“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
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.