was a psycho,

  not a psychic. What does he see?

  You’re tense as a new grunt on

  perimeter patrol. What’s up?

  Like it’s any of his business?

  Still, I offer, “Guess I’m kind

  of pissed at the world right now.”

  He smiles. I know the feeling.

  You here blowing off steam?

  Not really his business, either.

  Still, “Some of that, yeah. That,

  and maybe plotting revenge.”

  It’s supposed to be funny, but

  the not-joke thuds between us.

  He thinks a moment, then says,

  You know how they say revenge

  is best served up cold? I’d say

  it’s best not served up at all.

  Revenge is a great motivator,

  but it doesn’t help achieve

  the desired results. I’ve seen

  guys lose buddies, then go

  off half-cocked, piss fuel

  running through their veins.

  Things never turned out well.

  He’s So Rational

  I can hardly believe

  it’s the same guy who

  was freaking out over

  a misfire a few weeks ago.

  I could argue that I was

  kidding, I’m not out for

  revenge, hot or cold.

  But I’m finished arguing.

  “Thanks, Gus. I’ll keep

  that in mind. Maybe next

  week we can have a rematch?

  I’ll try not to come pissed.”

  Easier said than done,

  buddy. But sure, always

  up for a little competition.

  And by the way, when all

  else fails, go for a run.

  Hard to stay mad when

  you’re breathing hard.

  Oxygen, that’s the ticket.

  I should get more exercise.

  “I’ll remember that, too.”

  The Glock

  Needs a good clean, so I go

  in search of Uncle Jessie,

  who’s got both supplies and

  expertise. He sets me up at

  a table in the office, demonstrates

  how to fieldstrip the gun,

  breaking it down into its major

  components—barrel, slide, guide

  rod, frame, and magazine. Keep

  those safety glasses on, now.

  The last thing any living person

  needs is to get solvent in their

  eyes. You don’t want to end up

  looking like me, do you?

  He watches me brush the bore

  of the barrel, then run patches

  through till they come out residue-

  free. It’s a long process, and people

  start to trickle in. No Dad, though.

  By the time the Glock is cleaned,

  lubricated, and reassambled,

  I’m starting to notice something.

  “Hey, Uncle Jessie. Do you feel okay?”

  He’s sucking in short, shallow breaths.

  Actually, no. My jaw aches, and

  I’m having a hard time finding

  air. Must be coming down with

  a bug or something. But I can’t

  leave. Quin’s in Eugene and there

  are all these people. . . .

  “I’ll take over.” He looks like death,

  and I’ve got nothing better to do.

  “The counter is pretty straightforward,

  and if something unusual comes up,

  I’ll give you a call. Go rest. Kick

  that bug before it really gets you.”

  He hesitates. The Turner men

  do not easily relinquish control.

  But then he winces, and whatever

  caused that makes him decide, Okay.

  Been thinking about an employee.

  Why not you? I’ll even pay you.

  He gives basic instructions: Most

  everyone is a member. Drop-in

  costs for those who aren’t. Services

  menu. Anything else can wait a few

  days. Chase everyone out by five.

  Lock up and bring me the keys.

  I Trade Him

  The building keys

  for my truck key.

  “You drive up that hill.

  I’ll walk it. Gus says

  I need more exercise.”

  He manages to wheeze

  out a laugh. Since when

  are you listening to

  what Gus has to say?

  “Since he started

  saying stuff that makes

  sense. So, go home and

  chill. Have a big glass

  of NyQuil or something.

  I’ve got this covered.”

  And I do. It’s a slow

  but steady day, customer-

  wise. No surprises. No

  unanswerable questions.

  Nothing I can’t handle.

  At Least, Until

  Gus comes storming through the door.

  Unceremoniously, he tosses Uncle

  Jessie’s pistol onto the counter.

  “Hey, that’s empty, right?” Last thing

  I need is a renegade bullet going

  through the wall and hitting a customer.

  Shit, yeah, he spits. I may be ugly,

  but I ain’t stupid. Where’s Jessie?

  Now it’s Gus who’s on edge, as

  evidenced by his concrete shoulders.

  Defusion may be necessary. “Uh,

  he’s a little under the weather,

  so he went home. Can I help you

  with something? I’m ugly and stupid,

  but I’ll do my best.” The sorry attempt

  at humor seems to relax him a little.

  Nah. Nothing you can do. I got

  a shitty call from my ex is all.

  Bitch wants to deny me visitation.

  They’re my kids, too, goddamn it!

  His face is the color of cherries,

  and his temples are visibly thumping.

  Jessie said he knows a lawyer

  who might cut a vet some slack.

  I’m half thinking his ex might have

  valid reasons. But what I say is,

  “That sucks, man. How old are

  your kids?” Why am I asking?

  Sixteen, fourteen, and twelve.

  I wasn’t around much when they

  were little. I don’t want them to

  forget who their dad is, you know?

  Even when my dad’s home, he’s

  not really around, so yeah, I get it.

  “I’ll see Uncle Jessie a little later.

  I’ll be sure and have him call you.”

  Everyone Has Vacated

  The place by four thirty,

  so I lock up at five on the nose,

  hike up the hill to the old farmhouse,

  fighting mud and incline.

  I’m wheezing a fair amount

  myself by the time I reach

  the front door. “Uncle Jessie?”

  I call as I go in, mostly to warn

  Curly, Mo, and Larry, who might

  not appreciate a surprise visitor,

  if they happen to be inside. But no,

  no sloppy pit-bull greetings.

  Jessie’s on the living room couch,

  beneath a blanket, watching hockey.

  “No basketball?” I set his keys

  quite obviously on the coffee

  table, so he’ll know where

  to look when he wants them.

  Nah. Basketball was always

  your dad’s sport. Not rough

  enough for me. I want to see blood.

  “I asked Dad to stop by after

  he dropped off his girlfriend.

  Guess he got tied up. Hell
, maybe

  he’s got her tied up.” Another joke

  bites the dust. Uncle Jessie doesn’t

  laugh, but he does turn his attention

  toward me, curiosity in his eyes.

  “You didn’t know about her?

  It’s been going on for a while.”

  He shakes his head. Wyatt and

  I haven’t talked in a good

  many months. Doesn’t surprise

  me much, though. In case you

  haven’t noticed, men

  aren’t monogamous by nature.

  Pretty sure there’s a subtle

  accusation to the statement,

  but I’m not in the mood

  to discuss my own relationships,

  or lack thereof. “Oh really?

  Does that include you?”

  Hell no. Zero hesitation. Matt,

  I’m a solitary soul. Quin’s more

  than enough company for me.

  Anyway, she never gave up

  on me when everyone else

  figured I’d probably croak.

  And she stood right by my side

  when I came home a one-eyed

  freak. Wouldn’t be right, running

  around on a woman like that.

  Risk losing her for a shot

  of poontang? Not on your life!

  “Why didn’t you marry her

  then? Afraid you might change

  your mind down the line?”

  No. I was afraid she might, and

  I wanted her to be free to leave

  if she wanted. I wasn’t a great catch.

  Wrong, soldier. In my opinion,

  you were an amazing catch.

  It’s Quin, back from Eugene.

  In Simultaneous Measure

  I flush with relief—

  didn’t want to leave

  Uncle Jessie here alone—

  and concern overtakes

  Quin, who scurries to

  the sofa. Are you sick?

  Her fingers probe

  his forehead for fever.

  “He thinks he’s coming

  down with a bug. I told him

  to get off his feet for a while.

  Who knew he’d actually listen?”

  Bug schmug. It’s nothing

  a goddamn score couldn’t fix.

  Come on, Kings. The requisite

  implied exclamation point

  is totally missing. Quin

  decides not to mention it,

  instead asks me, What’s up

  with you? No girlfriends today?

  “Nope,” I snort.

  Not even one.

  I Decline

  Quin’s obligatory

  dinner invitation.

  Mention Gus’s request

  for a number to call.

  Remind them where

  I left the office keys.

  Give Quin a big hug,

  beg off giving Jessie

  one, too. He’s gracious.

  Nobody needs a damn bug.

  Truck key’s in the ignition.

  See you next week. Pause.

  Sorry about your father.

  Hope your mom’s okay.

  “Thanks. I hope so, too.”

  She is on my mind all

  the way home. Truthfully,

  I have no idea how she is.

  No Groceries

  No Dad. No Lorelei, at least.

  I’m one hundred percent

  starving, but before I raid

  my piggy bank and head off

  into the rainy night in search

  of cheap sustenance, I give

  Mom a call. She seems surprised

  to hear from me, adding more

  guilt to the pile I’m already

  suffocating beneath. “I miss

  you. Just wondering when

  you’re coming home.” I already

  suspect her answer, but still

  it’s like diving into ice water

  when she tells me she’s not.

  I thought your father would

  have told you by now. What

  would I do in Cottage Grove

  but wallow in resentment?

  Wyatt is determined to start

  over. I have no choice but to

  move on, too. I can stay here

  with Sophie and Shawn as long

  as I need to. Your grandparents

  are getting older, and I’ll be

  closer to them. My church is here,

  and it’s brought me a lot of comfort.

  On a brighter note, Sophie and I

  have been talking. When we were

  kids, we used to play dress-up and

  fantasize about designer clothes.

  We’ve decided to open a little

  boutique in Eugene. I’m tired

  of real estate, and I’ve got a nest

  egg saved up. It’s all in, baby.

  A boutique? Like Eugene’s a raving

  fashionista scene. Whatever, I guess.

  At least she’s got a dream. “The last

  time we talked about this, you said

  you couldn’t let Dad win.”

  I’ve rethought the definition

  of winning. He’s stuck in the past,

  and there’s a lot of sadness there.

  I’m moving forward. It has to be better.

  She Asks

  About school, but is certain

  I’m maintaining my grades.

  As far as she knows,

  I have nothing else

  to worry about.

  I tell her all’s well.

  She asks if I’m being

  faithful to Martha—okay, if

  I’m faithfully attending our

  sessions.

  I lie and say of course.

  She does not query me

  about “that girl,” or if we’re using

  protection. Maybe she’s aware

  that we’ve broken up.

  Maybe Hayden is in her friends network.

  By the time we hang up,

  I know a lot more about how

  Mom is.

  She still doesn’t know jack about me.

  It’s a Bittersweet Ending

  To a totally

  unpleasant weekend.

  Hurray for holidays!

  Can I get a woot-woot?

  I’ve lost my appetite,

  but considering I’ve had four

  frozen waffles and an omelette

  in two days, I conjure the energy

  for a trip to Subway. When I get back,

  Dad’s in the kitchen putting

  away three bags of groceries.

  Milk. Beer. Peanut butter.

  Bread. Definite bachelor fare.

  I help with the cans—fruit,

  soup, beans, chili—and cereal.

  At least he took a stab

  at the four food groups.

  We work in silence,

  afraid we’ll say too much

  if we open our mouths.

  When we’re finished, I offer up

  a single word. “Thanks.”

  You’re welcome.

  It’s the Most We Say

  To each other all week,

  which proves to be a tough

  one. I swear, I see Hayden

  around school more now

  than I ever did when I went

  looking for her. One or more

  Biblette is always with her,

  and it’s usually Jocelyn. If

  she turns that haughty bitch

  glare at me one more time,

  I’m liable to go ballistic.

  It’s all I can do to keep walking.

  Midterms are coming up, so

  every class is choked with

  monotonous reviews, totally

  unnecessary unless you didn’t

  pay attention the first time. I did.

  M
ore than once, I’m called out

  for zoning while a teacher is

  talking. Every time I mutter

  a lukewarm “sorry” when I want

  to scream, “Teach us something

  new for cripe’s sake, or stop

  pretending to be a fucking teacher!”

  I Do Keep

  My appointment with Martha.

  Not to talk about Luke or Hayden

  or any new revelations there,

  but to discuss my parents’ pending

  divorce. “Mom moved out a few

  weeks ago. She’s not coming back.”

  How do you feel about that?

  “Like my life’s being methodically

  ripped into ever smaller pieces.”

  That’s quite descriptive. Poetic, even.

  But this isn’t really a surprise, is it?

  “Well . . . I mean, I knew they had

  problems, but didn’t expect them to

  become so permanently unattached.

  And I had no idea about Dad’s girlfriend.”

  How do you feel about her?

  “She had no right to be screwing Dad

  while they were married to other people.”

  Do you think that was the root

  cause of your parents’ problems?

  “I don’t know. But Lorelei made it

  easier for Dad not to want to fix them.”

  How do you feel about that?

  “Stop asking how I feel! Deserted.

  Neglected. Unwanted. Unloved.”

  Is that different from how you felt

  before your mom moved out?

  Thud. Great fucking question.

  “Probably not a lot.” I hate Martha.

  What about Hayden?

  I did not. Come here. To talk. About

  her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  You told me you feel unloved,

  but she loves you, right?

  She’s either psychic or good at fishing.

  “Not anymore. Not for a while.”

  And So We Arrive

  At the heart of my overwhelming

  feeling of loss. My parents

  split emotionally years ago.

  Intellectually, they were probably

  never joined. Had they gone

  their separate ways before Luke’s

  death, he and I would have been

  like any kids faced with their parents’

  divorce. Sad, yes. Angry, probably.

  But we would have learned to cope

  with it. Instead, both my parents

  and my so-called girlfriend waited

  until after Luke died to leave me.

  Martha wormed all that out of me,

  because she’s excellent at her job.

  What she can’t tell me, however,