I’m so lonely, only you and your daddy to talk to.
I never made a lot of friends at Fort Hood, but here I don’t even have Auntie Tati nearby. She isn’t your real aunt, just my very best friend in the world. Austin was only an hour away, and sometimes she’d drive out to the base. Boy, did she ever love you!
As soon as she walked through the door, she’d beg, “Let me hold her! Please?” You’d snuggle right into her arms, look up at her with your huge brown eyes, and smile. Pretty sure she got your first real smile. That only made me a little jealous.
Tati’s favorite thing was buying you pretty dresses, something I can’t really afford. You’re wearing one of them now, in fact, as you push across the tile in your walker. I’ve read it’s not good to keep you inside it too long, but you love moving so much! You’re seven months old, and not quite ready to walk yet, but I can tell how much you want to.
Oh, Casey, you are such a beautiful little girl, and always happy. Tati says it’s from all the good breast milk you scarf, and I think that’s probably true. I don’t think your daddy likes sharing, though. He keeps saying, “That baby’s getting too big for boob sucking. Time to take her off the teat.”
But I can’t stand the thought of weaning you. Not yet. You’re eating cereal and mashed bananas and applesauce, and we’re working on carrots, too. You should see what that does to your poo! Is that gross to say to a baby?
I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I’m running totally on instinct. Well, instinct and love. The connection we have is amazing, and you are the one thing keeping me sane. I hate military life. Some people like the order, the routine, the sameness.
Your daddy loves all of that. I think he wants to be the handsome soldier in magazine pictures. He likes polishing his boots and cleaning his rifle. He makes me keep his uniform spotless, and ironed. I never used an iron in my life before I married Sergeant Jason Baxter. But I don’t dare argue with him. He isn’t nice when he’s angry. Sometimes he scares me a little.
I’m supposed to feel safe here. You know, because soldiers with guns behind fences provide lots of security. But soldiers flip out sometimes. Just a few years ago, right here on this base, one of them went off and shot nineteen people. Only one unlucky officer died, but you never know where a stray bullet lost in a barrage of gunfire might go. Maybe even through our living room windows.
“You’re nuts,” Daddy says. “There isn’t a more secure place on the planet.”
I try to believe him. Try not to worry. I take you out for walks in your stroller and put you in a baby seat on the back of my bike. You even have a baby helmet, just in case. If anything ever happened to you, I would take the easy way out.
But you’re here, and safe, so I’ll keep going for you. You’re really all I have. I don’t count your daddy, but I wish I could. Once upon a time I thought I loved him and that he loved me. But even after I knew that wasn’t true, I married him anyway. It was my only chance at escape. I figured one way or another we’d make it work.
Maybe we will. Who knows?
Ariel
December Delivers Short Days
And counting down toward
the end of another year, things
are very different from even
a month ago. Let’s see.
I’ve got a car.
A car I can drive
because I got
my license,
passed the test
with only one
little mistake.
It was Zelda who talked Dad
into showing up at the DMV
right when I needed him.
I made the appointment,
told him when
to be there. At first
he said he couldn’t
get off work, but
Zelda dropped by
the shop, asked
his boss to comply,
and then he had
no real excuse.
Later, he was mad, of course.
You and that bitch double-
teamed me. Admit it, you planned
it together, didn’t you?
I reminded him
that Zelda and I
rarely even speak,
and when we do,
he’s pretty much
always around,
so, no, we made
no secret pact.
“Maybe she believes I deserve
the privilege, or maybe she just
wants you to be a little freer
to feed your, uh, appetites.”
Then it got really
strange because
he went totally
silent, and stayed
that way until I
saw him again
the next evening
and then he said,
Wash up for dinner.
One of my appetites
needs to be fed.
Dad Holds Grudges
I’ve known that, like, forever,
and have tried to make sense
of them. He harbors hate
for my mother, which is well
enough deserved; bitterness
for Nadia, Cecilia, Jewel, and
more than a few whose names
I don’t remember, despite
dredging up their faces
in random daydreams. I’m only
marginally aware of the details,
but it seems the splits were mutually
acceptable, so I can’t explain
his reasons. Rhonda he escaped
from, contraband in pocket; and
Leona is little more than a sketch
in my memory notebook. These two
he rarely mentions. Still, as far
as I can tell, none of them deserved
his abuse, verbal or otherwise.
And beyond every single one
of them, I can’t help but ask myself
what it is I’ve done to make
my dad hold grudges against me.
What Hurts Most
Is I think his main grudge
against me is . . .
me.
For someone so determined
he
would rather I not be here
at all, at least that’s how
I
feel much of the time.
It hurts. And the longer
we
are entrenched here, where
attachment is available to
me,
the lonelier this house
seems with just the two of
us
sharing these rooms.
Sometimes, in Fact
I vastly prefer being alone
to subjugation, and for Dad,
winning is everything. I tried
playing chess with him exactly
three times. The first, I’d never
played before and didn’t know
the rules. What he taught me
was how the pieces moved,
and that was enough that time.
The second, I’d learned some
basics from a teacher I can
barely recall. Strategy wasn’t
something I could define, let
alone make sense of. What
Dad showed me that time
was the cruelty of make-believe
war, and oh, how he made fun
of my childish upset. After that
I refused to sit across the board
from him until I had the chance
to read up on possible moves
and probable outcomes. I truly
believed I had that game won
until Dad’s bishop managed an end
run and put me in checkmate.
He laughed and laughed, and
what he made very clear that
time was I’d better not lose and cry.
Crybabies
Top Dad’s most-
disgusted-by list. Right
below come:
queers
(zero exceptions)
foreigners
(white Europeans mostly exempt)
pussies
(except the feminine kind)
cheaters
(his cheating excepted)
whiners
(drunk whining forgiven, depending)
know-it-alls
(generally in reference to me).
Over the years, I’ve made
that list more times than
I care to remember.
He’s my dad, and he loves me.
Most of the time we get along fine.
But once in a while I feel like
he would’ve preferred to stay child free.
But Everything’s Better with Wheels
School, because I can come
and go on my own schedule,
not have to worry about
waiting for Dad in the morning
or Syrah after practice.
Work. I started at the Triple G
last Saturday, and so far, so good,
even though I have to get up early
on my weekends. They want me
there no later than eight,
which makes sense considering
the number of horses I’m expected
to exercise within two six-hour days.
Over the course of twelve hours,
I rode nine, twice each. Boy,
was my butt sore come Sunday
night, but I figure that’ll get
better once I develop some
gluteal calluses. Peg was right.
Most of the Thoroughbreds
are green, which means challenging
because their training is elementary,
so it’s mostly about staying astride
while they gallop out their excess
energy. In comparison, Niagara
is a lope around the carousel.
I’m looking forward to working
with her more. This week I’ll only
get Sunday in because of the game,
but Peg and Max are understanding
about prior commitments. I had
to talk Dad into the work thing myself,
but once the car was accomplished,
it wasn’t hard. “Twelve bucks an hour,
and even only working weekends,
I can pay for my own gas. Besides,
it’ll keep me busy. You prefer me
busy, don’t you?” He agreed that
he does, and I know it’s true,
especially considering how much
time I’ve been spending with Gabe.
Monica, too, but Dad doesn’t notice
her the same way, which is kind
of odd, all things considered.
But I’m not going to question it.
Tomorrow is Monica’s birthday,
and tonight Syrah’s mom is out
of town, so I’m going over there
for a party, though I phrased it
“cake and ice cream” to Dad.
I Even Baked the Cake
Not from scratch. I’m not that
great of a cook, but the mix
stuff isn’t so bad. I’m frosting
it (canned icing, of course)
when Dad comes into the kitchen.
That there looks pretty good.
Save me a piece. A big one.
“Sure thing, Dad. Like there’ll
be any left. Hey, don’t forget
about my game tomorrow.”
It starts at noon, and since I
figure we’ll party fairly late,
I’m spending the night at Syrah’s.
Since when do high schools play
girls’ basketball on Saturday?
“We only have a couple of weekend
games. The rest are Monday or Friday
nights. But this is a tournament.”
Well, I’ll try, but no promises.
Saturday’s my day off, you know.
In other words, he’d rather drink
beer and play with Zelda. Thanks
so much for all your support, Dad.
I Leave the Cake
On the counter, with a stern warning
to Dad, “Do. Not. Touch. The. Cake.”
I mitigate that and increase the odds
of its survival by adding, “Please.”
I’ll be good, he says, taking a package
of hot dogs out of the fridge. He puts two
on a plate, takes them to the table. “Raw?
You could microwave those, you know.”
He shrugs. It don’t matter to me. I’ll
eat something hot with Zelda later.
“Nice picture, Dad. I’m going to get
my jacket and take off. Be right back.”
On the way to my room, the telephone
rings. That is a strange occurrence.
We only have a landline because it
came with the cable bundle, and our
cell service can be iffy out here. I must
sound surprised when I answer, “Hello?”
The woman on the other end mutters
something incoherent. Drinking, obviously.
She apologizes, tries again, asks to
talk to someone I’ve never heard of.
“Sorry. You have the wrong number.
No one here with that name.”
I hang up as Dad yells, Stupid jerk
telemarketers. Tell ’em to buzz off.
“Wrong number,” I call, correcting
him before finishing my mission.
I grab my jacket, and by the time I get
back to the kitchen Dad has finished
his disgusting snack and popped
a beer. I’m glad I can drive myself
into town. Thinking about how many
times I’ve ridden in a car with him
driving under the influence is the stuff
of nightmares. We’re both damn lucky
to be alive and all in one piece. “Okay.
I’m off. You be careful, okay, Dad?”
He takes a long slurp. What makes you
say that? Careful’s my middle name.
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow
at my game. Noon. Go to bed early.”
Careful
Go to bed early.
Don’t eat raw hot dogs.
Sheesh, I sound like his mom.
Still, I’m careful
with the cake, carrying
it to my car and cautiously
stashing it on
the front passenger seat.
I drive into town judiciously,
vigilant about
speed limits and hairy
curves. I park sensibly, well off
the road in Syrah’s
driveway. I don’t plan on
leaving tonight, so if I get blocked
in by some partyer
it won’t much matter
until tomorrow morning.
I’m wary about
announcing my arrival
until I’m sure Syrah’s mom
has already left.
So maybe careful is,
in fact, my middle name.
The Mom Unit Is Gone
And seems like half the school
knows Syrah’s place is an open
invitation to fun, because within
two hours her house is overrun.
So much for anything resembling
a private party. The one thing
I insist on is Monica having a piece
of her birthday cake. I don’t mind
skipping, but she does, cutting
a giant slice. Compartiremos.
We’ll share. If I get fat, you do, too.
We share cake. We share drinks.
We share weed, but only a little
because we both want to be on
our game tomorrow. Syrah
doesn’t much seem to care
about that, though she’s starting
in Hillary’s position, and should.
The problem with this kind
of party is nobody worries
about trashing the place or
making too much noise. Not
surprisingly, Garrett and Keith
show up, and they are two
of the worst offenders,
especially since they’re mostly
soused when they get here.
At first, Syrah not only goes
along with their obnoxious
crap, but actually flirts a little
with Keith. When he goes to
take a piss, I pull her aside.
“What are you doing? Keith?
He’s disgusting. Whatever you
do, don’t let him kiss you. Who
knows what goes in that mouth?”
He could probably say the same
thing about you. She’s borderline
wasted. But that’s okay. I like you
anyway. And don’t worry, I’d rather
kiss him. She points to Gabe,
who’s just come through the door.
Shit. Gabe and Monica together
again, and at Syrah’s party,
no less. I’d ask him how he found
out about it, but it’s obvious
something’s happening here.
Oh, and my Focus is in the driveway.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Monica,
before making my way over to Gabe.
When he sees me headed in his
direction, he smiles and meets me
halfway. Hey there. Noticed your car
among the fleet outside. Thought
I’d stop in and say hello and also . . .
Don’t Kiss Me, Don’t Kiss Me
Not in front of this crowd.
Not in front of Syrah.
Not in front of Monica.
But he knows better,
and besides that, he
has important news.
I was just at the AM/PM.
Overheard some cops
talking about this party.
Someone called about
the noise. They’ll either
show up knocking or
wait around the corner
for people to leave.
“Thanks for letting us know.
I’ll spread the word.
Maybe it’ll help clear
the place out. This isn’t
the kind of party we had