Maybe someday. For now, I’ll
just say I used to be married.
MARRIED?
Hard to believe.
Divorced?
Even harder.
She’s either
older
than she looks,
or she’s lived
faster
than most.
Probably the latter.
But why do I think
that? To be
honest,
I don’t know her at all.
She could be PhD
smart,
might trump Rick Denio
when it comes to being
witty.
If I dug deep enough
beneath the facade,
who
would I find? Is Corrine
standing beside me? Or
is she
really Montana?
AS I PACK UP THE VAN
I think back to when
I was a kid, trying too
hard to be “just like
everyone else,” when
I felt totally different.
Not an outcast, exactly.
Just different. I tried
so hard to look normal
that everybody noticed.
And bullies pounced.
I entered public school
late to the game, after
a couple of years
of parochial torture.
So I didn’t start third
grade with solid buddies
to back me up. When
someone picked on me,
I crumbled at first. Then,
when I got tired of it,
I learned to push back.
Being about the biggest
kid in my class helped.
But I never wanted to
fight. I wanted friends.
MAYBE CORRINE
Just wanted friends,
and that’s why she turned
into Montana. Maybe she
wanted revenge. Wonder
why her marriage sank.
Stupid question. No way
were people meant to be
monogamous. Not human
behavior. Human behavior
of the nonmonogamous
type is all around me here.
Guys smooching on girls,
obviously “their” girls, yet
checking out other girls
walking by. Girls aren’t
a whole lot better, and this
is only the “checking” out
stuff. The actually “doing”
stuff behind each other’s
backs is almost as bad.
FOR EXAMPLE
In the distance, a couple arrives
very late to the game. Not long
ago, the cannon boomed the start
of the second quarter. The man walks
quickly, two steps in front of the woman,
up the steep hill from the east parking lot.
His near lope and the solid set
of his shoulders tell me he’s pissed,
or at least determined to reach
the gate before she does. She, on
the other hand, seems just as resolute
to continue at her own measured speed.
Way to go, lady. Don’t let him stress
you out. Whoa. Wait. As the man
crowns the hill, stomps into view,
his silhouette becomes very familiar.
I know him. Know him well, in fact.
It’s my dad. And she, I assume, is my mom.
THAT DETAIL IS CONFIRMED
As they get closer, as is another
assumption I made earlier. Dad
is definitely not happy. His scowl
creases his face, makes him look
a decade older than his fifty-seven
years. I wave to draw his attention.
When he sees me, his expression
softens, but only a modicum.
Like from “ready to kick someone’s
a little.” I’d like to say I’ve never
seen him like this before, but why
lie? Dad possesses a temper,
and patience isn’t his best thing.
Mom says I take after him that way.
I have no idea what she means.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls even.
“What’s going on?” Mom chugs
up after him, and I add, “Hi, Mom.
Sorry I missed breakfast.”
On Saturdays, if Mom is home
instead of book touring, she tries
to make breakfast special. There
was a time when I wouldn’t miss one.
Mom smiles, and in kind of a polar
opposite way to Dad, the crinkles
around her eyes plump up. No prob.
Sometimes sleep trumps food.
Dad snorts impatiently. We’re
late. “Circumstances beyond
our control” and all. Can we talk
at dinner? Still pissy. Poor Mom.
He starts off, leaving Mom
standing here. Once his back
is solidly pointed at me,
I whisper, “What’s wrong?”
She shrugs. Nothing you need
to worry about. Kristina’s latest
scheme is all. She not-quite-hugs
me. I’d better catch up. TTFN.
KRISTINA, SCHEME QUEEN
That could be her epitaph.
And her obit could contain
the following resume:
Job Title:
Drug manufacturer and trafficker.
Job Description:
Make easy money cooking meth and moving it, Point A to Point B. (Caveat: Ingredients are volatile.)
Job Title:
Prison inmate.
Job Description:
Get paid thirty-six cents per hour painting murals on cafeteria walls. (Caveat: Goes toward restitution.)
Job Title:
Boy toy.
Job Description:
Low pay, but all the sex you can ask for. Just lay back and spread your legs. (Caveat: Unprotected sex equals babies.)
Job Title:
Newspaper saleslady.
Job Description:
Pyramid possibilities if you form a crew of loser teenagers. (Caveat: High school dropouts are lazy.)
Job Title:
Used car saleslady.
Job Description:
No salary, but decent commission for offing overpriced lemons. (Caveat: Lots of used car lots; few suckers.)
Job Title:
Rap video extra.
Job Description:
Major bucks for slinking around on set, pretending to fawn over rap star. (Caveat: Some rap stars are phonies.)
Job Title:
Stage mother.
Job Description:
Shuttle your kid from casting call to casting call, hoping he’ll get paid something someday. (Caveat: You and thousands of stage mothers.)
Job Title:
Mail-order minister.
Job Description:
Perform cheap outdoor weddings for tips because you can’t afford to own a chapel. (Caveat: Most couples prefer a hokey chapel.)
Job Title:
Golf tournament caddie.
Job Description:
Great tips for wearing short shorts and lugging older men’s heavy clubs hole to hole. (Caveat: Not always talking golf clubs.)
Job Title:
Part-time limo driver.
Job Description:
Long hours on call, unless you’re ballsy enough to work the airport and dredge up biz. (Caveat: Might as well drive a taxi.)
Job Title:
Mother.
Job Description:
Not really sure what that is.
CYNICAL?
You bet. But the truth
is, for Kristina, the next
“amazing opportunity”
is always within sight.
Why can’t she ever
get things right?
Dad believes she came
into the world hungry
to break rules, argue.
Instigate a fight.
She has a short fuse
too easy to ignite.
Mom, who is gentler,
and carried her for nine
months, thinks of Kristina
in a different light.
She was a special child.
Beautiful. Talented. Bright.
I mostly only see her on
holidays. She has a truck-
driver mouth. Smokes too
much, is wound too tight.
Like a hummingbird,
denied the freedom of flight.
Autumn
CHANGE IS COMING
The surety of that has augered
its way into my brain, stirring up
all those buried childhood fears. I
deal with the uncertainty of tomorrow
by über-controlling today.
Which means getting up an hour
early to make double sure
my room is spotless—fresh
sheets and pillowcase; no
dirty clothes in the hamper;
trash emptied; furniture
dusted; carpet vacuumed—
before I even think about
heading out the door to school.
This morning is in perfect order.
We’ll see what evening brings.
AUNT CORA
Doesn’t seem to notice
the scent of change in the air.
She sings as she busies herself
in the kitchen, making breakfast.
Usually we all just settle for cereal,
but today I smell a hot griddle.
Pancakes? Something is definitely
going on. The domestic goddess
thing so isn’t her. “Morning.”
Her back is to me, and she jumps
a little before turning, red-faced.
You scared me half to death!
But she’s laughing, and I can’t
help but laugh too. “Kind of
an overstatement, don’t you think?
And what’s up with the pancakes?
Going Rachael Ray on us, or what?”
I watch her ladle thick, lumpy batter.
Rachael Ray? Ha-ha. Don’t think
so. Still, it never hurts to brush
up on your culinary skills, does it?
She flips a hotcake like a pro.
The weird thing is, I can only
remember her ever making them
maybe two or three times in
the past. “So what’s really going
on with you? Something to do
with all the late nights out the past
few weeks?” She’s been gone a lot
lately, and I’m pretty sure there’s more
to it than her working part-time at
Olé Tex-Mex and going to school
three days a week to learn massage
therapy. Better late than never,
she told Grandfather and me when
she embarked on her new career path.
I don’t want to wait tables forever.
What she didn’t say was she doesn’t
want to stay single forever either.
SHE DOESN’T SAY THAT NOW
But she does say, Well, you never
know. I just might want to make
pancakes for someone special
someday. Uh … not that you’re
not special. I mean … If her face
was red before, it’s pickled
beet purple now. The look
on my own face must communicate
something loud and clear, because
her shoulders slump slightly. Okay,
might as well confess. I met this
guy. He’s my teacher, actually,
and he is incredible. She spits
out a list of attributes: tall,
gorgeous, smart, professional.
Then, a major ding: divorced.
Divorced? Like with alimony
and child support? How old
is the guy, anyway? Might as
well ask. “How old is he, anyway?”
I expect her to say forty-five,
maybe even fifty. So it comes
as a major surprise when she
answers, Thirty-one. I know it’s
kind of weird to think about
going out with someone
who’s younger. But stranger
things happen every day, right?
She said think about going
out with … So … “Does
that mean you aren’t going
out with him yet, or what?”
Not sure why the idea of her
dating this guy bothers me so
much. He’s not like her first
or anything. But something seems
different. No … yes … uh …
Not like real dates. No movies
or dancing or anything. Just
coffee and stuff. But I hope …
SHE PAUSES
At the thump … th-thump
of Grandfather lumbering
like an old bear up the hall.
His question precedes him
through the doorway. What is that
I’m smelling? A hot breakfast?
Aunt Cora puts a finger to her lips,
but it is the uneasiness in her eyes
that swears me to secrecy.
Yep, she says. I must have dreamed
about pancakes, because I woke
up half-desperate for them.
Thump … th-thump … thump.
Slower than usual. He must
have had a toss-n-turn night.
Pull up a chair, instructs Aunt
Cora. They’re just about ready.
Apple butter or maple syrup?
The only answer is both. I watch
Grandfather ease into a chair.
Aunt Cora sets a heaping plate
in front him. He inhales buttery
steam, takes a big bite. Hope you
dream about breakfast more often.
He gives her a funny look, one
I can only interpret as sensing
something different about her.
She’s not about to fill him in.
If we had pancakes too often, you
wouldn’t appreciate them so much.
Grandfather downs a short stack,
then he says to me, I have to run
an errand. Want a ride to school?
Unusual. He hardly ever
goes anywhere. But what
else can I say? “Uh, sure.”
THE FIFTEEN-MINUTE RIDE
Seems to take an hour. Unlike Aunt Cora,
Grandfather is definitely fishing the same
tide of anxiety I find myself trolling.
He is taut as a tug-of-war rope. Impossible
to slacken, despite the fact that lately he’s been
downing bourbon instead of beer, along
with bigger and bigger doses of meds. He falls
asleep in his chair every night around eight.
Even now, with coffee rather than booze
chasing his mood fixers, his voice is muddy
when he finally cracks the wall of silence.
Your father is getting out next week.
Just the way he says it—all quivery
and ice-cold—sends shivers through me.
“I thought it might be soon. I heard
you on the phone the other day.”
He says he wants to see you. How
do you feel about that? He turns
a corner and the school pops into
view. Trey wants to see me? What for?
And how do I feel about seeing
him after eight years in prison,
eight more years of him being nothing
to me but sporadic collect calls?
“I don’t know,” I tell Grandfather
as he turns into the passenger drop-
off zone, pulls over against the curb.
“I’ll have to think about it.” I get out
of the car. What I said was a lie. I know
exactly how I think about it. I hate Trey
for leaving me. Wish I could love him,
but don’t have a clear idea how.
Do I want to see him? Part of me does.
The other part thinks he ought to take
a flying leap off a very short pier. Maybe
“I don’t know” wasn’t a lie after all.
I’LL NEVER FORGET
The last time Trey blew back
into my life. I was almost five,
and he was on parole after
serving two years for fraud.
It was not his first time in lockup.
When he came to the door, I had no
idea who he was. Grandfather and
Aunt Cora don’t keep many photos
of him, and the ones they do have
are from long before he ever
started messing around
with meth. He is handsome
in those pictures—tall and strong,
with dark hair and curious gray
eyes and a killer smile. The guy
who came to Grandfather’s door
looked like a derelict. I clung
to Aunt Cora’s skirt as if I were
sewn to the hem. It was a safe
place I knew all too well.
Hey, sis! Trey planted a big
not-brotherly kiss on her lips.
Then he spotted me. Autumn?
His voice held need, and his
eyes were steel. Come to Daddy.
Daddy? No. I didn’t have one
of those. A big ol’ twister
started up in my gut. I backed
behind Aunt Cora, burrowed
deeper. Trey reached for me.
“Noooo!” I screamed, and
turned to run. But not quick
enough. Bark-rough hands
clamped around my waist.
“Please don’t hurt me.”