So I can’t let myself love her
like a daughter should. To unlock
myself in such a way would simply
be an invitation to heartbreak.
ALMOST DONE
Feeling sorry for myself when
a little warning chimes in my head.
Mom is the queen of denial.
Not her meth? Maybe not, but
odds are
decent she’s using again.
Wouldn’t be the first time
she jumped off the wagon.
One time she came to visit so
high
that she didn’t realize the guy
she was putting the moves on
happened to be my caseworker.
Not like we all couldn’t tell
she
was lit. Her sweat-sequined skin
leaked a smell like tar remover.
When Darla asked if she wanted
to join us for dinner, Mom
lied,
claiming a bad case of fast-food
poisoning. And when the cute
clean-cut dude finally mentioned
his official relationship
to me,
she added disgusting details
about her fabricated illness,
used them to make a hasty
escape. Like anyone believed her.
MEMORY LANE
Is an ugly stroll. I’m working hard
to turn the corner when Dad finally
calls, Let’s go, girls. I can hear
a big ol’ burger mooing my name.
Does he have even the faintest
idea how stupid that sounded?
Maybe not. But evidently Kortni
does. Burgers don’t moo, idiot.
Idiot. Nice. This little outing should
go well. I settle into the rotting
backseat of Dad’s decrepit Chevy
Impala. Stinks like cigarette-
tainted armpit drip. Reminds
me again of Mom. How can
she ruin every holiday (even
the ones that don’t feel much
like holidays) without even being
there? Why can’t I just forget her?
BUT SHE’S ON MY MIND
As Dad weaves down the rutted
dirt toward the highway, Kortni
chattering like an irritated crow.
Unusual, considering the amount
of beer they’ve apparently consumed
since breakfast. The smell of cheap
brew, mixed with stale tobacco,
gags me slightly. “Uh, Dad.
You sure you’re good to drive?”
Damn straight. Why wouldn’t
I be? As if to prove he’s too
damn straight, he pulls out
a joint, hands it to Kortni.
Light that, would ya, babe?
Gotta keep my eyes on the road.
Just perfect. Can I get high
from secondhand pot smoke?
“Uh, Dad? My asthma?”
Kortni torches the blunt
anyway. We’ll just open all
the windows. You’ll be okay.
They’re smoking. I’m steaming,
despite the fact that it’s pretty
damn cold, moving freeway-speed
with all the windows dropped.
Whatever. Usually I don’t think
much about Kortni at all.
Right now I’m thinking how
much she resembles a Pekingese,
double-inhaling pot smoke
up her smashed-in nose, snorting
a little with each exhale. I bet
she’s one hellacious snorer.
As Dad’s girlfriends go, I guess
she isn’t the worst. Not that I’ve met
them all, or wanted to. A couple
were prettier on the outside, evil
ugly inside. Zoe tops that list. Not
sure exactly where that puts Mom.
Old pictures I’ve seen at Grandma
and Grandpa Haskins’s house prove
Kristina’s exterior was stunning once
upon a time, in a land before crystal
meth. Amazing how fast that drug
can age you. It’s a zombie, sucking
youth right out of you, lifeblood.
Then again, if she hadn’t fallen
into that lifestyle, she wouldn’t have
met Dad at all. And then there
wouldn’t be me. A perverse question
bubbles up. Perverse, because I know
me cares. “So, Dad. How exactly
did you and Mom meet?” We’ve never
discussed it. And he doesn’t
really want to now. Um. Why?
You writing an autobiography?
Big word. Wrong word, but big.
“No. That would be your memoir,
not mine. I just want to know is all.”
Oh. Here’s our exit. We’ll talk
about it later, okay? Saved by
Carrows. Lucky Dad. For now.
HOLY CRAP
Can’t believe this place is so crowded.
Must have been a whole herd of mooing
Thanksgiving burgers. We have to wait
outside for almost a half hour.
Dad and Kortni smoke. Regular
cigarettes, thank God. I move upwind,
stand off to one side. Don’t want to
think any more about Mom right now.
So I’ll think about Kyle instead.
I’d rather be spending today with
him, think he probably wishes
the same. Poor guy. Dysfunction
pretty much defines his family
too. His mom died eight years
ago, a DUI fatality. “DUI” meaning
“diving under the influence” into
a fast-running but shallow section
of the Kern River. The coroner
ruled it an accident, but Kyle
believes the act was purposeful.
Sick of Dad’s shit, he called it.
The bitch went and left us alone
with him. Just goes to show
how little she cared about us.
“Us,” meaning him and his sister,
Sadie. Deserted by their mother.
Left with an alcoholic father
and his own string of girlfriends.
Probably why Kyle and I are
so good together. The old
saying, “takes one to know
one,” definitely applies to us.
I’ve got a saying of my own:
“Takes one to love one.” Mom
told me something like that once.
The topic of discussion was Ron,
who had just left bruises on
three-year-old Donald. I was
on a rant. “How come all the men
in your life have been losers?” I asked.
She barely reacted to the word
“loser.” I could never have
a relationship with someone
who didn’t understand addiction.
Nice phrasing. Translation:
She could never be with a guy
who wasn’t an addict himself.
No wonder she can’t stay clean.
THERE I GO AGAIN
Thinking about Mom. I have so
got to stop that! Think about Kyle.
Think about Kyle. Think about …
The door opens and a senior-
citizen-type hostess chirps,
Kenwood, party of three.
Not sure you could call us a party.
Then again, Dad is pretty much
a walking, talking party all by himself.
There it is, he says, opening
the menu. The Mile-High Burger.
My mouth is watering alr
eady.
He orders the cholesterol-
ridden nightmare, plus a beer.
Kortni dittoes. I go for the Mile-
High Turkey Stack. Hey, it’s got
the requisite (for me, anyway)
poultry, plus some vegetable matter,
on a flaky croissant. Homage
to the day! The beer arrives.
Disappears. A second round
comes before the waitress can
deliver our meal. Dad slams
that one too. By the time
our Mile-High feast hits the table,
he’s barely coherent enough to
order another one. “Dad,” I warn,
“I know we’re celebrating and
everything, but maybe you’d
better slow down a little.”
Before he can argue, Kortni
jumps to his defense. He’s fine.
And anyway, you’re not his mother.
If I were Kyle, I’d simply blow.
Being Summer, I’ll choose
a more covert route to revenge.
In silence, I pick at my sandwich,
watching Dad and Kortni wolf
theirs down and chase them
with even more beer. I wait until
their mouths are full, then venture,
“So, Dad. Tell me how you met Mom.”
But just barely. Kortni shoots
evil eye arrows. Touché, bitch.
Well, uh …, he beer-sputters.
You know how we met, right?
“Haven’t a clue. Neither of you
has ever really talked about it.”
Why does he need to discuss this
now? Kortni tries to interfere.
I look her dead in the eye. “This is not
your business. I want to know.”
S’all right, slurs Dad. Why not?
This is as good a time as any.
Remember I tol’ you ’bout my old
buddy Trey? Well, he was married
to your mom at the time, and they
had a little girl. Autumn. Pretty thing.
I used to take care of her while
Kristina worked. After Trey moved
out, of course. Always kind of felt
bad about her coming between us.
“Wait!” Hunter, me, Donald, David …
“Are you saying Mom has another daughter?
And what do you mean, ‘coming
between us’? Coming between who?”
Me and Trey. See, I was just
supposed to stay a few days.
But God. It was a bottomless
party, crystal 24-7. Hard to walk
away from that. And you know
the crystal scene. Shit makes you
horny as hell. Everyone screwing
everyone. Only when me and Kristina
hooked up, we had chemistry.
Thought for sure it was love, but
you think all kinds of crazy shit
when you’re tweaking. Trey came
home from a score and found us
mid-dirty. And that’s pretty much
how I met your mom and lost
my best friend. Now can I eat?
HE WOLFS
The rest of his burger, and since
I’m no longer hungry, I push
my plate across the table, watch
him finish my Thanksgiving dinner.
“Can we please go now?”
He doesn’t seem to understand
(or maybe just doesn’t care) how
this disclosure (yes, I asked for it)
has rocked me. Torpedoed me.
Can I please finish my beer first?
I don’t look at him or Kortni
as I consider what this means
to me. Why didn’t anyone ever
tell me I have a sister somewhere?
Mom never once mentioned her.
And then there’s the whole part
about how my dad pretty much
broke up her marriage. Yeah,
the drug scene didn’t help, but
how do you just waltz right in and …
Oh. My. God. Not only did Dad
waltz right in and break up a marriage,
but Mom waltzed away with him, broke
up a best friendship. I am my mother.
And that is something I just can’t be.
I WAIT IN THE CAR
While Dad pays the bill, sunk
very low in the not-plush seat,
digesting. Not food. Information.
Revelation.
Dad sways a bit. Kortni props
him, but she’s not in great shape
herself. They look like cartoon drunks.
Caricatures.
Neither of them should take the wheel.
But even if I knew how to drive,
Dad would not admit inebriation.
Impairment.
No one speaks as he starts the car,
backs up, barely missing the truck
behind him. In my belly, knots of worry.
Apprehension.
The knots clench as we weave toward
the on-ramp. Not far, the windows
swirl with red and blue lights.
Spotlights.
Hunter
DAMN COLD
For the first weekend in December
the temperature has trouble climbing
to thirty degrees, and the mountains
look like sugar donuts beneath early snow.
I’m up at first light and off to announce
the Sparks Hometowne Christmas Parade.
As I leave, I hear Nikki’s heavy breathing.
Fast asleep, despite my noise. You’ve seen
one parade, you’ve seen them all, she said
last night, when I asked her to come along.
Sleeping in sounds better. Anyway, you’ll
be the star. You won’t have time for me.
Okay, that part is mostly true. When you’re busy
playing celebrity, you don’t have much time
for your tag-along girlfriend. Still, I want her to
be there. I lie down beside her, kiss the warm
pulse at the hollow of her neck. It’s enough
to stir her from dreams. Enough to make me
wish I could stay. “Sure you won’t change
your mind?” I slide my hand beneath the ginger-
scented blankets, find the satin skin of her thigh,
seduce her into that perfect state of not-quite-all-
the-way-awake. “I want you to be there with
me. You’re my good-luck charm, you know.”
Nik smiles. Bet you say that to all the girls.
Now let me go back to sleep. Love you.
“Love you, too.” My hand doesn’t want
to go. But the rest of me has to, so it tags
along. “If you decide to come see Santa,
you know where to find me.” But her breathing
tells me she’s already most of the way back
to dreamland. Wonder who’s waiting for her there.
CHARMLESS
It takes forever to find parking,
despite the early hour. The main
drag is cordoned off, leaving
Victorian Avenue car-less except
for the ones soon to be parading.
I park in the Nugget Casino
garage, walk several blocks
to the corner where Montana
and I will announce equestrian
teams, bands, and local dignitaries,
shivering as they wave from
the decks of classic convertibles.
The Shriners will drive funny
little cars and unicycles. Civic
groups will flaunt tractor-pulled
floats. Scout troops will march
&n
bsp; in formation, the university
cheerleaders will cartwheel,
clowns will throw candy. And,
bringing up the rear, Santa and
his missus will arrive in a horse-
pulled sleigh so the kids will
know Christmas is coming and
the malls will be open overtime.
Nikki’s right. Totally predictable.
PREDICTABLE OR NOT
I’ve always kind
of enjoyed the whole
“it’s beginning to look
a lot like Christmas”
spiel. The parade
serves as a kickoff
to a month of “loving
each other so Santa will
come” kind of feelings.
Christmas should be
all year. Only, then
we’d go broke. Never
mind. Actually, this year
I have a little spending
cash. Think I’ll get
Nikki something
really special. Jewelry,
maybe. Or better (for me),
lingerie. Maybe I’ll ask
Montana’s opinion.
There she is, setting up
the mics. Women who
aren’t afraid of work rock.
Especially when it would
be my work otherwise.
THE PARADE BEGINS
At ten on the dot. I’ve been
practicing my announcer banter.
“Here comes the Reed High School
Marching Band, Montana. As
Ambassadors of the city of Sparks,
the band has traveled throughout
the U.S., as well as to England and
Ireland.” Montana waits for the din
of the trumpets to dim before
saying, Speaking of Ambassadors,
Hunter, here comes the Reno Rodeo
Flag Girls Drill Team, which represents
Reno Rodeo year-round at events
and drill team competitions. Each year
some one hundred girls try out for fifteen …
And so it goes for well over an hour.
Despite the frigid temps, the bundled-
up crowd is as large as I’ve ever seen it.
The most amazing thing is that young,
old, or somewhere in between, when
I say something, they actually listen to
me.
SEE, WHEN I WAS A KID
I was not what you’d call
popular. The truth is, other
kids picked on me.
Bullied
me, to the point where
I started to defend myself
before the fact. I’m not
sure why they