“I’m sorry, Rylee,” he says after I slump beside him on the log swing where he’s sitting. He squeezes my shoulders in a hug for a sec. “This sincerely must be so weird for you. It must suck so hard.”
“Yeah . . . total surprise, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I might have a good surprise, maybe.”
“As long as it’s a good one, Beau, bro.” I sigh. I’d like one good surprise this whole dismal trip.
We swing in the evening sunshine. I keep thinking I should call my mom and tell her. And Paul. They should know. I absolutely don’t know what I will say or how to tell them.
If I even call.
I sit and consider.
I remember being so mad at my dad all the time when I was little. And feeling so superior. My mom told us that Dad was “mistaken” and that God was just taking a little more time with him when we complained that he didn’t have to go to church. She told us that we had to pray for him and tell him how much we wanted him to go to Mass with us. . . .
Yeah, well, suffice to say, he never went. And he was always in trouble when we got home, if he was around, so it became habit that he just wasn’t around on Sundays. I knew where he went, because he used to take me with him on other days besides Sunday when I was little.
He would go down to the marina and walk among the boats and read their names aloud.
I loved when he took me with him. I thought boat owners were crazy because of the things they called their boats. My favorite was the Miss Anne Thrope. It cracked me up when my dad explained the joke. It made sense—the open water is a good place if you’re hating on humanity.
Dad always wanted a boat. When we were small he could never afford one.
I’m so grateful, as I get older and understand my parents’ sacrifices. My mom stayed home and it was wonderful to know that she would be there after my terrible day at school—which they all were. But that meant she didn’t have a career, which she would have loved, and that we were always poor. And that Dad never got a boat.
Now that I’m eighteen and he doesn’t send money for me anymore, I’m hoping he can finally get one. Everyone deserves their dream. Eventually.
I say these things to Beau as we sit and look at the lake. I swat mosquitoes as I speak. Beau doesn’t say anything. He just listens.
That’s another great thing about Beau—he doesn’t have to solve everything all the time. He knows when you just need to vent and remember.
The next morning I wake to a ruckus. The big dogs from the cabin across the lake are barking, which is only the second time I’ve heard them. The sound is amplified somehow so that they sound closer than they are.
I hear a knock on the bedroom door.
It’s Beau.
“Feel like getting up?” He looks eager and gleaming.
“Yeah . . . one second,” I say. He closes the door and I throw back the covers and jump out of bed. I dress quickly, feeling his subdued excitement.
I wash my face on the way out to the living room and when I enter I think maybe I still have water in my eyes. I gasp in amazement.
The uncles stand silently, holding in their happy laughter.
Surprise!!
The uncles are here!!! I feel like the cavalry just arrived!
“OMG!” I yell, and immediately clap my hand over my mouth, in case everyone is still asleep. I run to them and hug them and burst into tears. They hug me back and pet my rowdy hair and we just stand there, huddled.
Beau knew just who I needed!
My dad and grandma come out of the kitchen where they were hiding.
“Surprise!” they chorus. And it is!
And it’s a good one.
Uncle Oscar looks pretty much the same, except he’s dressed in flannel and jeans and big ol’ Wolverine boots. He has a little bit of gray on his temples that I don’t remember but it looks cool.
Uncle Frankie is buffer than ever. We are exactly the same height, but he is cut. I grin.
“You guys are a sight for sore eyes!” (Omg, I always start talking like my dad when I’m around them!)
“We are so glad to be here! I have never been to Alaska and we always said we wanted to go. And now here you all are! It’s perfect! I told Frank I want to see those Kodiak bears I’ve always heard about. They’re supposed to be foraging this time of year; I read about it somewhere. We can go watch them forage!” Oscar beams at me. We hug again. I feel something inside myself start to relax.
Omg, it just got so much better.
My dad stares at Uncle Oscar with a little smile on his face and confusion in his eyes.
The next day we go to the island of Afognak. It’s connected to Kodiak by a bridge.
It’s beautiful. It’s densely forested, but with huge expanses of mossy tundra to run through.
The Kodiak archipelago in June is about the prettiest place in the world. The whole island of Afognak is a state park. It’s my favorite topography: sprawling, lichen-covered hills that fan out to the open ocean. There are sea lions sunning themselves on the rocks and barking and we see boats halibut fishing in the distance, which the waters around here are famous for. We frolic around like lambs in the long grass and then sit, looking out to the ocean’s endless edge.
There are six of us: me, Leo, Beau, GramMer, Uncle Oscar, and Uncle Frankie.
And The Bomb, so seven.
As you can imagine, my grandma and Uncle Oscar hit it off immediately. They take to each other and Uncle Oscar cracks my grandma up, like he does me. They talk like old buddies all day long.
Uncle Frankie and Beau and Bommy go for a hike to the high point of the hill. We watch them climb with binoculars. Luckily, we haven’t seen any bears all day. My grandma has the shotgun with her. Just in case.
Uncle Oscar is worried about Leo. He strokes her hair, which isn’t shiny like it used to be.
“You know, it’s no joke if you get too thin. It will make you sick!” he tells her. “I’ve seen it.”
“But see, that’s just it! I’m not thin enough!” Leo is trying to explain the incomprehensible again. Uncle Oscar shakes his head.
“Yes, that’s the danger, darling . . . everything starts to look too fat after a while. You lose your perspective.”
Leo just closes her eyes and sighs.
“You’ll see,” she repeats stubbornly.
“I hope not.” Uncle Oscar says. “You can die from being too stubborn, Leonie.”
“Uh-uh.” Leo disagrees, eloquently.
“Yuh-huh!” Oscar tells her. He raises his eyebrows at her, nodding earnestly.
She rolls her eyes and stands up and walks downhill a little, to where some wild roses wave in the wind. She plops down and starts texting. Or pretending to.
Oscar looks at me and GramMer.
“I had a friend die of anorexia. A beautiful girl—a dancer. Not to mention Miss Karen Carpenter! It’s a killer, especially of young women.” Uncle Oscar is somber. “We might need to intervene if she gets any worse.”
This feels so good to hear. I’ve been worried about our lil’ Leo for quite a while.
“Keep an eye on her, Rusty. You are the closest to her. If she starts to induce vomiting or complain of being dizzy, you need to get help. She is starving herself and it will begin to take its toll on her, mentally. Not to mention the physical harm, which can’t be undone.” He sighs heavily.
I believe him. Uncle Oscar knows a lot of dead people.
He’s old enough to remember the epidemic when many of his friends and his boyfriend Jojo died. I learned about this when we went down to San Francisco at Christmas. I had never heard the story of how many people died of AIDS in America.
“I will keep an eye on her,” I say to Uncle Oscar, “and I’ll tell you if she gets any worse. Both of you.” Because GramMer is sitting there too.
“Maybe I should try to tempt her with my famous fried chicken?” GramMer is worried.
“Won’t work . . . I’ve seen her turn down things that would blow
your mind.”
“She is amazingly disciplined, that’s true,” Uncle Oscar adds. “Which makes it that much worse.”
Later that night we’d just returned to GramMer’s when my dad pulls up with Raven. We are still unpacking the remains of our afternoon picnic in the fading sunlight.
It’s socking in again. It gets foggy here frequently. It starts to drizzle. That’s what it seems to do instead of rain.
Raven runs to Leonie joyfully, like they are old pals. Lifts her arms up to be lifted. Leo tries but can hardly hoist her. I watch carefully. I wonder by how much she even outweighs Raven. They stagger.
“Oh, well, maybe just sit on my lap on the couch,” Leo tells her.
When they go inside Raven crawls onto Leo’s lap. Leo admires Raven’s shoes, the same light-up ones as before. Oscar sits down at the far end of the sofa. We all settle in. Frankie sits in a chair near Oscar.
Raven is shy with the uncles. She shows Leo her new sweater, but keeps eyeballing them furtively. Her sweater is pink with black cats on it. It’s very cute.
I love black cats. They got a raw deal.
Raven shows Leo the sparkling diamond cat eyes on her sweater.
“Show him too.” Leo indicates Uncle Oscar with her thumb. “He likes kitties.”
So she does. She edges over to him shyly.
“Oh, my, that is beautiful!” Uncle Oscar exclaims. “Where did you get this pretty sweater?”
“My mom.” Raven’s voice is no louder than a whisper. Her pink cheeks get pinker.
“Well, she has very good taste!” Oscar’s warm eyes twinkle as he smiles at her.
This loosens up Raven. She looks up at him.
“I can read!”
Oh, brother . . .
“You can?”
“Yep! Want me to read you a book?”
“Do you have Hop on Pop?”
“Yuh! Too easy!!” She jumps off the couch.
“Do you have Put Me in the Zoo!?” Of course she does. She runs to get it.
She snuggles up to my uncle Oscar, and starts reading aloud. About halfway through she looks up at him.
“You smell good.”
“Well, thank you, lil’ rutabaga.”
“Can I have some? I want to smell good like you.”
“Well, it’s in my suitcase in the hotel room. We’ll get it later, okay?”
“Or Daddy can get me some. Where did you get that smell?”
“I don’t know. He got it for me.” Oscar indicates Uncle Frankie. Frankie smiles at Raven.
“Phfffssttt!” she snorts. “That’s funny! Why’s a boy get another boy presents?” Raven’s face squinches up, and delighted snickers get the best of her. Uncle Oscar smiles at her tenderly.
“Well, why not?”
“’Cuz . . . are you in love with him?” Raven titters. She beats her heels on the sofa cushion.
GramMer intervenes. There is a laugh in her voice.
“How would you feel about that?”
“Silly! Do they kiss?!”
“Do people who love each other kiss sometimes?” Gram-Mer asks, smiling.
“Ahh . . . yeah!” She covers her face with her hands, laughing.
“So would that be okay?”
“Wait—can girls be in love with girls too? Else no fair!”
“Sure, if they want.”
“And get married?” Raven is undecided. Her forehead wrinkles in deliberation.
“Getting there,” Uncle Oscar interjects. He and GramMer laugh a little.
“One state at a time, right?” she says.
“A voyage to last a lifetime,” he answers her wearily. They smile sadly.
“Well . . . do I get married to a girl?” Raven is still obviously pondering ramifications.
GramMer takes that one too.
“I don’t know, honey—do you want to marry a girl?”
Raven chuckles at the ridiculousness.
“Noooooo! I love Robert!”
“Fair enough,” says my grandma. “How about if everyone just marries whomever they love. How would that be, sweet pea?”
Raven thinks, then. “And I marry Robert?”
“Sure. If you want to when you get big. And Uncle Oscar can marry Uncle Frankie.”
Raven thinks some more. “Can I go to their marriage?” she asks.
“Well, darlin’ I think they are already married,” GramMer says. “Or am I just assuming?” She turns and asks the uncles the last part. “I don’t see wedding rings, but . . . you seem so married.”
“We are, as a matter of fact. We were married very quietly, as soon as we could be. On the beach at sunset—oh, just so beautiful! But we’re going to get married all over again!” Uncle Oscar tells us all, beaming. “And I’m planning it in gigantic lavish detail! It will be a lux gala—exactly like Wills and Kate! We plan to renew our vows—and finally wear our rings, as soon as marriage equality becomes the law of the land—the entire land!”
“Can I come when you do? Please, please-please-please?” Raven is jumping around.
“Absolutely, lil’ huckleberry!” laughs Oscar. “You are certainly invited! Just you wait, because it’s coming someday very soon.”
“’Kay! I’m going to your marriage!!” Raven screams. She climbs on the overstuffed chair and stands on the arm. “Watch me! I can jump to the couch! Ahh!! Hot lava!! Look out!!” She pile-drives into Leo and Uncle Oscar from the chair. “Hot lava!!” She cackles and screeches when Uncle Oscar and Leo start to tickle her. Bommy comes over to see what’s up. Leo tickles her too. Laughter abounds.
I think Raven survived “the telling” without too many emotional scars. She was in way more danger from the hot lava.
The next morning I hear Leo swearing up a storm. I can see into the bathroom that is off our bedroom and she is standing on my grandma’s scale. Her back is to me and I can see every bone in her vertebrae. Her shoulder blades stick out like fried chicken wings.
She has a huge black bruise on her thigh when she turns around. Her bra is baggy and her undies hang loose. Her eyes are dark circled and sunken and she just looks ill.
“Goddammit to hell!!” She’s furious. She quakes with feeble wrath.
“Diet going well?”
“I haven’t freaking lost one pound! Because when I ate red meat that time at Shane’s!! Stupid!”
“No, it’s not, Leo! It’s because you don’t have any fat left to lose! You’re emaciated! It doesn’t look good either! You were more beautiful with a little meat on your bones! And boobs!”
She bursts into tears. I stop. She doesn’t need to expend any precious body energy by crying.
“What’s the deal on your leg there, droopy drawers?” I inquire gently.
She looks down to the huge black bruise the shape of South America, trailing down her hip and thigh. She touches it gingerly and winces. It looks painful.
“Oh, that’s nothing . . . just where Raven jumped on us last night.” She smiles at the memory.
“I don’t think that’s a good sign, Leo. She didn’t hit you that hard and that looks messed up!”
After I dress I wander out, leaving Leo to continue tripping in the bathroom. My dad is sitting alone at the kitchen table reading the paper.
“Where’s GramMer?” I look out the window. It’s misting outside.
“Raven has a doctor’s appointment and her mom can’t take her because she has a test so your grandma said she would. She has to get her shots for school in September. I hate seeing her get shots.”
“Wait—she’s not five yet, is she?”
“Not yet, but she’s so smart we thought we’d put her in early. She’s already reading.”
“Oh, I know, I know.” Yeah, so, I’m no longer the only genius kid either. She’s brill too!
I pour some coffee and sit at the table glumly, feeling completely replaced.
But good ol’ Dad just keeps ’em coming.
“Rylee, I think we should talk about them friends of y
ours.”
I raise my eyebrows to indicate I’m listening.
“Well, sugar foots, I’m not for sure, but I think those fellers might be gay.”
He looks at me from under his eyebrows like Oscar the Grouch.
Have you ever felt the urge to laugh and cry simultaneously?
“Ya think, Dad?” I’m sure I have a snorty expression on my face. “Huh, maybe . . . I’d never considered it!”
“Well, Rylee Marie,” he starts out seriously. “It’s—hey, I’m being serious here!” He gripes, all exasperated when I grin and he sees I’m just winding him up. “That’s not funny! I was just asking if you knew about . . . stuff.” He informs me, severely vague.
So I relent.
“Yeah, I do know about stuff, Dad, and I’m totally cool with it—like it’s any of my bizness. How ’bout you? What’s your take on ‘stuff’ and such?” I settle in to enjoy an hour-long smirk-fest.
My dad totally surprises me. Instead of a barking mad diatribe, he answers thoughtfully.
“Well, it’s a lot more common than you might think.”
This pulls me up short. Really? It makes me look at him sharply.
“Oh, yeah? Do tell,” I say.
“A lot of guys in the navy,” he says like he was answering a quiz question.
“Oh, really? You knew gay guys in the navy, Dad?”
“Yeah. Quite a few. They—” He nods emphatically and inhales to elaborate.
“OK! DAD! That’s fine!” I cut him off before he TMIs things I can’t un-hear. After about age eleven you will RUN in the STREET to avoid hearing about sex when it’s your parents with the info. Instead I redirect him.
“So—you’re cool, then? It’s just common sense and civil rights, pure and simple. Right?”
Dad pulls a face. “Waal, I dunno if pure would be the word I’d use, exactly,” he drawls.
“Did all hell break loose?” Again—I’m bagging on him; it’s another of his fave expressions. He looks at me quickly to see if I’m sincere and makes a face when he sees I’m still not.
Rusty Summer Page 17
