But Marcus ignored him. “You don’t have the right to talk about me.”
“I’ll talk all day. And you won’t do a thing about it.”
“Bet I will.”
At that point I focused on his face. “Marcus, I’ll spare you the speech. God ain’t saving you around here. You push me hard enough and I’m gonna rabbit punch you in the grill.”
Marcus’ face seized up with an uncontrollable tick in it. One hand launched high in the air, the other cupping his mouth as he closed eyes, right foot stomping the ground in a rage. “God rebuuuuuuke this hell bound sinner. Let not Satan have his way in his wicked heart of hearts—”
Amy’s bottom lip dropped. “What did he say?”
I barely heard her. I was too busy searching the crease in his eyes. He’s looking to get a reaction out of them. “Save the ham for the stage. You want to prove something, jump off that fence like my brother said.”
“Lee, I don’t think that’s wise,” Amy said, and I held up my hand to shush her.
“It ain’t that high.” Paul cleared away from Marcus. “How old are you anyway?”
Marcus still bowed his head in prayer. “Ten.”
“I’m eight. But I’m big for my age. You sure you’re ten? You don’t look it.”
Marcus did little more than calculate the smirk on my face.
Paul kicked the ground. “Gonna to do it or what?”
“In the face of my enemies,” Marcus whispered. “God, give me strength.” He attacked the fence with a flurry of disjointed limbs. I realized Darla climbed better at half his age. I nearly broke out laughing.
Amy poked me hard in the ribs. “It’s not funny.”
“Then you’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
There was a real sense of accomplishment buried under the angry glare of red freckles. Marcus encouraged balance with pin wheeling arms. Like a scarecrow blowing in the wind.
“What are you waiting on?” Paul gravitated back to the fence. There was a complexity to my brother; one lost on me. I’d stopped trying to understand the difference between us years ago. “You want me to show you how?”
“There’s nothing you can show me.” Marcus’ arms continued circling as he pointed unsteadily beside Paul. “Is that area clear to land on, heathen?”
Paul squinted over to me. “What’d he call me?”
“A heathen.” I informed my brother then looked up at Marcus. “Why don’t you ask God? All we heathens are busy down here.”
Paul puffed up. “What’s a heathen?”
“Look it up, butt cheeks.” I turned to Amy. “I hope he rips a knee open.”
“Get away from me.” Marcus’ arms fueled the air as he waved Paul away. Time seemed to slow down at the point his right foot slipped off the wood. In the space of a breath, both legs splayed apart, dropping him squarely on the rail. His mouth sucked for air, but couldn’t find any. For an instant he just sat there, shoulders and chest shaking. Then he fell over, struck his back on the post and collapsed sideways in the grass.
Somewhere in the pit of my stomach a knot twisted in on itself. Holy crap. I lunged forward to his side.
“Cool, a full nutter.” Paul’s face had soaked up the impact, face wringing out a sick smile.
“Did you see that?” Darla looked amazed at the frail shape of Marcus wallowing on the ground in agony. “He hit his pee-pee. He hit his pee-pee real hard.”
Paul pushed himself across the ground, laughing until snot bubbles blew out of his nose in perfect uniformity. I stared at him, then at Marcus, legs tucked to his chest, and I didn’t know which was worse. My stupid brother, rolling about on the ground, or poor Marcus, the redheaded hand of God, begging for mercy, both hands buried down his pants. I’d heard of the dreaded full-nutter before—the mythical legend of Kyle Edwards falling on his bike bar, while jumping ramps, and having one permanently removed—but nothing prepared me for actually witnessing the act firsthand.
“Paul, would you stop, for God’s sake?” Amy forced attention on our brother with ruthless efficiency. A mustache of snot coated Paul’s upper lip through a gale of unconcerned laughter. “It’s not funny. How would you like it if it happened to you?”
“Lee. Lee.” Darla tugged at my back.
“What?” I snapped.
Her little six-year-old head was shaking. “Little girls don’t have pee-pees.”
Amy grabbed Darla’s hand and pulled her back to the fence. “Don’t talk about stuff like that.”
“But it’s the truth. We don’t have none.”
“We don’t have any.” Amy corrected her.
“Pee-pees.” Darla said again. “Boys have pee-pees and girls don’t.”
“Darla!”
“What?”
“Quit talking about it.” Amy pushed her around behind her. “We know already.”
Blood dimpled the back of Marcus’ shirt. I pushed it up to see how bad. Rubbing my face with both hands, I glanced away at Amy and back again.
Not good. Not good at all.
Purple pockmarks swirled into a blueprint, matching the top of the post. I sat there wondering what to do with him when I saw the running-stitch of cuts sowed into his side. What the…? There must be forty or fifty scars. A series of rudely imperfect stripes, some larger than others, trailed the length of ribcage like a ladder without sides. The tissue meshed together somewhat vulgarly, as if soldered with something hot. Everything appeared healed, save for a few covered in falling scabs. Worse than that, the midpoint of his stomach was a scalded rash of inverted v’s. My eyes watered at the knowledge of them, as if someone had thrown sand in my face. I couldn’t swallow the dryness out from my mouth. I covered them again. I’d seen that mark in the burn of a starched shirt once. It was the upper point of a hot iron press. He looked at me then, and I saw something in his reaction that made me take a step back. His eyes came unseated like a thing moving out of the dark, ready shaped and violent.
“That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” Paul still thrashed about the ground and I could see the stain of pee showing in his crotch. But I didn’t turn away for long. Those eyes wouldn’t let me.
“It wasn’t funny.” Amy kicked his arm. “If you didn’t challenge him with your stupid jump.”
“It’s not my fault he busted his nuts.”
Darla poked her head around Amy. “What are nuts?”
“Nothing.”
Amy was busy holding Darla back. “If you would act like you had some sense in your head.”
“I don’t take orders from you, Amy.” Paul stood up and dusted himself off. The seams of his pockets were bulging with army men. He never left the house without a small infantry and a book of matches to melt them.
“If I tell Mom that you put him up to this.”
“You won’t do it.”
My eyes jumped back and forth in the grass. Think, Lee. But that just brought up questions I couldn’t answer. Some of which I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to. Only the noise made it harder to put anything together. My ears were drowning in sound. When I broke through the surface of it, I lashed out. “Shut up, the both of you. Jesus, I can’t hear myself think.” I stepped back over to Marcus unsure of what to do. His face boiled over in pain. But at least he didn’t look prepared to kill me.
“Maybe we should get his Daddy.” Amy pulled a strand of hair back behind one ear as she leaned over us.
“No, we don’t,” I said. “We stay here and wait. A few more minutes at least. See if he can walk it off.”
“Help me sit up,” Marcus managed to say.
I knelt back down at his side, not touching him. “You don’t need to move around right now. Just take it easy.”
“You jump like a girl.” My brother snickered.
I pointed him away. “Go up to the house and take Darla with you.”
Paul stood still, staring at me. I could tell something in my younger brother disliked me—had disliked me for years by then—but he kept it inside, loc
ked away with clever keys of his own making.
Darla stomped her feet. “I won’t go.”
“Paul, listen to me,” I said, ignoring her. “When you get up there, don’t tell Mom what happened.”
“Lee, come on, it’s not my fault he canned his marbles on the fence.”
“Just go, okay?” I looked at Darla, whose small eyes bore nothing but trouble in them. “That means you, too. Keep your mouth shut.”
Darla grabbed hold of Paul’s hand and he shook it off, only to have her grab it again. “I won’t tell.”
Amy cocked her a look. “You promise?”
“Pinky swear.” I flipped around to see Darla still holding her little finger in the air.
Paul began dragging her up the hill.
“Marcus, I’m going to lift you up some.” I clapped my hands for Amy to help. “Come on. Let’s get each of his arms. See if he’ll lean on the fence.”
Amy slipped her weight under his. “How do you feel?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Marcus gagged over the grass, but nothing came out, legs dragging behind.
I rubbed my face, irritated by the whole production. If you’re going to throw up, for God’s sake, just do it. Looking at his downcast head, I couldn’t bring myself to feel any sympathy. He still belonged in the weirdo club. And I reminded him. “You’re wearing stupid dress shoes. You can’t climb in those things.”
“You’re not fit to judge me, whoremonger.” Sleek and shiny, that bubble of a vein backed its way out on his forehead again like a target. The tendons in my hand flexed with the start of a fist and I wanted to drive it into his forehead. Instead, I wrapped my hands into his shirt and slung him around to the fence. It knocked the air out of him.
“Shut your stinking hole.” I wasn’t sure which was worse. The fact I’d never heard the word whoremonger before or that he had. Either way it didn’t matter. “You don’t even know what it means.”
I took a breath and felt better when there was no reply.
“We need to get up to the house.” I looked from Amy to Marcus. “Can you walk yet?” I gauged the distance to the hill, on up to the porch, dreading the idea of carrying him. That’s when I saw somebody at the window.
“I’m fine.” Marcus started tucking his shirt back in.
I nodded at Amy and looked back up at the house. “Do you see anyone at the window?”
Amy squinted in that direction. “I think it’s Paul.” And just as soon as the words left her mouth an even bigger shape filled the glass frame. My chest turned liquid hot and the skin between my legs knotted up so tight I felt my sphincter contract. Out to the right, I could sense Amy staring at me. Her mouth pinched back when the side door banged off its hinges. Mr. Tucker came barging out of the house, headed straight for us.
“Marcus, you’d better shake it off in a hurry. Here comes your daddy.” My eyes caught the shape of my mother, hands holding her blue and yellow dress up above her knees. She stepped through the field behind Mr. Tucker. The mares standing at the fence began to walk off. They understood it just like me. Something terrible was about to happen. I tried to swallow, finding nothing in my throat to get past the dry lump baking behind my tongue.
I heard Amy mutter “Oh, God” as she backed away. Mr. Tucker ground to a halt at the fence, a look of exasperation whittled into his face.
“Marcus, are you okay, sweetie?” Mother called out gently, kneeling on her dress before him.
“I think so.”
Warren Tucker cut his eyes at me. “Marcus what happened down here?”
“I tried to jump off the fence.” He looked at the ground in failure, Mom wetting her thumb with her tongue and rubbing dirt from his face.
“This fence?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Tucker crossed his arms. “Why, son?”
“I don’t know. To be like them.”
“But you’re not, Marcus,” he scolded. “You’re not like anyone else.”
“Tell us where it hurts.” Mom lifted his chin. “Did you break anything?”
I couldn’t help but answer for him. “There’s not any bones in what he landed on.” Amy popped me on the arm and Marcus looked like he could disappear in the ground.
“Tell me where it hurts.”
I was smiling on the inside. If Darla were here, she could answer that one. “Pee-pee, mama. He hit his pee-pee real hard. And what are nuts?”
“Answer her, Marcus.” Mr. Tucker’s long fingers snapped at him and Marcus pointed at his groin.
“Oh! Well now.” My mother covered her mouth slightly. “I think your father’s going to have to help you there.”
Mr. Tucker reached out and Marcus cupped his hand to his ear. I watched as he patted his side gently. As I stood there, his eyes swarmed over me. Desperation roared up through my neck. It was like stepping into a nest of hornets that look.
6
A horn blared outside, startling me. Stepping on the pictures, I stumbled into the kitchen counter and, with one hand, splashed water on my face from the tap. Outside, fresh ocean air washed out the underside the house. Sweat chilled against my back. I paused at one of the brick columns leading out from the carport and took two deep breaths. A wave of sickness came and went with them.
The sound of a door closed behind me and I looked up in time to see my daughter, standing with her feet in the sand, face perfect as a picture. Her name was Charlene Macon, but everybody called her Charlie, including yours truly. She possessed the beauty of a rolling field. You couldn’t help stare. A waterfall of blonde hair fell down almost to the middle of her back, like cut diamonds it sparkled in the light. Black Oakley’s perched the crest of a hat emblazoned with a large A and the head of a thundering elephant running around the brim.
“Hey, Daddy.” She bear hugged me.
“Easy, sweetie. I’m old and brittle.” I gripped her shoulders tight. “I’ve got calcified bones that are going to need carbon testing when you squeeze me that hard.”
“You’re not a dinosaur yet.”
“I’m feeling like Oldmanicus Deathbedicus. Didn’t they find one of those fossilized in a bed of wheelchairs out in Montana?”
She laughed. “Please, you look great.” Then she cut her eyes out at me. “How’re you sleeping?”
I grimaced at her polite way of asking about Chimayo. “Better now. A few dreams. Not as bad as before. They finally gave me her ashes.”
“That’s what Amy said. The two of you decide what you’re gonna do with ‘em?”
I pointed an arm back at the beach. “I was thinking out there.”
“That’ll be good, right?”
I took in the sand at our feet. “Can we talk about it later? I really wanna hear about you. How’s grad school?”
“Fine. What I thought it would be.” Her voice came off unsteady, the way someone talked themselves into deeper water than they were accustomed to swimming.
“Now hold on a second. If you’re scared, say you’re scared.”
“Don’t get started with me.” She walked around and opened the backdoor and out bounded a Golden Lab, tail wagging and thumping down the side of the car in an explosion of wiggle filled glee. He took a nosedive into my feet and flipped sand up in the air, half pawing half nipping at my shoes in the process.
“Mr. Jacks! How are you?” I scratched under his neck, which was met with a mauling mix of kisses. Behind us a thundering crash of waves pounded the shore and he sprung up sideways into a what-in-the-hell-was-that gesture.
I looked at him and noticed his lazy eye kicking toward the center of his face; so that even in his brightest moments, he was perhaps the stupidest looking dog on the planet. “What was that? Giant sea squirrels attacking the beach, you say? Well, go get ’em and lick ’em to death you shifty eyed tank!”
His mouth popped open and, in a flurry of sand and slobber, he assaulted the dunes to explore.
“Obedience training seems to be paying off,” I muttered.
&
nbsp; She offered a wicked grin. “Nope, he ate the recliner last week.”
“Whole thing?”
“Down to the handle. And wanted to play fetch with that.”
“At least it’s not dog turds anymore.”
Up popped a disapproving eye. “That was one time.”
The Weight of Glass Page 6
