Breakfast with Neruda

by Laura Moe

  I cram it in the washer. “Thanks for letting me do this.”

  “How did you live without me before?”

  “Obviously I was dangling on the edge of a cliff.”

  “I’m going to change clothes,” she says. “Give me five minutes, then come up to my room.”

  “Will you be naked?”

  “You wish,” she says.

  A few minutes later we sit in front of her laptop, and a fully clothed Shelly powers it up. “The moment of truth,” Shelly says. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes and no.” This feels too easy. “In a few minutes I find out if I’m half Mexican or Amish or Italian.”

  “You’re probably the spawn of alien life forms,” she says.

  I laugh, and swing my arm around her shoulder. I say in my best cheesy French accent, “Perhaps I am a Frenchman after all.”

  She feigns a British accent. “Or perhaps you’re a royal, the long lost bastard child of Prince Charles.”

  “Oh, do behave.”

  She types Ohio vital records in the search bar and the website appears on screen.

  The first thing I notice is the time frame to get the certificate. “It takes twenty to thirty-five business days,” I say.

  “That’s just a rough estimate.”

  “And it costs eighty-five bucks! Plus shipping,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I have open access to a credit card.”

  “Are you sure your dad is okay with you spending money like this?”

  “He wheezes money,” she says. “Don’t worry about it. What’s your full name?”

  “Michael Gillam Flynn.”

  “Gillam?”

  “I’m named after my dead uncle,” I say.

  Shelly types in my name, date of birth, and Columbus, Ohio. The screen takes its time spooling.

  “Why is it taking so long?” I ask.

  “There’s a lot of people in Ohio.”

  Finally the screen shows a hit. My name’s there, as is my mother’s, but my father’s name is a giant blank space.

  “What the hell?” I shout.

  I want to hit something. “Every damn time I get close, I hit a brick wall. Damn it!” I slam my fist on the top of her desk. I stalk out of her room and run down the steps. I fling the front door open and pace on her front lawn.

  Shelly follows me out. “Michael!”

  I wave my fists and shout, “What the hell do I do now?” I walk back and forth on the lawn. “Why is she keeping this such a big fucking secret? Is my father a Cuban spy? I mean, what the hell? Why can’t she just tell me? Was I hatched instead of born? Am I a goddamned alien, or just a figment of your wild imagination?” I pinch my own flesh and it stings, so I know I am real.

  Shelly lets me rant some more. When I am finally quiet, she touches my arm and says, “I’m really sorry, Michael.” She reaches out to caress my face. “I guess the good news is you’re not Amish.”

  “No, I’m a damned alien from Mars.”

  “Your skin isn’t green enough.”

  I grimace. I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but I’m not really in a joking mood. I want to be mad a little longer. But it’s not Shelly I’m mad at. I’m mad at my life.

  “Maybe we should take a drive so you can think behind the wheel,” she says. “We can go back to The Book Loft if you want.”

  “All those words will be a distraction right now,” I say.

  “Let’s put the top down on the Miata and just take a drive then,” she says. “It will clear your head.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something crazy like ram us into a wall?”

  She shrugs. “If you did, I might be okay with that.”

  I shoot her a look.

  “I’m kidding,” she says. “Come on.”

  Shifting gears on the Miata feels cathartic, as if I have control of at least one thing in my life. By the time we get to the entrance ramp to I-70, I have calmed down a little. I rev the car down the freeway ramp and head west toward Columbus. When we reach sixty miles an hour, Shelly flips her side braid behind her and wipes her neck. “I feel like I’m wearing a ferret.”

  I laugh, and drive, navigating through the brink of rush hour. In the freeway din, Shelly yells. “I’m hungry again. Let’s stop at Panera on 256.”

  “What’s Panera?”

  “Kind of a coffee shop.”

  “Okay. I could use a cup of coffee.”

  “Yeah, that’ll relax you right up.”

  “Shut up.” I smile at her. “I’ll get decaf, okay?”

  She guides me to Panera, which sits next to T.G.I. Friday’s. I’ve never been to either place before, but I have seen them from the freeway. I park the little car in a space near the entrance. “Is this place fancy dancy?”

  “Hell no. It’s a dressed-up version of fast food with good pastries.” We walk in and I notice two counters. “You can order on either side,” Shelly says. “The pastries are here on the left, and the food is on the right.”

  From the food menu I order a big bowl of broccoli-cheddar soup and some exotic sounding sandwich with Asiago cheese. The kid at the counter swears it’s good. Shelly orders a bowl of pasta with pesto and a salad.

  “That smells wonderful,” I say as we sit down.

  “Take a bite.” She gives me a forkful of the best pasta I have ever eaten. “It has pesto in it.”

  I have no idea what pesto is, but I nod and pretend I know what the hell she’s talking about.

  Shelly’s phone buzzes. She looks at the number. “Jeez, how do these creeps get my cell number?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Some telemarketer. I like messing with them.” She punches Accept and places the phone on speaker on our table.

  “Good afternoon,” a slightly Indian-sounding voice says. "Is this Mrs. Miller?”

  “Uh-huh,” Shelly says. So her last name is Miller. Noted.

  “My name is Dave, and I am calling from Visa Bank Trust. And I want to tell you about this one-time opportunity to reduce the rate of interest on your Visa card.” He goes through his long spiel.

  After a moment of silence, Shelly says, “I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you naked?” she says in a breathy, seductive tone.

  “Wh . . . what?”

  She picks up the phone and whispers, “What are you wearing, Dave? Do you need help removing your clothes so I can ravage every inch of your body?”

  Whoever “Dave” is hangs up. I laugh. “You are way too good at that,” I say. “I’m a little turned on right now.”

  She shoves her phone in her bag and sips her coffee. “You men are so easy,” she says. “It’s harder to rattle the women callers.”

  We get back to her house around six-thirty. Neither of her parents is home yet. Shelly puts my clothes and duffle in the dryer and gets us each a bottle of beer from the fridge. We sit by the pool and dangle our feet in the water. She unravels her hair from the braid and fluffs it out with her hands, letting it fall over her shoulders in wrinkled waves. She leans her head against my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her.

  “If we had a soundtrack for this moment,” I say, “it would have to be Tom Waits singing ‘Blue Valentine.’” In my scratchiest voice, I mangle the lyrics to the song.

  Back at the house, Shelly and I fold my laundry and stack it in the now clean duffle. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes, folds a T-shirt, and carefully stashes it in the duffle. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like having you around,” she says. “Dork.”

  “Freak.”

  “Moron,” she says.

  I pull her close and kiss her deeply. My hands wander over her body, and I get hard. I reach my hand under her skirt, and she pulls back, and whispers, “My parents will be home soon. You’d better hit the road.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I stuff the rest of my clothes in the canvas bag and tie it
shut. I hoist the duffle over my shoulder.

  “You seem pissed,” she says.

  “No, I’m just . . . I’m just kind of confused. I thought you were attracted to me.”

  “I am attracted to you,” she says. “I’m just not ready to take this to the next level.”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen, despite what you may have heard about me, I’m not some tramp who does it anywhere and everywhere,” she says.

  “I never thought that about you.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  I set the duffle down. “I’m not sure. I know you’re bold and adventurous.”

  She touches my chest. “We have a good thing, but I don’t want to rush things,” she says. “Listen, you’ve had a tough day, and you probably deserve a little physical reward, but I just can’t help you right now.”

  “I didn’t expect sex as a reward. I would never be happy forcing myself on you.”

  “And that’s one of the things I like about you.”

  I kiss her quickly and open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” she says. She scurries to the kitchen and comes back with a plastic Kroger bag. Inside are half a loaf of French bread, a jar of peanut butter, a banana, and an orange. “I can’t do breakfast in the morning, and I don’t want you to starve.”

  I smile. “Thanks.” I grasp the bag by the handles. “Are you coming to school at all tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be a little late.”

  I wait for her to tell me why, but I know she won’t.

  Chapter Ten

  At the end of the work detail today, Annie texts me and asks me to stop by. She wants me to help keep Mom from going to a flea market. Sometimes one or both of us can talk her out of buying more stuff, but mostly, it’s a huge waste of time. I text back, “OK.”

  “Do you work tonight?” Shelly asks.

  “No, I have to go see my sister.”

  “Need company?”

  “No. My mom might be sleeping.” Shelly accepts my reason and kisses me goodbye. “See you in the A.M.,” she says.

  Annie is sweeping the porch when I approach. “Keeping your room clean, I see.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “What’s up, big bro?”

  “Mom up yet?”

  “I think she’s in the shower. She worked late last night, but you know lack of sleep won’t keep her from another flea market.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  I glance at the title of the book sitting on Annie’s chair. “The Hunger Games? Are you the last person on the planet who hasn’t read that book yet?”

  She laughs. “I saw the movie, but the book is better.”

  “Duh.” I sit on the steps, and Annie sets the broom aside and plops down beside me.

  “How is life treating you?” she asks.

  I wave my palm up and down. “So-so.”

  “Are things still working out with the Goth girl?”

  I blush. “What do you mean?”

  “Jeff told me he saw you with her again the other day.”

  “Things are fine,” I say. “So what’s going on with you?”

  Annie’s shoulders droop. “Mom went to Goodwill yesterday alone. She got mad when I tried to talk her out of going, so she made me stay behind.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.” Sometimes Annie goes along just to talk Mom out of buying more crap none of us needs. Occasionally this works, depending on our mom’s mood. But if she’s really bothered by something, nobody gets through to her. When our mother gets upset, or when she’s in a great mood, she buys lots of useless junk.

  I hug my sister. “Want me to go inside and find something to throw away while she’s in the shower?”

  She grins. “Yeah. The stairs are getting too cluttered.”

  I dig through the bottom of a layer and end up taking away a box containing a used laser-printer toner cartridge and a broken clock. I hide them under some boxes in the apartment complex dumpster and go back and sit on the porch steps.

  “I’m at band camp next week,” Annie says. “A week to breathe and be normal.” We both know a week’s worth of crap will be added to the piles inside the house.

  “I’ll stop by and make sure your porch stays clean,” I say.

  She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Thanks. You’re a good brother.”

  The white cat meanders across the lawn. He’s sort of a neighborhood cat, so his flesh is full and well cared for. He comes here often enough that Annie named him Mr. White, and he frequently nestles in with her at night. He approaches us, and I hold out my hand for him to sniff. The cat rubs his head against my palm, and I pet the top of his head. “Hey, Mr. White,” I say.

  “Will you remember to bring him some food while I’m away? Mom will forget.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Is there anything you need to buy for camp? I can take you shopping.”

  “Yeah. I need some junk food.”

  “Let’s go.” We have plenty of time before Mom leaves for the flea market. It takes her at least an hour after she gets up to get ready.

  We head over to Walmart. Mom has given Annie twenty bucks to spend, so we load up on bags of chips, some Little Debbie cakes, and a giant box of Cheez-Its. Annie tosses a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in the grocery cart.”

  “Aren’t you afraid these will melt?” I ask.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she says. “Last year the dorms were like an oven.”

  “Get M&M’s instead,” I tell her. “Melts in your mouth, not all over your underwear.”

  It comes to sixteen bucks. Annie wants to spend the change on gum, but I talk her out of it. “Keep the rest in case you want to buy pop or anything at Kenyon.” I slip her a five on the way out the door. “And get something on me.”

  “I can’t take your money,” she says.

  “Sure you can. I get a regular check, and I live cheaply.” I don’t tell her my Goth girl is also my sugar mama.

  “So what are you looking forward to most about band camp?” I ask as we walk to the car. It’s her second time going there. It’s held on the Kenyon College campus, and I’m insanely jealous. They have an awesome bookstore I discovered when I drove my sister up last year. This year I won’t have time to go, and Annie will have to ride the band bus.

  “Not being home,” Annie says.

  Mom is showered, dressed, and smoking a cigarette in the front yard when I pull up in my car. She is studying her ratty looking rosebushes. “They might actually grow if you water them,” I say.

  “I’ve been working nights all week,” my mom says. “By the time I get home, it’s too dark.” She gives me a quick hug. “Where have you two been?”

  Annie holds up the Walmart bag. “Getting band camp supplies.”

  “That reminds me,” Mom says, “Can you pick her up and take her to school with you in the morning? I’m working a five-to-three shift again tonight and don't know what time I’ll get up.”

  “What time do you have to be there?”

  “I think around nine or ten,” Annie says.

  “I have to be at school by eight,” I say. “Can you be ready by seven-forty-five?”

  “I guess,” she says, with a sigh. Annie is not a morning person. She ambles to the back porch carrying her bag of junk food.

  Mom holds her Kool in one hand and digs at the weeds with the other. There is never a good time to ask this, so I just blurt it out. “Mom, who is my father? What’s his name?”

  She inhales deeply on her cigarette, and smoke plumes around her like fog. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  “I need to know,” I say. “I need to know who I am.”

  “It was a long time ago,” she says. “I don’t even remember.”

  “Well, according to the records office I don’t have one.”

  “When did you go to the Hall of Records?”

  “I went on the Internet to look for a copy of my birth certificate. There was no name listed under fath
er.”

  She points at me with her cigarette hand. “You have no right,” she sputters. “Just . . . you just stop it right now.”

  I stomp to the back of the townhouse and find Annie sitting on the steps, cleaning her horn. I groan and plop down next to her.

  She glances at me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Another brick wall,” I say. I lean my elbows against the upper step. “Annie, has Mom ever talked to you about my real dad?”

  “No,” she says. “Every time I ask, I get a different answer. Either she doesn’t know, or it’s too awful to talk about.”

  “Yeah, she won’t tell me either.” I rest my head in my hands behind my head and scrutinize my half-sister. “You know I’m insanely jealous of you and Jeff.”

  “Why? My dad’s dead.”

  “But at least you knew him, and you know who you are.”

  “It would be the same if you were adopted.”

  “That would be different,” I say. “Only the state would know my true identity. Nobody seems to know who I am except Mom, and she won’t tell me.” I fill Annie in on going online and coming away with nothing.

  “Maybe Mom’s trying to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “Like maybe he’s a serial killer or an animal abuser or a Russian Mafia dude.”

  I lean back and rest my elbows on the top step. “But wouldn’t I have crazy urges too?”

  “You are crazy,” she says. “You tried to blow up the school.”

  “No, just a locker. And that was supposed to be Rick’s car, so I’m crazy and stupid.”

  Annie does a final swipe on her trumpet and sets it inside the case. “Maybe your dad is a spy, and she can’t reveal his identity.” She snaps the case shut. “Why not ask Paul?”

  Jeff’s dad. It’s so obvious. “Duh. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Cuz you’re a moron?” she says. I punch her on the shoulder. She punches me back.

  Every time I visit my mother’s freak show of a house, I feel the urge to straighten up the inside of my car. This time I need to also organize all that camping crap. I pile everything neatly, stacking things in the copy paper boxes I retrieved from school. I wish I could lock the car. One of these days I am going to come out and everything I own will be gone. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.