* * *
The next morning, when Julian saw his mom and dad smiling at him from the kitchen table, it was like that episode from The Twilight Zone where the boy’s parents get replaced by droids that talk like real people but aren’t. His mom slid two extra Eggo waffles on his plate, and as soon as he sat down his dad gave a speech about the wonders of sports, and some guy Pelé, and how he—Julian—would be trying out for the soccer team in a few weeks. He looked at his mom to make sense of the bizarro things coming out of his dad’s mouth, but she nodded and smiled like a robot.
“And,” his dad finished, “to get ready for tryouts, we’re building a soccer goal in the backyard this weekend, so you can practice.”
“Oh,” his mom said, scrunching her face, “we didn’t, uhhh—”
“A little project,” he mumbled. “PVC, miter saw, easy. So”—he gave Julian a serious look—“you’re making your first trip to Home Depot with your dad tomorrow.”
His mom returned to nodding. Don’t I get a vote? Julian wanted to shout. To not waste my life kicking some stupid ball around a field? But he didn’t. He thought of the pamphlet at dinner the night before, and the muffled sounds coming from his parents’ bedroom afterward, and he knew he didn’t get a vote.
For the rest of the day Julian mused over the possibility that he might die and not have to go with his dad to the hardware store. Not an imagine-your-own-death thing, more of a not-existing thing, his body dissolving from family photos like he never was and the world moving on without him. But when he opened his eyes to a gray light on Saturday morning, reality sank in like an iron blanket.
“Jules,” his dad called from the other side of his bedroom door. “Leaving in ten. We’ll get a men’s breakfast on the road.”
It wasn’t the first time Julian had been bribed with a McMuffin. Hash browns, chalupas, Jack in the Box egg rolls: if his dad got stuck taking Julian somewhere on a weekend, there was usually a drive-through involved. But the “men’s” part was new, and the word struck dread in his heart. For as long as Julian could remember, his dad’s whole being made him uncomfortable—the connection to his mom’s sadness, the way the two of them fought—but he’d never felt afraid of his dad until he brought home the Christian pamphlet. Julian had heard of those camps. His best friend’s older sister at the high school had a friend who was friends with a guy, Nathan, who sucked dick on the bike trail, or that was the rumor, and he got sent to a camp and never came back to Royalwood. Where he was now no one seemed to know.
“Best thing about Home Depot?” his dad said when he pulled out of the Burger King drive-through. “The men. Not just employees. Customers. Experienced guys, getting their hands on the right tools. Because the pride you get from building something? A soccer goal? It’s like building a house, putting a roof over your head—you wait and see.”
“But you didn’t,” Julian said, nibbling a tater tot. “We’re not building a house.”
“It’s metaphorical. You can learn a lot from guys at Home Depot.”
“Like what?”
“Like what?” His dad chuckled and shook his head at such a silly question. Then he frowned. “Like how to be a guy.”
“Who taught them?” Julian sat up with a quizzical look. “If they teach other guys how to be guys, who taught them how? How’d they get to be the ones to—”
“So?” his dad barked. “How’s school?”
In the upturn of his voice, Julian heard it was time to speak his dad’s language, talk in numbers and percentages, forget anything he might actually be thinking because his dad only half listened anyways, and tell him the praise people piled on his son that day. Normally Julian played along so his dad would leave him alone. But driving to Home Depot, Julian thought of what the man at the RenFest had called him and wondered if his dad thought he was a faggot too. “What do you care?” Julian snapped.
His dad didn’t say anything. He cleared his throat and flipped on the radio and fiddled until he found Kenny Rogers. And for the rest of the ride, Julian tried to ignore the excruciating sight of his dad mouthing the words to “The Gambler.”
* * *
“Look for a gentleman in an orange vest,” his dad said when they parked. “They work here.” Through the sliding doors they crossed from the heavy Gulf air into AC land. Julian had been to the local True Value with his mom, but this place was different: aisles thirty feet high, with heavy things that could crash on you, tools and metal bits everywhere to cut or snag you if you weren’t looking, men with guts pushing carts around like zombies in the blue-white light. He followed his dad to Plumbing and helped him stack PVC onto a dolly. “Now,” his dad said, “where’s netting?” He strolled to the end of the aisle and squinted. “Hold down the fort, Jules.”
“Where are you going?”
“Watch our stuff. Be right back.”
Julian sat on the edge of the dolly and ran through his to-do list for debate club: research on universal health care, memorize a new oratory about the evils of date rape, and—
“Shut the fuck up!” A voice jolted him from his thinking. Two redneck guys came around the corner, grinning. One of them smacked the other on the head. They strutted down the aisle in baggy jeans and a cloud of tobacco stink. The smacker gave Julian a hard stare as he passed and pulled up the sleeves of his thermal, revealing forearms covered in tattoos.
Julian held his breath until they were gone, but when he let it out he found he couldn’t breathe. His pulse raced. He could see the shop at the RenFest again, where he’d tried on the veil. He was always so careful not to act like a girl, or stare at boys or try to hold one and be held. But that day he made one slip. He’d just seen a rerun of Princess Di’s wedding with his mom, and when he found the veil at the shop he felt a million miles from school and life. Until the shopkeeper’s tattooed arms came down on him, yanking his hair and twisting his neck, and too late he knew the moment had come. He would die. He had announced himself to the terror that was everywhere, and it had come for the faggot.
“Jules?” His dad was shaking his shoulders. Julian looked around. He was in Home Depot, on the floor by the dolly with his knees pulled to his chin. “What’s the matter?” his dad pressed. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he sputtered. He tried to stop crying, but when he noticed a guy in an orange vest waiting awkwardly behind his dad, the tears started raining harder.
“Come on.” His dad helped him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” His dad struck up a conversation with the Home Depot guy and steered the dolly out of the aisle. Julian followed, watching his dad through blurry eyes. He told Julian he was special once. His dad said it one time, and not about grades. They were in the car driving home from a party one night, where his dad drank liquor, and he told Julian he was smart and that he came from both of them—his mom and dad. It wasn’t that long ago. But when his dad stopped and turned in Home Depot to see his son lagging behind, it was only shame and disappointment Julian read on his face.
* * *
The saw was nightmare scary. In the years it sat gathering dust in the garage, Julian never paid it any mind. Then they got back from Home Depot, and his dad wiped it down and set it up on the back patio, and the gleam of the circular blade sent a chill down Julian’s spine. He lined up the pipes on the lawn, the way he was told. But when he tried listening to his dad’s instructions for the saw, he couldn’t think. He was going to lose a finger over a soccer goal.
“All right, Jules,” his dad said. “Your turn.”
“You do it.”
“I already did. This last bunch is yours. It’s easy, come on.”
“I’m going in,” Julian mumbled.
“No,” his dad ordered, “you’re cutting pipe.” Julian put on goggles and gloves and approached his fate. His dad set the pipe and turned on the saw. “Go on,” his dad shouted. Gingerly Julian touched pipe to blade. His dad hollered something, but he couldn’t hear over the shrieking noise. The saw made a grinding sound. Hi
s dad planted his hands on Julian’s, shoving the pipe clean through, and turned off the saw. Julian retreated to the lawn.
“Good.” His dad examined the mangled edge of the pipe. “Go faster this time.” Beyond his dad, Julian saw his mom watching at the bedroom window. He felt a splash of something on his neck. The rain hovering all day had finally come. Thunder rippled. “Forget it,” his dad said. “Lay the cut pieces inside there. I’ll do the rest.”
By the time his dad finished, Julian was watching TV. Every other channel was news about the Branch Davidians and the survivors soon to stand trial. His dad came in, soaked from the sudden downpour. “All right,” he said, rubbing his head with a towel. “We’re improvising, but we’re finishing. We’ll put it together in here—”
“What are you doing?” His mom appeared. “In the living room? Why not the garage?”
“Because the backyard’s right—We’ll put a few pieces together while it’s raining, and then—Could you leave us men alone?” His dad ignored her until she left. “Grab me two joints, would you, Jules? We’ll do the front frame first, get that screwed tight, then the sides and back.”
Julian handed him the joints and flipped channels. He stopped on his favorite local access preacher, a lady with a waist-long perm and cauliflower bangs. Mr. Koresh had the true faith, she preached, prowling around her blue satin stage. But the Davidians were different. And what does our government do if you’re different? It destroys you.
“Can you help, please?” his dad said, a little huffy. Julian looked up and saw the frame of a soccer goal rising. His dad stood there holding pipes like he was playing Twister, one leg swung around to hold a side piece, shoulder tucked in a joint, an arm lifting up the top, and the far side swinging with every jiggle of his body. “Stand there and steady it,” he ordered, “so I can start screwing it together. And turn off the Bible thumpers.”
“Whatever.” Julian got up and flipped the channel. “Where do you want me to go?” he asked, eyes still locked on the screen.
“The other side,” his dad barked. “Turn it off!” He leaned down to snatch the remote, and the frame buckled. In a strange, relentless slow motion, pipes came loose from joints and tumbled down with a crack, taking out a lamp and coming to rest in pieces on the couch and floor. Julian looked around and noticed a dark thing on the carpet. The dragon’s egg, swept off the coffee table. He knelt down to pick it up, but the dragon’s foot and tail, once hatching from the egg, had snapped off in the impact.
“What happened?” his mom called, hurrying into the living room.
“It…,” his dad began. “Fell.”
Julian held up the egg and foot and tail. His mom stared at the pieces. Before he could think to say anything, she grabbed her purse by the front door and bolted. The minivan revved and pulled away. He turned to his dad, but he was already heading to the garage. The door slammed. The clank of weights on cement vibrated through the house.
Julian sat still on the carpet, until inspiration struck. He ran to the kitchen for superglue. It wasn’t in the craft cabinet, so he tore through the pantry and drawers, all the while thinking of his mom’s face when she left. He’d seen that look before, seen her storm into the bedroom when she and his dad fought, but she’d never gone out the front door. The glue appeared in a tray of pens. Julian ran back to the living room, set the egg on a magazine, and prepped for surgery. He uncapped the crusty tube and squeezed, but nothing came out.
Julian flopped on the couch and listened to the rain. His mind drifted over the past week. And he knew for sure. Something was broken in their family, and it was because of him.
6
The Swimmers
“Aaron?” Lacy called from the kitchen. “I need you home by six.”
“Yup,” he barked from behind the bathroom door. He stood at the his-and-hers sinks and studied the shape he cut in the mirror, checking out different views. He threw his tie over his shoulder, pulled up his shirt, and pondered the slight yet unmistakable gut sheathing his forgotten abs. He sucked it in and let it go. He tilted his head to everyday angles, reassuring himself that only a hawk-eyed giant could find the bald spot in the blond still amply covering his crown. And for the first time since they’d met one afternoon two years ago, at a lonely diner by Lake Conroe, Aaron wondered what Crystal saw when she looked at him. Naked and in clothes.
“Not six like six thirty,” Lacy blathered. “Six like five forty-five. We’re carpooling crosstown with the Andersons, and we have hotel check-in, dinner, and bed by ten. Jules’s first relay is at eight in the morning—”
“I got it!” he shouted. He retucked his shirt, buttoned his blazer, and stared deep into his eyes. “Fuck Machine,” he growled. He unlocked the door and strutted from the bathroom.
“I mean it,” she resumed when he reached the kitchen. “I know it’s your job, but I need you on time.” His wife stood at the counter in her house uniform of saggy T-shirt and sweats, not a blob exactly but a familiar thing sort of fuzzy around the edges. Lacy kept talking while she spread jam on an English muffin, but Aaron’s focus had shifted to Julian wolfing down cereal and reading at the table. His amazing son had turned thirteen and in a handful of months shot up before their eyes to six feet of lanky muscle, as lean and hard as beef jerky.
“Jules!” he said. “Y’all gonna win your relays tomorrow?” Over the tops of his glasses Julian scrutinized Aaron and returned to his book. “If I was a betting man,” Aaron continued, “I’d say y’all take the medley and you set a record for the fifty breast.”
Lacy sighed and put her knife in the sink. “He’ll do his best,” she muttered.
“Course he will. Our big boy dives off that block and he’s way ahead of the other guys. Jules, see you tonight?” Aaron waited in vain for him to look up. “Carb-load at dinner, and then protein in the morning, right?”
“Bye,” Julian said irritably and flipped a page.
Aaron donated a peck on Lacy’s cheek and slipped past her out of the kitchen.
“Hey.” She followed him to the front door. “He’s nervous,” she said quietly. “Coach says he’s ready. It’s good you’ve been showing interest this summer, in him and his teammates, all the swimmers, but he doesn’t need more pressure on him or—” Lacy watched him a moment. “Six o’clock. Or we’re leaving without you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Aaron clicked the heels of his wing tips together and saluted her. But as with the rest of his jokes, she had stopped laughing a long time ago.
* * *
People always thought it was easy being Texaco’s angel of death out in the field—easy, they’d say when Aaron told folks what he did, because you’re never the one getting fired—but they hadn’t met his born-again boss or clocked all the miles he drove. The first time he had to do a round of layoffs was in Conroe, a few years back, when the natural gas dried up like the oil had before. It was a marathon trial by fire. One after another, field techs and mechanics trudged into the trailer-office in their Timberlands and soiled jeans. Aaron sat at a folding table, the single-breasted picture of a mature gentleman from the Macy’s sale circulars in the paper, his hair only slightly ruffled by the AC blasting in the window. He was manly and never beat around the bush. He made a listening face when the guys swore about wives and babies, or ranted about the money the company sucked out of the ground on their watch. He wrote down questions and made no promises. He ended every meeting with a speech about how many jobs he left because of a bad boss or whatever, but look at him now—he found another! And after six hours of ruining lives with no lunch break, Aaron was tired.
He left the trailer and hurried to his car through the hot-jelly air. He drove toward the lake. A few miles up the highway, in the middle of piney nowhere, he came across a chrome-wrapped diner shaped like a caboose. He pulled in and adjusted his tie knot in the rearview mirror. Door chimes announced him with a jingle when he pushed open the frosted-glass entrance, and instantly he spotted her sitting alone at the far end of the di
ner—a petite blond thing, as fresh as a cheerleader, in a tight khaki uniform and hair done up like Farrah Fawcett’s. She was eating a piece of cherry pie. Smoothly Aaron slipped off his wedding ring and approached her booth.
“I thought it was doughnuts that police like,” he rumbled. “Not pie. Did I get that wrong?”
“Good thing I’m not the police.” She scanned Aaron skeptically with huge blue eyes, flicking her mascaraed lashes like moth wings.
“Pardon the intrusion. Must have been that uniform that led me astray.”
“Prison guard. Food services, up in Huntsville. Polunsky Unit.” She sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her plastic mug. “Death row?”
“Is that right?” He chuckled. “You make their last meals?”
“I bring them. A man’s gotta eat.” She took a wet bite of pie. “Ever been up that way?”
“I have.” Something in her slow, lippy bite made the invitation. Aaron sat down and told her about the first trip he made to these parts, to check out Conroe Field when the layoffs were still a rumor, and how he missed his exit and ended up in the national forest, almost driving off the road when he got to that Paul Bunyan–size statue of Sam Houston right on the edge of I-45, like he was fixing to step onto the highway, and when Aaron came out the other side of the forest, there he was in Huntsville. Home of the electric chair. It turned out she lived a few minutes away on the lake, in a cabin she was staying in year-round with real nice views, and of course he wanted to see her views and yes he did come to a diner but no he didn’t need any food.
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