August 31, 2004
For Awhile
I'm going to go away and write my book. To those of you who visit on purpose and by accident, thank you. And: peace.
August 23, 2004
So, like, read
How Things Work
How interesting is this? Very: Identifying your Pez parts. Is it just me, or are these close up photos kind of erotic?
Last Word
The delivery truck fell on the man and his dog at the corner of Nassau and Broadway. The turn was too tight and the driver went up on the curb causing the truck to tip and the weight of televisions inside the truck to shift. I was ten yards away, saw the truck lose its balance, and jumped back, bumping into the man behind me who wasn't paying attention.
Eyewitnesses were screaming. The man couldn't be seen under the truck. The driver must have had a seatbelt on. The truck had fallen over on its right side, so he climbed out and sat on the door because the jump down was more than he could make. Blood dripped onto his clean yellow T-shirt.
The police fire engine came within minuets, then the ambulance and fire engine. A crowd gathered and I told people around me what I had seen, excited and guilty about this reason I had to talk to strangers. "A hospital is around the corner," I said.
The man behind me called his wife on his cell phone and explained what had just happened, but he hadn't seen it first hand. "I was looking at a scratch on my shoe," he told her. "Some kid on the subway stepped on my foot." Then the man repeated to his wife what I'd said. That a black guy walking his terrier had been waiting at the corner for the light to change when the truck tipped over and trapped them underneath. I heard the terrier yelp and then the yelping stopped. The man told his wife that detail like it was his, but he hadn't heard the silence. He'd been looking at his shoe. He might've heard a dog yelp, but to his ear it was just any dog, and not the last sound of a dog.
The man was buried in Queens on a Tuesday morning. I stood in the back of the cemetery and watched his family in dark clothes, heads bowed, crying into white tissues. A toddler wandered off and picked flowers. In his obituary in the Times, they wrote that he had shined shoes for thirty years in the lobby of the Prudential building. His customers called him by his last name, McGee, and he brought his dog to work with him, looped Taffy?s leash over the wooden footrest.
A cab pulled up slowly and the man with the scratched shoe got out. He looked over at me, nodded, but didn't recognize me from the accident. I had an embarrassingly good memory for faces, and often passed him as I walked to my job at the electronics outlet on Murray Street. Last week he bit into a jelly donut and stained his paisley tie.
Eyewitnesses were screaming. The man couldn't be seen under the truck. The driver must have had a seatbelt on. The truck had fallen over on its right side, so he climbed out and sat on the door because the jump down was more than he could make. Blood dripped onto his clean yellow T-shirt.
The police fire engine came within minuets, then the ambulance and fire engine. A crowd gathered and I told people around me what I had seen, excited and guilty about this reason I had to talk to strangers. "A hospital is around the corner," I said.
The man behind me called his wife on his cell phone and explained what had just happened, but he hadn't seen it first hand. "I was looking at a scratch on my shoe," he told her. "Some kid on the subway stepped on my foot." Then the man repeated to his wife what I'd said. That a black guy walking his terrier had been waiting at the corner for the light to change when the truck tipped over and trapped them underneath. I heard the terrier yelp and then the yelping stopped. The man told his wife that detail like it was his, but he hadn't heard the silence. He'd been looking at his shoe. He might've heard a dog yelp, but to his ear it was just any dog, and not the last sound of a dog.
The man was buried in Queens on a Tuesday morning. I stood in the back of the cemetery and watched his family in dark clothes, heads bowed, crying into white tissues. A toddler wandered off and picked flowers. In his obituary in the Times, they wrote that he had shined shoes for thirty years in the lobby of the Prudential building. His customers called him by his last name, McGee, and he brought his dog to work with him, looped Taffy?s leash over the wooden footrest.
A cab pulled up slowly and the man with the scratched shoe got out. He looked over at me, nodded, but didn't recognize me from the accident. I had an embarrassingly good memory for faces, and often passed him as I walked to my job at the electronics outlet on Murray Street. Last week he bit into a jelly donut and stained his paisley tie.
August 15, 2004
Summer Swim
Caitlin rests her stomach on the boogie board and concentrates on her breaststroke. She parts the water with cupped hands, propels herself forward through the dark blue pool. Her legs mermaid behind her.
She's staying with her uncle for the month of July. He had polio when he was thirteen and uses a wheelchair. His house has ramps and rails, a low sink and counter in the kitchen, low sinks and high toilets in the bathrooms. After the accident, her mother thought he might set a good example for Caitlin. He lives in Shreveport, three hours away.
She'd been walking home from cheerleading practice, thinking about her boyfriend, Ryan, how they'd just screwed in the equipment room. He was a tackle on the football team. A freckled face and round brown eyes, two hundred and fifty pounds begging in the sweetest voice. On his knees, he held himself over her like a girl's push-up, kissed her until his mouth twisted into a crooked O and he went somewhere that looked like pain. This was their second time that week.
She walked on the side of the road, kicking loose stones into the ditch. Her heart right before she said okay was like a ripe tomato.
Caitlin didn't see the car, only heard the music on his radio - Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport - and the driver's deep and jolly voice as he sang along. His front bumper clipped her from behind, knocking her in the ditch. Her pom poms were still strapped on her hands when the EMTs gently lifted her on the stretcher. He didn't stop. Denham Springs, the town she lives in, is small. The police wanted to question the Australians, but there are none.
The sun disappears behind the clouds and a cool breeze kicks up out of nowhere. Caitlin pulls herself out of the water, rolls over on her hip, the way her uncle showed her, and lies beside the pool.
He works in the rehab wing of the hospital helping people re-learn what they used to do without thinking. He drives to work in a specially prepared van and will be home for dinner at 5:30. In the evenings they watch TV. He tells her to ask him anything. Not to be embarrassed. He was angry, too, at first, blah blah blah.
Teddy, the neighbor's son, comes through the fence door. He's home, finally, from tennis practice and carries a rum and Coke in each hand. For the past two weeks he's been stopping by.
"Hey, gimp," he says.
"How'd you play?" Caitlin says.
"I won two out of three sets," he says. Next year he'll be a senior in high school. So will she. He's short, tanned, with dark hair he doesn't push out of his eyes.
"This tastes good," she says, sipping her drink.
"Do anything new today?" he says.
"I swam to the bottom, looked around, practiced holding my breath. I want to shoot up like a rocket but my arms are weak."
He stretches his out in front of him so she can see how much bigger his right forearm is than his left.
"Popeye the sailor man," she says. The cloud is off the sun now and the sudden warmth gives her legs goose bumps she can't feel.
"Give me the lotion," Teddy says. He rubs Coppertone on her shoulders, her back, over her thin legs. There are four straight scars and he's measured them with his knuckle. Two are four inches long, one is eight, one is 25. Her spine was broken but there's no scar. His hands go both nowhere and everywhere in particular. She can't ask her uncle what to do with the sex that's in her brain.
She lowers herself into the water. Teddy strips off his shirt and jumps in, reaches for her so she can dolphin-ride on his back. "This isn't Make-A-Wish," Caitlin says. She goes under and pulls his shorts down with her teeth, nibbles him like a curious fish until her breath runs out.
(This story can be found in Smokelong Quarterly along with many wonderful short pieces by people like Sue Henderson, Kim Chinquee, Roy Kesey, Claudia Smith, Pasha Malla, and Bob Arter. And there are free interviews! This issue was guest-edited by the boyish Jeff Landon.)
She's staying with her uncle for the month of July. He had polio when he was thirteen and uses a wheelchair. His house has ramps and rails, a low sink and counter in the kitchen, low sinks and high toilets in the bathrooms. After the accident, her mother thought he might set a good example for Caitlin. He lives in Shreveport, three hours away.
She'd been walking home from cheerleading practice, thinking about her boyfriend, Ryan, how they'd just screwed in the equipment room. He was a tackle on the football team. A freckled face and round brown eyes, two hundred and fifty pounds begging in the sweetest voice. On his knees, he held himself over her like a girl's push-up, kissed her until his mouth twisted into a crooked O and he went somewhere that looked like pain. This was their second time that week.
She walked on the side of the road, kicking loose stones into the ditch. Her heart right before she said okay was like a ripe tomato.
Caitlin didn't see the car, only heard the music on his radio - Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport - and the driver's deep and jolly voice as he sang along. His front bumper clipped her from behind, knocking her in the ditch. Her pom poms were still strapped on her hands when the EMTs gently lifted her on the stretcher. He didn't stop. Denham Springs, the town she lives in, is small. The police wanted to question the Australians, but there are none.
The sun disappears behind the clouds and a cool breeze kicks up out of nowhere. Caitlin pulls herself out of the water, rolls over on her hip, the way her uncle showed her, and lies beside the pool.
He works in the rehab wing of the hospital helping people re-learn what they used to do without thinking. He drives to work in a specially prepared van and will be home for dinner at 5:30. In the evenings they watch TV. He tells her to ask him anything. Not to be embarrassed. He was angry, too, at first, blah blah blah.
Teddy, the neighbor's son, comes through the fence door. He's home, finally, from tennis practice and carries a rum and Coke in each hand. For the past two weeks he's been stopping by.
"Hey, gimp," he says.
"How'd you play?" Caitlin says.
"I won two out of three sets," he says. Next year he'll be a senior in high school. So will she. He's short, tanned, with dark hair he doesn't push out of his eyes.
"This tastes good," she says, sipping her drink.
"Do anything new today?" he says.
"I swam to the bottom, looked around, practiced holding my breath. I want to shoot up like a rocket but my arms are weak."
He stretches his out in front of him so she can see how much bigger his right forearm is than his left.
"Popeye the sailor man," she says. The cloud is off the sun now and the sudden warmth gives her legs goose bumps she can't feel.
"Give me the lotion," Teddy says. He rubs Coppertone on her shoulders, her back, over her thin legs. There are four straight scars and he's measured them with his knuckle. Two are four inches long, one is eight, one is 25. Her spine was broken but there's no scar. His hands go both nowhere and everywhere in particular. She can't ask her uncle what to do with the sex that's in her brain.
She lowers herself into the water. Teddy strips off his shirt and jumps in, reaches for her so she can dolphin-ride on his back. "This isn't Make-A-Wish," Caitlin says. She goes under and pulls his shorts down with her teeth, nibbles him like a curious fish until her breath runs out.
(This story can be found in Smokelong Quarterly along with many wonderful short pieces by people like Sue Henderson, Kim Chinquee, Roy Kesey, Claudia Smith, Pasha Malla, and Bob Arter. And there are free interviews! This issue was guest-edited by the boyish Jeff Landon.)
August 14, 2004
a test of some sort
Permalinks, Etc.
A few new items here at Pia's, including permalinks (in the byline). Shouldn't cause any trouble, but if there is any trouble, let me know here: terry@bainbooks.com.
Thanks, Y'all.
Thanks, Y'all.
August 10, 2004
Mother
This personal essay in this Sunday's New York Times Magazine snuck up on me and made me cry.
I want to read more of Floyd Skloot's work.
I want to read more of Floyd Skloot's work.
You Are A Dog
It's time to pre-order my friend, Terry Bain's, book. He is also my webmaster, although he lets me feel like I'm sort of in charge.
From the press release:
You Are A Dog is a witty and thought-provoking book that reveals the very thing that dog-lovers constantly (and often obsessively) wonder about - what their dogs are actually thinking:
The Vacuum: The vacuum is evil. You bark. The vacuum is not invincible, and after it has searched every inch of the house, the vacuum will give up and return to the hall closet.
The Sofa: The sofa is Position One. The sofa makes you feel as if you are with your people even when your people are gone.
The Baby: Often known as "She Who Randomly Flings Food from the Table," the baby has the most flavorful, ever-changing face of all your people.
Readers will discover their dogs and themselves in passages so funny and so true that they'll read them out loud to friends, family, and pets alike.
The author of You Are a Dog, Terry Bain (a.k.a. He Who Leaves the Seat Up So That You Might Drink) is a freelance writer, book designer and teacher. He won an O. Henry Award for short fiction and was a previous Book Magazine Newcomer. He lives in Spokane, Washington with his wife, two children, two dogs and a cat.
Here's what some famous dog enthusiasts are already saying about the book:
Terry Bain has done a human-to-dog mind meld in "You Are a Dog". How else would he have cracked the canine cranial code to demystify those endearing or occasionally bizarre habits our beloved dogs exhibit. Equal parts witty and warm, sweet and sympathetic, read this book and be destined to meet your dog at a richer, deeper level. I highly recommend this book.
- Dr. Marty Becker, Veterinary contributor to ABC TV's "Good Morning America"
"You Are a Dog" is great fun. It should be the talk of every dog run in the U.S. and countless canine-dwelling homes as well. With humor, and more bite than one might expect, Terry Bain helps us to see the world through the eyes of our dogs, and to look at their lives in fresh and insightful ways.
- Jon Katz, author of "A Dog Year, The New Work of Dogs", "The Dogs of Bedlam Farm"
After reading "You Are A Dog", you will start thinking like a dog.
- Bash Dibra, Celebrity pet trainer and author of "DogSpeak"
For information about how to contact the author for a reading or signing, visit the You Are A Dog website, or contact the author's business manager at sarah@bainbooks.com.
Psyche Asea
August 08, 2004
Blue Jay Lane
Reid sat on the roof of his mom's house and watched the Dial Cleaners guy pull into his dad's driveway across the street. A blue duffel bag stuffed with dirty clothes hung on his front door knob.
His mom didn't know Reid sat on the roof. He was small for fourteen, light, and she thought the creaking noise was squirrels. They invaded her bird feeders. She mixed pepper in the seed, and greased the poles so they'd slide down like fireman, but nothing worked. Reid wished the jays would take charge and peck their rodent eyes out.
It was the middle of the summer. Reid's four-year-old sister had drowned in their backyard pool in April. His dad had said he needed time to think and wanted his own place, but close by, so Reid traveled between the two houses. Breakfast at mom's for cinnamon rolls. Lunch at dad's. Dinner was wherever the food was best that night. His dad mostly ordered takeout. Sweet and sour pork, pizza, tamales. He kept the freezer stocked with tubs of ice cream you didn't have to spoon in bowls, because with him there were no rules. His dad wasn't going to yell, even if Reid made Ds. "No pressure here," he told his son. "Lightning doesn't strike twice." He told Reid, daily, to do what he wanted, live full.
His mom believed take out food had no vitamins. There were new lines in her face. She walked differently, like taking steps required thinking. She stood at the window when Reid cut the neighbor's grass, and had panicked the other night when he went to Putt-Putt with friends and got home late because they were in the arcade and winning.
The cleaner guy pulled his dad's shirts out of the duffel bag, counting by throwing them on the ground. His mom used to iron his dad's shirts. She'd spray starch in the air and let the mist fall, roll the damp shirts into tubes and store them in the fridge until his father needed to wear one. When she ironed, the steam smelled good.
The van backed out making loud beeps. Reid imagined a year from then, when they wouldn't miss Katie as much. She'd be like a friend's little sister who moves away because the dad's been transferred, and it doesn't matter anymore that you knew her because you won't see her again.
:::
Reid had a summer job at Yummy's Sno-Balls. The stand belonged to the Catalanotto family. Three generations of them crowded in there, leaving not much room, but the place was organized. A hundred bottles sat on three graduated shelves, with special plastic spouts to make the pour smooth. They all kept up with drips and spills so ants didn't invade.
The line was always ten deep. When the pretty girl stepped up, Frank Catalanotto let Reid wait on her and he took the three kids who couldn't see over the counter.
She said, "I want to start at the top and work my way down."
Reid knew the list by heart. "Almond. Barney."
"Purple?" she said. Her lips were slick, with tiny flecks of silver.
"We have a flavor called cake batter," Reid said, and her eyes got round.
He leaned over the counter, touched her arm with his, and pointed at the
handwritten sign. Frankie, Jr. had drawn igloos and shivering penguins in the empty spaces.
"Popeye," she said. She wanted a flat head, which was a sno-ball that was even with the cup, no peak.
"You sure? There's less ice and syrup," he said.
She pointed at her new T-shirt. "I don't want to drip green."
He liked her shirt. He liked her pants. He asked Frank the third if he could take a break. She sat beside him at the picnic table.
"What is your name?" he said. Every word sounded stupid and separate. Like.
Translating. From. Indian.
"Calais."
"How do you spell that?"
"C-A-L-A-I-S."
"French?"
"Lebanese."
"I was close."
:::
His mom wanted Reid over early Saturday to move things around.
"I have to work," he reminded her.
"The house is screwed up," she said. His dad had taken things to his place and the rooms had weird spaces. There was a couch in the den with no chairs, and divots in the carpet.
"What can we put over these?" she said.
"Plants?" Reid said.
The bookshelf was half full, and books had toppled over in sloppy piles. Reid straightened them and placed photos in silver frames next to the stacks to hold them still. In his parent's bedroom, one of the twin dressers was gone, so the room looked off balance. The small TV that had been there was on his dad's kitchen counter.
"How does his place look?" his mom said.
"Okay."
"He blames me," she said, and went to the kitchen to smoke a cigarette.
Reid walked into Katie's room. Her things were where she'd left them. Some artwork from Pre-K. Some pretend homework, just numbers on paper. The bed had not been made.
His mom watched him from the doorway. "I want your dad's winter clothes put in the garage," she said.
Reid hugged armfuls of wool jackets and sweaters and coats, and filled a damp huge box she'd been saving.
:::
"Nectarine," Calais said over the head of a little kid Reid was waiting on. Today she wore a purple shirt. Reid over poured a coconut and Frank, Sr. smacked him on the back of the arm. "That's my profit on the floor," he said. Reid asked if he could take his break early.
He sat at the picnic table with Calais.
"This is good," she said, sucking on the straw. She pressed her fingers into her forehead.
"Brain freeze," he said. "Give it a second."
Yummy's customers had to park at Temple Drugs across the street. Reid watched them cross, checking the traffic left, right, left again, holding their kids' hands.
"That was my little sister you read about in the newspaper," he said. He was eating a cup of plain ice.
"I didn't." Calais leaned against his arm for a second, then swayed away, interested. "What'd she do?"
Reid explained how his mother had answered the phone and a telemarketing person caught her, how Katie had squeezed through the black mesh Angel Fence his parents had bought at Metairie Pool and Spa after the sales lady explained that over 300 children died every year in private swimming pools.
Calais put her arm around him.
"It only takes 17 seconds to drown."
She looked at Reid and her eyes filled with tears.
"That doesn't count splashing for help."
Calais sloshed the ice in her melting drink and put the cup down. "I don't want any more." She got off the picnic table and pulled him by the hand. "You should get back to work. The line got long."
:::
He could hear his mother calling him inside the house. She walked around the front yard to look for him. He watched her from the roof. She called his name over and over until his father came out of his house and asked if everything was okay.
"Is Reid with you?" she said.
"I thought he was at your house."
She flinched like something had flown too close to her face.
"You can't keep your eye on him?" his father said.
"What are you saying?"
Reid climbed down the back of the house, slipped into the kitchen window and walked through the front door.
"I was around the block helping Mr. Schlottman bag leaves. Everything's okay," he said.
:::
Miss Gail was at Reid's dad's, giving him a haircut. She was the mom of his friend, Turner, and pretty. She had on cut offs and white sandals.
"How's work?" his dad said.
"We sold 186 so far," Reid said.
"I wish you'd brought me one." Gail brushed his dad's neck with powder.
"Is Turner home?" Reid asked.
She nodded yes. "Bored stupid."
He rode his bike to their house. Turner was in the driveway, lighting fireworks left over from Memorial Day.
"Is my mom still at your dad's?" he said.
"Yeah." Reid tied the wicks together on four packs of Black Cats.
"You think they're getting together?"
"No," Reid said. He lit the thing with an incense stick and they went off like a hundred gunshots, bouncing around the driveway. Turner handed him some Mega Missiles. "Watch you don't blow your fingers off."
"Never happen," Reid said. He took his time and glanced over at his friend. "I'm bullet proof." He lit the missile and waited until the fuse was almost all ash to move out of the way of the launch, but the firework took off toward his face. He put his hands up to protect his eyes. His right hand stung, felt ice cold for a second, until the air hit the burn.
:::
His mother drove him home from the hospital, left him in the kitchen, went to her room and closed her door.
He looked at the ceiling. "I'm sorry," he said to no one. She was slamming drawers in there, probably looking for more stuff to throw out. This week the garbage cans in her driveway overflowed with magazines, towels, still-good bottles of shampoo.
Reid used the ladder in the back and climbed on the roof. The lady next door was pulling weeds from her garden. Gumbo, her dog, sunned himself in the driveway.
His dad opened his front door and stood there, staring at their house. He crossed the street and dug in their cans, pulled out a few things, then went in his house to put them away. He walked back over to look some more.
"Dad," Reid said.
His father looked up, shading his eyes. "Nice view."
Reid raised his bandaged hand. "I burned myself."
"You okay?"
"Yeah," Reid said. "Do you wanna come up?"
"Where's your mom?"
"In her room."
His dad climbed up the ladder and tiptoed over the roof. He held Reid's hand in both of his.
"Firecrackers," Reid said.
"How's she doing?" his dad asked.
"Not so good."
They watched Mr. Bolton push his lawnmower around the pine trees in his yard.
"I see Katie all day," Reid said. "Out of the corner of my eye, especially when I'm not thinking about her."
"You're lucky," his dad said.
"She's always running."
His mom's window was open and she was crying. "Maybe you should check on her," his dad said.
Reid sat on his mother's bed and patted her hair like she used to do to him when he was sick. When she fell asleep, he snuck into Katie's room and stole Barbie from her Dream House. He stuffed her in his shirt and brought her to his dad's, sat her down straight-legged, with perfect strange hair, on the desk between the pencil cup and calculator.
His dad was watching the baseball game in the other room. "Reid?" he said, "wanna watch the Yankees with me?"
"I just ran over for my soccer shorts," Reid said. There were brownies on the kitchen table, and he wrapped two in an unused KFC napkin to bring to his mother.
He took his time crossing the street. It felt safest when he was standing in the middle of Blue Jay Lane, not gone yet from either parent, but also not with one instead of the other. If he had a choice, he'd sit all night on the warm black asphalt.
:::
While his mother was at church on Sunday, Reid changed into swim trunks and sat on the edge of the pool. Brown leaves from the pecan tree floated on the surface. He found the skimmer, held it in his good hand and picked them up, dumped them into a Hefty bag. Green mold bloomed on the floor of the pool. Reid scraped it away with the long-handled brush. Katie?s pool toys had been deflated, folded into colorful squares and moved to a corner of the patio, but he saw a purple My Pony in the deep end and left it alone.
He walked out until the water hit his neck, kept his bandaged hand in the air while he ducked under to wet his hair.
:::
Calais held out two dollars. "Choose for me."
Reid took the money and touched her hand. He turned around and scanned the bottles.
He wanted to tell Calais he was listening to Incubus when Katie drowned. His mother had carried her, dripping, up to his room and asked him to help. He knew CPR from health class, but when he put his mouth over his sister's it felt too small, too soft. There was nothing he could do to make her breathe.
The machine sprayed ice into the cup, and some dusted over the bandage on his hand. On his break he would show her the burn. He would kiss her on the picnic bench and find her cool tongue.
"This time make mine high," she said.
Reid flattened the cone and poured in Green Lagoon, then filled a silver funnel with more ice. He turned it over to make a beauty, this packed, perfect cone. He liked her so much.
His mom didn't know Reid sat on the roof. He was small for fourteen, light, and she thought the creaking noise was squirrels. They invaded her bird feeders. She mixed pepper in the seed, and greased the poles so they'd slide down like fireman, but nothing worked. Reid wished the jays would take charge and peck their rodent eyes out.
It was the middle of the summer. Reid's four-year-old sister had drowned in their backyard pool in April. His dad had said he needed time to think and wanted his own place, but close by, so Reid traveled between the two houses. Breakfast at mom's for cinnamon rolls. Lunch at dad's. Dinner was wherever the food was best that night. His dad mostly ordered takeout. Sweet and sour pork, pizza, tamales. He kept the freezer stocked with tubs of ice cream you didn't have to spoon in bowls, because with him there were no rules. His dad wasn't going to yell, even if Reid made Ds. "No pressure here," he told his son. "Lightning doesn't strike twice." He told Reid, daily, to do what he wanted, live full.
His mom believed take out food had no vitamins. There were new lines in her face. She walked differently, like taking steps required thinking. She stood at the window when Reid cut the neighbor's grass, and had panicked the other night when he went to Putt-Putt with friends and got home late because they were in the arcade and winning.
The cleaner guy pulled his dad's shirts out of the duffel bag, counting by throwing them on the ground. His mom used to iron his dad's shirts. She'd spray starch in the air and let the mist fall, roll the damp shirts into tubes and store them in the fridge until his father needed to wear one. When she ironed, the steam smelled good.
The van backed out making loud beeps. Reid imagined a year from then, when they wouldn't miss Katie as much. She'd be like a friend's little sister who moves away because the dad's been transferred, and it doesn't matter anymore that you knew her because you won't see her again.
:::
Reid had a summer job at Yummy's Sno-Balls. The stand belonged to the Catalanotto family. Three generations of them crowded in there, leaving not much room, but the place was organized. A hundred bottles sat on three graduated shelves, with special plastic spouts to make the pour smooth. They all kept up with drips and spills so ants didn't invade.
The line was always ten deep. When the pretty girl stepped up, Frank Catalanotto let Reid wait on her and he took the three kids who couldn't see over the counter.
She said, "I want to start at the top and work my way down."
Reid knew the list by heart. "Almond. Barney."
"Purple?" she said. Her lips were slick, with tiny flecks of silver.
"We have a flavor called cake batter," Reid said, and her eyes got round.
He leaned over the counter, touched her arm with his, and pointed at the
handwritten sign. Frankie, Jr. had drawn igloos and shivering penguins in the empty spaces.
"Popeye," she said. She wanted a flat head, which was a sno-ball that was even with the cup, no peak.
"You sure? There's less ice and syrup," he said.
She pointed at her new T-shirt. "I don't want to drip green."
He liked her shirt. He liked her pants. He asked Frank the third if he could take a break. She sat beside him at the picnic table.
"What is your name?" he said. Every word sounded stupid and separate. Like.
Translating. From. Indian.
"Calais."
"How do you spell that?"
"C-A-L-A-I-S."
"French?"
"Lebanese."
"I was close."
:::
His mom wanted Reid over early Saturday to move things around.
"I have to work," he reminded her.
"The house is screwed up," she said. His dad had taken things to his place and the rooms had weird spaces. There was a couch in the den with no chairs, and divots in the carpet.
"What can we put over these?" she said.
"Plants?" Reid said.
The bookshelf was half full, and books had toppled over in sloppy piles. Reid straightened them and placed photos in silver frames next to the stacks to hold them still. In his parent's bedroom, one of the twin dressers was gone, so the room looked off balance. The small TV that had been there was on his dad's kitchen counter.
"How does his place look?" his mom said.
"Okay."
"He blames me," she said, and went to the kitchen to smoke a cigarette.
Reid walked into Katie's room. Her things were where she'd left them. Some artwork from Pre-K. Some pretend homework, just numbers on paper. The bed had not been made.
His mom watched him from the doorway. "I want your dad's winter clothes put in the garage," she said.
Reid hugged armfuls of wool jackets and sweaters and coats, and filled a damp huge box she'd been saving.
:::
"Nectarine," Calais said over the head of a little kid Reid was waiting on. Today she wore a purple shirt. Reid over poured a coconut and Frank, Sr. smacked him on the back of the arm. "That's my profit on the floor," he said. Reid asked if he could take his break early.
He sat at the picnic table with Calais.
"This is good," she said, sucking on the straw. She pressed her fingers into her forehead.
"Brain freeze," he said. "Give it a second."
Yummy's customers had to park at Temple Drugs across the street. Reid watched them cross, checking the traffic left, right, left again, holding their kids' hands.
"That was my little sister you read about in the newspaper," he said. He was eating a cup of plain ice.
"I didn't." Calais leaned against his arm for a second, then swayed away, interested. "What'd she do?"
Reid explained how his mother had answered the phone and a telemarketing person caught her, how Katie had squeezed through the black mesh Angel Fence his parents had bought at Metairie Pool and Spa after the sales lady explained that over 300 children died every year in private swimming pools.
Calais put her arm around him.
"It only takes 17 seconds to drown."
She looked at Reid and her eyes filled with tears.
"That doesn't count splashing for help."
Calais sloshed the ice in her melting drink and put the cup down. "I don't want any more." She got off the picnic table and pulled him by the hand. "You should get back to work. The line got long."
:::
He could hear his mother calling him inside the house. She walked around the front yard to look for him. He watched her from the roof. She called his name over and over until his father came out of his house and asked if everything was okay.
"Is Reid with you?" she said.
"I thought he was at your house."
She flinched like something had flown too close to her face.
"You can't keep your eye on him?" his father said.
"What are you saying?"
Reid climbed down the back of the house, slipped into the kitchen window and walked through the front door.
"I was around the block helping Mr. Schlottman bag leaves. Everything's okay," he said.
:::
Miss Gail was at Reid's dad's, giving him a haircut. She was the mom of his friend, Turner, and pretty. She had on cut offs and white sandals.
"How's work?" his dad said.
"We sold 186 so far," Reid said.
"I wish you'd brought me one." Gail brushed his dad's neck with powder.
"Is Turner home?" Reid asked.
She nodded yes. "Bored stupid."
He rode his bike to their house. Turner was in the driveway, lighting fireworks left over from Memorial Day.
"Is my mom still at your dad's?" he said.
"Yeah." Reid tied the wicks together on four packs of Black Cats.
"You think they're getting together?"
"No," Reid said. He lit the thing with an incense stick and they went off like a hundred gunshots, bouncing around the driveway. Turner handed him some Mega Missiles. "Watch you don't blow your fingers off."
"Never happen," Reid said. He took his time and glanced over at his friend. "I'm bullet proof." He lit the missile and waited until the fuse was almost all ash to move out of the way of the launch, but the firework took off toward his face. He put his hands up to protect his eyes. His right hand stung, felt ice cold for a second, until the air hit the burn.
:::
His mother drove him home from the hospital, left him in the kitchen, went to her room and closed her door.
He looked at the ceiling. "I'm sorry," he said to no one. She was slamming drawers in there, probably looking for more stuff to throw out. This week the garbage cans in her driveway overflowed with magazines, towels, still-good bottles of shampoo.
Reid used the ladder in the back and climbed on the roof. The lady next door was pulling weeds from her garden. Gumbo, her dog, sunned himself in the driveway.
His dad opened his front door and stood there, staring at their house. He crossed the street and dug in their cans, pulled out a few things, then went in his house to put them away. He walked back over to look some more.
"Dad," Reid said.
His father looked up, shading his eyes. "Nice view."
Reid raised his bandaged hand. "I burned myself."
"You okay?"
"Yeah," Reid said. "Do you wanna come up?"
"Where's your mom?"
"In her room."
His dad climbed up the ladder and tiptoed over the roof. He held Reid's hand in both of his.
"Firecrackers," Reid said.
"How's she doing?" his dad asked.
"Not so good."
They watched Mr. Bolton push his lawnmower around the pine trees in his yard.
"I see Katie all day," Reid said. "Out of the corner of my eye, especially when I'm not thinking about her."
"You're lucky," his dad said.
"She's always running."
His mom's window was open and she was crying. "Maybe you should check on her," his dad said.
Reid sat on his mother's bed and patted her hair like she used to do to him when he was sick. When she fell asleep, he snuck into Katie's room and stole Barbie from her Dream House. He stuffed her in his shirt and brought her to his dad's, sat her down straight-legged, with perfect strange hair, on the desk between the pencil cup and calculator.
His dad was watching the baseball game in the other room. "Reid?" he said, "wanna watch the Yankees with me?"
"I just ran over for my soccer shorts," Reid said. There were brownies on the kitchen table, and he wrapped two in an unused KFC napkin to bring to his mother.
He took his time crossing the street. It felt safest when he was standing in the middle of Blue Jay Lane, not gone yet from either parent, but also not with one instead of the other. If he had a choice, he'd sit all night on the warm black asphalt.
:::
While his mother was at church on Sunday, Reid changed into swim trunks and sat on the edge of the pool. Brown leaves from the pecan tree floated on the surface. He found the skimmer, held it in his good hand and picked them up, dumped them into a Hefty bag. Green mold bloomed on the floor of the pool. Reid scraped it away with the long-handled brush. Katie?s pool toys had been deflated, folded into colorful squares and moved to a corner of the patio, but he saw a purple My Pony in the deep end and left it alone.
He walked out until the water hit his neck, kept his bandaged hand in the air while he ducked under to wet his hair.
:::
Calais held out two dollars. "Choose for me."
Reid took the money and touched her hand. He turned around and scanned the bottles.
He wanted to tell Calais he was listening to Incubus when Katie drowned. His mother had carried her, dripping, up to his room and asked him to help. He knew CPR from health class, but when he put his mouth over his sister's it felt too small, too soft. There was nothing he could do to make her breathe.
The machine sprayed ice into the cup, and some dusted over the bandage on his hand. On his break he would show her the burn. He would kiss her on the picnic bench and find her cool tongue.
"This time make mine high," she said.
Reid flattened the cone and poured in Green Lagoon, then filled a silver funnel with more ice. He turned it over to make a beauty, this packed, perfect cone. He liked her so much.
August 02, 2004
Anagram
The Act of Turning Over
Coathangers
The origins of the coathanger are lost in the mists of time, but most anthropologists agree that they have been around for as long as we have been wearing clothes. The earliest evidence of their use is found in the inscriptions of the ancient Egyptians.
(from Museum of Coathangers)
My favorite - The Nimrod
I like the notches for those loop thingies that come in pants and skirts that I usually cut off. And how you can hang two things on one hanger.
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Pia Z. Ehrhardt.
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