“God, do you know my mom?
But she thinks having a guy
around makes her important.”
Alex snorts. How old is she,
anyway? Sounds like she
still plays with Barbies.
“I doubt she ever played with
Barbies. Just a shitload of
Kens.” And Sams. And Bills.
But, as much as I think Alex
is pretty okay, I’m not about
to share too much information
about Iris and how she brings in
cash. Besides, maybe Iris would
stop tricking for the right guy.
Maybe if the right guy came along,
we could live a nice, normal
life. However that’s defined.
I Guess Nothing Says
Moms have to be good
people, though. I mean,
look at Britney Spears. She
might not be a complete
whore, but she’s not
exactly a shining example
of motherhood. And, just
down the block, a woman
in baggy sweats yanks her
little girl along, yelling,
Hurry the hell up, would
you? The kid’s bawling.
And then there’s Alex’s
mom. Busted for robbing
a liquor store with a gun.
All for another fix. A few
hours of finding a way to
forget everything. Alex included.
I hope I’m never a mom. But
if I am, I’ll make damn
sure my kids look up to me.
Speaking of Kids
I really ought to get home.
Gram has a hair appointment
this afternoon, so unless Iris
suddenly figured out motherhood,
Mary Ann is the only one there to
take care of the little kids until I get
home. “Better go,” I tell Alex.
“Time to play mom. How
’bout a smoke for the road?”
She grimaces. At least my winner
mother had the sense to get fixed.
You’re gonna pay me back, right?
Pay her … oh, for the cigs.
“Yeah, sure. I can ‘borrow’
some from Iri—uh, my mom.”
Not sure why I don’t want
Alex to know I call her Iris.
Yeah, it makes her seem like
less of a mom, but Alex knows
she’s not much of a mom anyway.
Anyone with eyes could guess it.
I Walk Up the Street
Slowly, sucking nicotine into
my lungs. Tastes like crap,
and I know if I don’t stop it will
kill me. But it satisfies some
deep call. And what the hell?
I don’t want to live too damn long.
Suddenly an ambulance screams
by. Fear punches my gut. Without
a doubt, I know exactly where
it’s headed. I throw the lit Kool
into the gutter, start to run,
choking on yellowish smoke.
I round the corner and sure as day,
the square red truck is in front
of Gram’s, warning lights spinning.
Beside it, a police cruiser blocks
most of the street, and another
is parked farther up the road, routing
traffic away. Shit, shit, shit! I run
faster, barely able to breathe.
Fricking cigarettes! I skid to a stop,
try to take in what I see. Two
paramedics kneel next to Sandy.
His little body lies in the street,
unmoving. “Is he okay?” I scream,
trying to push closer, only to be
stopped by a young police officer.
Give them some room. The little
boy is breathing. That’s all
we know. Are you the mother?
“No. I’m his sister. But I—I—”
What else is there to say right
now? “Wha-what happened?”
Hit and run. His radio scratches
some unintelligible information.
Hang on. I’ve got to take this call.
Your, uh, sister over there saw
the whole thing. Why don’t you
talk to her? But stay right here.
Like I would go somewhere?
Damn me. Why wasn’t I here?
Must be what he’s thinking too.
Mary Ann Stands Sobbing
On the sidewalk, eyes wide
with fear. “What happened?”
I struggle to keep my voice gentle.
He—I—Sandy was kicking
a ball on the lawn. Pepper
and Honey started to fight, and …
when I tried to stop them, I guess
the ball rolled into the street
and Sandy ran after it and …
I guess a motorcycle came down
the street and ran over him and
just kept going and … and … I
was right there and I didn’t mean—
Oh my God, I’m so sorry. …Oh
my God, I’m so sorry… .
I grab her shoulders, shake hard.
“Stop it. It’s not your fault. Go
take care of the kids. They’re scared.”
They all stand huddled together
on the doorstep. Mary Ann goes
over to them as another ambulance
arrives. Two ambulances for one
person? Talk about overki—
Don’t dare finish the thought.
Two new paramedics open the back
doors of their ambulance, remove
a gurney and a backboard.
Together, the four prepare Sandy
for a ride to the hospital. I can’t
do anything but watch them
lift his still motionless form, tubes
running into his arm and an
oxygen mask over his face, onto
the wheeled stretcher. As they load
him into the waiting ambulance,
Officer Lemoore comes over to me.
Your brother has internal injuries.
They’ll need someone to give
permission for treatment. Where
are your parents? Can you call
them and tell them to come
to Emergency right away?
I Tug My Eyes
Away from the ambulance,
finally really look at the
policeman in front of me.
He must be straight out of
the academy, not too many
years older than me. He’s
good-looking, in a straight sort of
way, with topaz gold eyes.
Eyes brimming sympathy.
“I—I’ll try to get hold of my
mom. But it will probably be
my grandmother. Is that okay?”
He hesitates. The information
sinks in. Your mother would
be best. She has custody, right?
I nod. “But she’s not always,
uh …” How can I say this?
“Easy to track down.”
I see. Well, do the best you can.
If we need to, we can get a court
order, but that takes time. And …
He shakes his head, and his
meaning is very clear: There
might not be a whole lot of time.
Guilt churns. I want to heave.
“Can’t I go in the ambulance?
If he wakes up, he’ll be scared.”
He won’t wake up. He’s sedated.
Besides, you need to find your
mom. And someone needs to take
care of your brother and sisters.
He gestures toward the crew.
You’re the oldest. It’s up to you.
I Am the Oldest
It was up to me to make sure
something like this never
happened. But no, I needed to
hang out downtown, smoking
with Alex. If Sandy doesn’t
pull through, I’ll make sure a hit
and run happens. To me. The cop
follows me to the front door.
I need to ask you a few questions,
he says to Mary Ann, moving her
off to one side. Tell me again
what happened. Can you describe…
I push the other kids inside.
“I need to get hold of Gram.
Go watch TV. And don’t fight.”
I try to call Iris first. Her cell
goes straight to voice mail. Big
surprise. Gram left the beauty parlor
number next to the phone. No
surprise there, either. She’s
good about communication.
Hands Shaking
I dial the number, ask to speak
to Vivian Belcher. “Gram?”
I force my voice calm, hope
she’ll respond in the same way.
“You have to go to Emergency
right away. There was an accident. …”
I don’t tell her everything. Don’t
have to. Enough for her to know
Sandy’s life hangs by a sliver.
I poke my head into the living
room. Porter lies on the sofa,
absorbed in Hannah Montana.
Pepper and Honey sit on the floor,
holding each other in silent
acceptance of one another, and
maybe of the small part they,
too, played in the afternoon’s
drama. I go to tell Officer Lemoore
that I got hold of Gram. He’s finished
with Mary Ann, whose face is white
as smoke. “Let’s go inside,” I say.
A Poem by Cody Bennett
Smoke
You stand in front of me,
pretending to be solid,
but you are nothing
more than smoke and
mirrors.
You said you’d never
leave, that you would
care for us forever.
But now you claim you
cannot
stay, that you’ve been
called away. When you
go, who will I turn to
when it all crashes down?
Tell
me who. Then tell me
how I can believe in
anyone again, if all your
promises have been
lies.
Cody
Nothing’s Static
If I’ve learned anything at
all in sixteen years, it’s that
things change. What you feel
bad about one day can turn
around like that. Same goes
for the things you care about.
Three weeks ago, I kind of liked
spending time at home, goofing
off online or picking at my guitar,
or just watching TV. But now
everything feels strained
at the Bennett house. Not
really like home at all. Everyone
is strung tight. On edge.
Concerned about the future.
Something to do with Jack’s
digestive system. Whatever
it is, neither he nor Mom
wants to talk about it. Silence,
thick with apprehension, hangs
over the place like a shroud.
No more dinner table banter.
No more cheerful ribbing.
No more stupid jokes.
Three Weeks Ago
I didn’t have a girlfriend.
Not being partnered up
wasn’t so damn bad, not
that I totally mind having
the hottest girl in my crowd
acting like she can’t get
enough of me. It’s just kind
of complicated because, as
I suspected, Alyssa is not
very happy about Ronnie
jumping my bones, jumping
’Lyssa’s ship in the process.
The first time ’Lyssa saw us
together, I thought she’d shit
on the spot. We were sitting
together (okay, like glued
together, front to front, Ronnie
in my lap) on the grass at
school. ’Lyssa came hauling
around the corner, headed
somewhere in a hurry. But
when she saw us, she braked
and did a double take. Just
what do you think you’re doing?
I’m not sure if she was talking
to Ronnie or me, but Ronnie
jumped right down her throat.
What does it look like we’re
doing, Alyssa? Having tea?
Then she laughed. Too hard.
’Lyssa puffed out her cheeks
and her face turned red—the rotten
red of an overripe tomato. Her
hands clenched. Unclenched.
I thought we were dog meat. But
all she said was, That’s fucked up.
Oil and water or not, Alyssa
was the first girl I ever had
real feelings for. And now
her feelings were shredded.
I felt like shit. Still do. But
not enough to tell Ronnie to
take a hike. She’s freaking
beautiful, with black coffee
eyes, shiny dark hair, and legs
that go up to there. Slipping
in between them is like making
love to warm milk and honey.
We Had Sex
The very first night we went
think it was going to happen,
what with her brother being
a bouncer (okay, security guard)
at Frozen75, something she
neglected to tell me until we
slithered up to the front of
the line. Pissed off a bunch
of people, for sure. But, just
like any club, I guess, they
have an Invited Guest line.
And if your brother’s a bouncer,
you’re invited. Especially if he’s
a bouncer the size of a VW
Beetle. Vince Carino plays
linebacker for the UNLV Rebels,
a decent university team,
usually the second best in the state.
Never mind there are only two,
and the one from that cowtown
up north, Reno, generally comes
out on top. Not always, though,
and when Vegas wins, it’s party time.
Then Again
It’s pretty much always party
time in Las Vegas. They don’t
call it Sin City for nothing.
Ronnie and I partied down
that first night for sure. And
we’ve been partying ever since.
See, Vince is not only okay with
his sister and me being together.
He encourages it. Says she needs
a guy in her life to keep her in
line. Not that I’d ever try that
with Ronnie. I’m a pacifist.
Vince is not. But he is a partier.
Drinks like no serious athlete
should, not that I think he’s
especially serious. What I think
is, he likes knocking people down—
smashing them into the ground.
Glad he seems to like me. Booze
isn’t his only bad habit, though.
Pot. Pills. Crack. Probably other
stuff, but that’s all I’ve seen. And
that’s plenty. I so do not want to
know too much about Vince Carino.
Vince and I Have Shared
A bottle or two, a fistful of doobs,
pipes and pipes and pipes. Tonight,
we’ll pass around all three at his
regular Friday poker game. Not sure
how I reached the heart of his inner
circle so quickly. Suppose it could
be because I’m usually the one
supplying the weed. Anyway,
I know zip about poker, but it
sounds like a hell of a lot more
fun than staying home, listening
to Jack cough and Mom sigh.
Before I go, I guess I should
brush up on the rules a little.
Punch a few words into my
search engine and I come up
with … whoa. Way too much
information. Let’s start with
the basic what hand beats what?
One pair, two pair, three of a kind.
Easy enough to remember. Straight.
Flush. Full house. Four of a kind.
Straight flush. Royal flush. Together,
do those equal a hetero queen’s toilet?
Damn It, Jack
You’ve cursed me! You’re
the one who’s supposed to
be coming up with corny jokes.
I’m supposed to laugh at them,
whether or not they’re funny.
Now I need to check up on you.
He’s in the living room, adrift on
anonymous painkillers. The TV
is blaring, and his eyes are aimed
at it, but vacant. Dread shoots through
my body on a wave of adrenaline.
“Hey, Jack. How’s it going?”
He jumps a little. Huh? Oh.
Hey, Cody. What’s up, son?
His speech is slurred, just
barely coherent. Fucking
meds. Where’s your mom?
Is she home from work yet?
Damn. For a minute, I really
thought he might be dead. But
why would I think that? He’s
only got indigestion. Jeez, man.
Talk about jumpy. Freaking
crack is famous for that.
But I’ve got to admit I like
the way it makes every nerve
come alive. Just like Ronnie
said it would. She’s got a tidy
little habit. I have to be careful
not to let my own toking get
so out of hand. I swear I never
had a clue she had made friends
with the pipe. Best thing about