Rumble

  “Hayden, I didn’t do anything

  to you, and I didn’t do a damn

  thing with Alexa except make

  sure she got home safely. Please

  don’t be mad. I would never

  jeopardize what I have with you.”

  Seethe. That’s the word.

  She’s seething. You’re wrong.

  You already jeopardized it.

  End of debate. I drop her

  off and if her dad is watching

  out the window, he’s gloating

  about what he sees. No kiss. No

  goodbye. No see you tomorrow.

  Infuriating!

  Why won’t she listen?

  Why won’t she believe me?

  Will she just stay mad for

  a little while, then automatically

  forgive me? Why do I doubt

  that? Girls hold grudges

  longer than guys do.

  Except, that’s not exactly

  accurate, is it? I mean,

  there’s Dad. And there’s me.

  Dad, who’ll always blame

  Mom for his fizzled dreams.

  Not his dick. Not his warped

  sense of morality.

  Me, who will never

  forgive those who played

  supporting roles

  in the Luke melodrama.

  No, I can’t forgive them,

  and the only narrow windows

  of forgetfulness I enjoy

  are when I’m with Hayden.

  Therein lies a big problem—

  I need her more than

  she’ll ever need me.

  The Person

  I’d really like to choke

  is Lainie. She’s the impetus

  for all levels of this mess,

  and it’s probably good

  she’s nowhere within reach

  right now. Stinking troublemaker.

  What is wrong with people like her—

  those whose greatest pleasure lies

  in destroying others? Bitches,

  bullies, and broadcasters-of-shit.

  And for what? To feel mildly

  better about themselves,

  try to scrub away a chunk

  of the cancer eating them up

  from the inside out?

  They’re like well-fed Rottweilers,

  tearing into an entire flock

  of chickens, just to watch feathers

  fly and get off on the piteous

  squawking. All fangs

  and slobber. Zero sympathy.

  I Give Hayden’s Temperature

  A few hours to drop a degree or two.

  It’s Saturday night, and both my parents

  have gone out, but not with each other.

  Retreated to their separate alcohol-soaked

  corners. One, to talk sports and regret.

  The other, to discuss God and loss.

  What’s it like to spend an entire

  weekend together as an intact family?

  Hayden and I were supposed to have

  dinner together, post-mall. I’d planned

  on Thai. Instead, I microwave half-assed

  beef broccoli, chase it with a couple

  of Dad’s beers. He won’t miss them,

  and the carbonated buzz sounds inviting.

  Guess I’m burrowing into my own

  alcohol-infused sanctuary. Alone.

  I turn on the TV for company as I eat,

  random noise to fight the suffocating

  quiet. It weights this house, threatens

  to drop it down into a sinkhole of memory.

  How do I escape it? Where can I go?

  What can I do? Maybe Luke had the right idea.

  Buzzed but Anxious

  I won’t sleep right away, so I tune into

  old action movies on cable. Before it gets

  too late, I call Hayden, apologize again

  for doing nothing wrong, although I don’t

  reiterate that last part. “Will I see you

  tomorrow? I’m still jonesing for Thai.”

  Even bounced off a satellite, thousands

  of miles above us, her voice sounds cool.

  I don’t know. I’ve got church, and after,

  Mom wants us to visit Nana. The tough

  old crow lives in a retirement complex,

  but not because she needs care. More like

  because she needs company. Most of her

  circle has moved away or journeyed on

  to the Old Folks’ Mansion in the Sky.

  “Please think about dinner. And what you

  want to do on Monday. I love you with all

  my heart.” Please don’t desert me, too.

  I Crash Late

  Still alone, anxiety shimmering

  around me like an aura. Though

  it’s cool in the house, I lie on top

  of my blankets, somehow too warm

  to go under. Every room is empty,

  and silence-bloated, so the blood

  whoosh in my ears sounds like

  the bellow of swollen surf. I try

  to relax my muscles, but I feel like

  a winter kill, left to freeze overnight.

  My therapist gave me relaxation

  techniques to try at times like this.

  I imagine floating on my back in

  a warm, salty sea. No effort. Eyes

  closed to the gentle sun against

  my face. Now I create a mantra,

  a rhythmic chant: “Ohm. Ohm.”

  Before long, it changes: “Omega.”

  The last. The ultra. The end. I sink

  beneath the surface, no light, no air,

  but oddly no fear, and it doesn’t hurt

  not to breathe. Is this what death is?

  I have nowhere immediate to go,

  so I let the current tug me at will.

  It carries me to some sort of undersea

  grotto, at least it seems I’m underwater

  still, until I bump up against a graveled

  shore. A thin finger of light pokes down

  from an opening in the rock above.

  I crawl onto the beach, find myself

  completely dry. Breathe in. Exhale.

  I am alive. I hear footfalls in the gloom

  ahead, the slam of a door. “Hello?”

  I call, to no reply, so I investigate.

  Along a narrow corridor flanked

  by slick black granite. A sudden whisper

  of fear lifts goose bumps all over my body,

  and I know I have to hurry, or it will be

  too late. I break into a trot, chanting,

  “No, no, no.” And now I’m running

  down the hall in this very house. “No!”

  Luke’s door is locked, but the knob

  is no match for the adrenaline screeching

  through me. The first thing I see is his

  feet. He’s still wearing his left shoe;

  the right has fallen beside the chair

  lying sideways on the floor. Then I look

  up at his face. It’s plum blue. And he’s smiling.

  No! Please, No!

  My own scream yanks me awake, and I fight

  the black glove of night pressing me against

  my bed. I turn on my side, curl into a capital

  G, knees against my chest, sucking in air around

  an immense exhalation of sobs. The clipped rhythm

  of bare feet informs me Mom is home, and aware.

  She bursts through the door, flips the switch

  beside it, flooding my room with ochre light.

  What’s wrong? She looks at me. Understands.

  “I’m f-f-fine,” I stutter, though it’s obvious

  I’m anything but. “I haven’t . . . I just . . .

  It’s been a while since I’ve dreamed about it.”

  Mom a
pproaches slowly, almost warily.

  Something melts, her sharp edges blur

  and she puddles on the edge of my bed.

  In a rare gesture, she strokes sweat-damp

  strands of hair off my face, combs them

  with tobacco-perfumed fingers. I still dream

  about him, too. But not like that, and I’m

  sorry this is the way he comes to you.

  He mostly visits me as a little boy, before . . .

  She Leaves the Sentence Unfinished

  Her unspoken words trail

  like breeze-disturbed smoke,

  pale and thin, toward the ceiling.

  But I know what they are.

  Before he knew.

  Before we knew.

  Before anyone knew.

  I wish she wouldn’t talk.

  Wish she’d remember that

  even when things weren’t insane,

  you couldn’t have called them good.

  Before he grew up.

  Before he grew aware.

  Before he grew into himself.

  All I want her to do is keep

  weaving her fingers into my hair,

  comforting me like good moms

  do when their children hurt.

  Clatter and Cursing

  Shake me awake. I’m still lying on top

  of my bedspread, covered by billows of

  afghan. I remember last night. Mom’s hands.

  Grief, tremoring in the thick mantle

  of silence between us. I inhale regret,

  listen to Dad crashing around in the kitchen,

  punctuating every dropped pan or lid

  with invective. Sunday morning and

  the lift of silver light informs me noon

  isn’t far away. Mom will be at church

  while Dad fights his hangover with

  beer, or maybe vodka. Hair of the dog,

  or pelt of the wolf. No school tomorrow,

  coupled with the cupboard chaos,

  I’m guessing he’s chosen the latter.

  How is it possible for a multiple-

  championship-winning basketball

  coach to be such a loser when it comes

  to domestic responsibilities? How can

  anyone so egotistical about his career

  completely lack self-respect in regards

  to his home and family? I could just

  lie here, ignore his tirade. Instead, against

  all that is sensible, I fold up the afghan,

  straighten the covers, slip into flannel

  pants and a clean T-shirt, go see

  what, exactly, his current problem

  might be. When I get to the kitchen,

  he is bending over a raw egg spill,

  semi-mopping it up with paper towels.

  A tumbler of something tomatoey sits

  on the counter. Bloody Mary pelt of

  the wolf, I’m guessing. His attention

  is so raptly focused on the goo that

  he hasn’t noticed me yet. I could sneak

  away. Instead, I offer, “Need some help?”

  Which startles him and when he tries to

  jump, the hand clutching the slippery

  paper towels slides, lurching his whole

  body forward toward the fridge.

  Bam!

  His forehead slams into the stainless

  door. Then he windmills into reverse,

  splatting backward on his ass. Fuck!

  You trying to kill me, you little prick?

  “Nice parental vocab, Dad.” Not that he’s

  ever been the warm, fuzzy type. I extend

  my hand to help him up, but the gesture

  goes unappreciated, and he finds his feet

  all on his own. When he turns to face

  me, I can’t help but wince at the knot

  popping up, purple-black, just above

  the bridge of his nose. “Ouch. Sorry.”

  It would make sense for him to yell.

  Instead, he chooses obnoxious laughter.

  The Bloody Mary on the counter must

  not be his first. Might as well play smart-

  ass. It’s expected of me. “You’re supposed

  to scramble eggs in a bowl, you know.”

  I go to the cupboard for my favorite

  Pyrex container. Dad downs his drink

  and watches me expertly crack two eggs,

  depositing them in the bowl without

  so much as a sliver of shell. I beat them,

  add a dash of half-and-half, seasoning salt,

  and pepper. Then I melt a little butter

  in a frying pan, pour the yellow mixture.

  Look at that, would ya? His voice

  is sandpaper-textured. When did you

  learn how to cook? Luckily my back

  is turned so he can’t see my eyes roll.

  “Really, Dad? I’ve been cooking

  since I was a kid. God, wait for you

  or Mom to do it, Luke and I would

  have starved to death.” It was harsher

  than I meant it, and he responds

  in kind. You just fattened him up for . . .

  His Last Sentiment

  Drops into the sizzle-pop of eggs.

  I think about letting them burn,

  but then the kitchen would smell

  like butt, so I yank the pan off

  the flame, push it onto the countertop,

  which, fortunately, is granite.

  “Enjoy.” That’s what comes out

  of my mouth, but what I really mean

  is, “Hope you choke on them.”

  And as I start to leave, I mutter

  an under-breath amen: “Dickhead.”

  Apparently, it wasn’t qute far enough

  under my breath because he’s quick

  to cross the floor and grab my arm.

  What did you say? V8 and vodka

  can’t quite conceal the smell of stale

  sleep on his breath. His eyes move, side

  to side, as if trying to focus, and I really

  think he might be considering violence.

  “Want to hit me, Dad? Go ahead, if

  it makes you feel like more of a man.”

  The remark is unwarranted. He hasn’t

  touched me since I was around nine, and

  even then his spankings didn’t hurt.

  His Grip Loosens

  But he doesn’t let go completely.

  I know what he wants is an apology.

  Whatever. No skin off my nose.

  “I’m sorry I called you a dickhead,

  Dad, but your insensitivity pisses

  me off. You were shitty to Luke

  when he was alive, and now you’re

  worse, if that’s even possible. He’s dead.

  Respect him for that, if nothing else.”

  He flings his hand off my arm as if

  it burns. Respect? Goddamn pussy,

  that’s what he was. Goddamn cow—

  “Stop it! He was gay, okay?

  That didn’t make him a pussy.

  Stop calling him that, would you?”

  He was a coward, and a waste

  of talent. I can’t stand crap like that.

  Not from any kid, but especially

  not from one of mine. He slugs

  down his drink. No goddamn

  wonder those boys gave him hell.

  “No! Don’t you dare defend them.

  What is wrong with you? Luke

  was your son, and pretty much all

  he ever wanted was for you to be

  proud of him. Yes, he had talent.

  But he worked his butt off trying

  to be the absolute best basketball

  player to ever walk on this planet.

  Not for attention. Not for fame.

  Not even so he could have a friend

  or two.
He did it for you, Dad. And

  you denied him.” All his tension

  releases suddenly. He shoulders go slack

  and, impossibly, his eyes water. I have

  never seen my father cry. Never. Not even

  at Luke’s funeral. He disintegrates now,

  and I’m not sure which one of us is more

  embarrassed about my witnessing the event.

  I Have No Idea

  How to react.

  Hug him?

  Slap him?

  Break down

  and cry with him?

  How do you find sympathy

  for someone who has never

  once offered it to you,

  especially when that someone

  happens to be your parent,

  a person whose arms

  should always be open wide?

  This is a moment

  of weakness, nothing more,

  and likely never to be repeated

  in my presence. So why

  does any part of me wish

  it might be the door

  to a whole new father-

  son relationship?

  It’s Over

  Almost as soon as it began.

  He turns his back, sucks down

  his drink. Starts to make another.

  Then he notices the frying pan.

  Goddamn eggs are cold.

  Time to retreat. “Mix ’em up

  with mayonnaise and pickle relish

  and slap ’em on bread. Egg salad

  sandwich.” I leave him to consider

  my suggestion, and as I start up

  the hall, Mom comes in the front

  door, all smiles, at least until

  she notices the look on my face.

  What’s wrong?

  I shake my head. Nod once toward

  the kitchen. “Dad and his eggs got

  into it. Not pretty.” I lower my voice.

  “He and Bloody Mary are melting down.”

  So Much for Her Smile

  She glances toward the kitchen,

  wheels and heads for their room

  instead. Personally, I’m escaping

  this place before everything turns

  to excrement stew—a simmering

  pot of shit. It’s well after noon,

  and Hayden should be finished

  with church. But just in case,

  I text her rather than call. HEY

  LADY. YOU READY FOR ME

  TO PICK YOU UP? She doesn’t

  respond immediately, so I go

  ahead and dress in my favorite

  jeans and a dove-gray flannel shirt.