Things to Make and Break

by May-Lan Tan

  The screen door bangs shut behind her. It’s a little cooler outside, but muggy. The sky looks thick and white, and this all starts to feel like something that happened so long ago she can barely remember it. She could lie down and go to sleep, and it would still keep happening without her. Wind shakes the trees. A cool bead of sweat slides down her cheek and into her mouth. The taste of salt when she swallows tugs her back into her body. Kneeling on the porch, she digs the shells from her pockets and checks the safety again. She holds down the loading gate and feeds the slugs into the magazine tube. The spring makes a clipping sound as she pops them in.

  She stands up, presses the slide release and pumps the action. The sound makes her heart touch her ribs. She carries the shotgun into the house, catching the screen door with her shoulder so it doesn’t slam. Colored light from the TV flashes against the sofa cushions as she walks through the living room. She wipes her hand against her shorts before turning the door handle. The hinge squeaks as she eases the door open. She slides the safety forward, grips the gun with both hands, and tries to breathe. Finger on the trigger guard, she raises the shotgun and steps around the door.

  He’s sleeping on his side, clutching the sheet with a fist, breathing shallow and regular. She moves toward him through bars of sunlight, stepping over grayish twists of cloth. There’s a smell of wet fur. His head is off the pillow, on his bent arm. She stands by the bed with her cheek smushed against the side of the buttstock and peers down the rib at the center of his forehead. As she dips the muzzle, training the bead on the space between his eyes, the picture turns white and grainy and she sees herself standing, holding the shotgun.

  She sees herself walking backwards out of the room and closing the door. Unloading the shells one by one. Leaning the gun against the back of the closet and locking it. Returning the key to its drawer. She can undo everything she’s done so far, and she’ll still have something she didn’t have before. She can put the shells in the freezer and watch cartoons, and every time she looks at the cupboard by the TV, she’ll remember how this feels.

  His warmth comes through the sheet. His turned-earth smell of smoke and skin. She slips three fingers under the guard and squeezes the trigger. The top of his head bursts, spraying blood and bone straight up the wall. Pillow stuffing floats down. She hears the casing whirring across the floor. There are brains. He flops like a fish, making dull sounds. She pumps the slide, finds his chest, and fires. His body opens like a flower. A blackish circle keeps getting bigger. Her t-shirt sticks to her skin as she walks to the phone, and she starts to feel the burn from the recoil.

  Katy, Texas

  Lauren’s left tooth in front is so wobbly, it swings all the way out like a cat flap. He shows Jericho, who always knows what to do.

  “We have to tie it to the doorknob with dental floss,” Jericho says with his mouth full. He has frizzy brown hair and more freckles than skin. “I’ll slam it for you.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Nah. But it bleeds forever.”

  Lauren makes a face. “No thanks.”

  “Wuss.”

  He slept over at Jericho’s last night, like he does every Friday. In the morning they had toaster waffles with sliced Prosage Roll instead of breakfast sausage, and Stripples, which are Christian bacon with perfect pink and yellow stripes. Their food is weird but Lauren likes it because he’s funny about meat. He doesn’t mind skinning deer and rabbits with his dad, but eating them is another thing. He borrowed one of Jericho’s clip-on bow ties and they went to Sabbath School and church.

  Lauren’s been Saved since the first grade. It’s a secret from his dad, who’s kind of touchy about God. He’s just jealous because he’s an atheist, which is a heathen religion with not such good stories. When Lauren had been to Sabbath School ten times in a row, the teacher gave Jericho a pencil and a gold star. She said he gets a crown in heaven, too. Lauren thought since Jericho had already won all the prizes, maybe it was time to stop going, but it turns out he’s supposed to keep going till he dies because later God is planning to look it up in his chart. Religion is scary at times, like when the preacher’s face gets red and everybody cries, but Lauren loves the magazines and potlucks, and stories with Fuzzy-Felts. Most of all he loves being Saved, like a piece of chewing gum that’s still perfectly fine, stuck to God’s bedpost.

  After church, Jericho’s dad barbecued FriPats and Leanies out on the deck, and Jericho’s mom made ice-cream sundaes. Jericho’s parents went to have their nap and Jericho and Lauren made a huge fort in the living room. They used chairs and cushions from every room in the house and even some of the books. When Lauren went to get more cushions from the den, he heard Jericho’s parents making strange sounds and running around inside their room. It spooked him and he’s ready to go home. Dad normally comes in the afternoon but today Lauren was still here for vespers and bath time, and now they’re having dinner and he still hasn’t shown up.

  Jericho’s dad is a doctor-on-call and they called him today, so they’re eating without him. Jericho’s mom has bright yellow hair that’s black in the parting. She made spaghetti with Tender Bits and when she goes to answer the phone, Jericho and Lauren do the special trick. They swallow a strand of spaghetti without chewing, keeping hold of the end, and they pull it out. The noodle comes out clean. It makes you gag but it’s worth it.

  When Jericho’s mom comes back from the phone, she puts her chin on her hand and stares out the window at the driveway. She’s been in a funny mood all evening, like when they showed her the fort, she wasn’t as impressed as they thought she’d be. When Lauren and Jericho are done eating, she switches on the pool lights and sends them out onto the deck to play. They pretend they’re in a SWAT team with M16s and bazookas. Jericho’s parents don’t allow any guns in the house, not even pretend ones that’s just a finger and thumb and them saying pyoom pyoom. Lauren’s dad says Jericho’s parents don’t have a grip on reality.

  Lauren’s dad lets him be around when he’s cleaning his guns. Sometimes he shows Lauren how to undo the catch on the smallest one and how to hold it, in case he ever needs to threaten a burglar. Lauren hopes he won’t and hopes he will. Dad says the burglar will get scared and run, but if he doesn’t, to shoot him in the thigh. Only to maim and never to kill. Never the head or the heart.

  Jericho knows about the guns and bugs Lauren to let him see them, but his parents never let him go to Lauren’s. Sometimes Lauren wonders if it’s better to be like him and Dad and have a gun and reality, or to be like Jericho’s family with no gun and no reality, but a house with a pool and God and Jericho’s mom there. Maybe some people have all those things and for them life is perfect.

  They go inside to play golf in the den. Tonight it seems obvious that the golf course is just a fake grass mat with three holes. It’s really not that much fun without Jericho’s dad giving them tips on their putting style and patting their shoulders when they do it right. Sometimes he gives them some bourbon in a tiny glass. He would like them to get some hair on their chests.

  Dad still hasn’t shown up when Jericho’s bedtime comes, so Jericho’s mom gets them both ready for bed. Putting his pajamas on again makes Lauren sad. It seems like his dad has forgotten about him. When Jericho’s mom prays, Lauren and Jericho open their eyes and watch her. It’s like she’s sleep-talking. She tucks them in and gives Lauren a hug and a kiss. She leaves the night-light on. Jericho has some Israelites hidden inside his pillowcase and they have a few whispered battles before Jericho crashes out.

  Lauren never feels all that sleepy here. He lays on his side and wiggles his tooth, listening to Jericho’s breathing that sounds like a broken machine. He wishes he had Spider-Man pajamas like Jericho’s. He likes the trundle bed where he’s lying, the way it slides out already made up from under Jericho’s bed. If he sank much deeper down into the mattress and lay very flat, you could push him back in just like closing a drawer, and he’d be safe as anything.

  That chiming sound means the ca
r door’s open, but Lauren’s pretty sure he’s in the trundle bed at Jericho’s. When he lifts his head, he feels his cheek unstick from the leather seat. There’s black sky in the windshield, stars winking like staples, and the perfume tree hanging from the rearview mirror. He’s in the back seat of his dad’s car parked behind the ABC. Lauren likes it when people take you somewhere when you’re asleep. It seems magical. He decides to look for his dad in the store.

  When he climbs out and shuts the door, he notices he’s barefoot and in his pajamas. The air is as warm as dog breath. He can still hear the chimes so he goes around to the driver’s side and opens and closes the door. As he walks across the lot, he feels day-old sunshine trapped in the asphalt.

  The mat in front of the store is scratchy. The doors swish open. Inside, the floor feels clammy and there are bright reflections painted on the windows. The cashier is trying to sleep on the counter. She has pink hair and thin arms decorated with tattoos. A fan on a chair swings its head from side to side like it’s dancing and concentrating. Lauren sees his dad over by the fridges. Lauren smiles and waves, but his dad doesn’t notice, so Lauren gets kind of mad and decides not to go over. The cashier lifts her head and blinks. She seems young, like a babysitter. He smiles, feeling shy.

  “Look,” he says, wiggling his tooth.

  She yawns and smiles. He looks at the sea-black dragon and purple octopus twisted around her arms, the mermaid peeping around the crook of her elbow.

  “My mom used to have tattoos.”

  “She did? You mean she had them lasered off?”

  He shakes his head. “She’s dead. She killed herself.”

  The girl’s mouth forms an O. “Baby,” she says in a pretty way.

  “It’s OK,” he says, “it was a long time ago. She was very sad. She cried with tissues when she watched a movie on TV.”

  “She sounds beautiful,” the girl says.

  Lauren’s dad plunks his shopping basket on the counter. The girl’s face changes when she looks at him. She looks at Lauren and then at Lauren’s dad. “You’re not driving, are you, sir?”

  As Dad fumbles with his wallet, the girl takes the bottles out of the basket and puts them behind the counter. Dad holds out some bills. He frowns at the shopping basket.

  “Sir. Is there someone who can come pick you up?”

  Dad peers at her nametag. “Listen, Anna,” he says, “Anna banana.” He leans across and tries to look behind the counter.

  “My finger’s on a button,” she says. “The sheriff can be here in four minutes. I’ve timed it.”

  The squiggly vein on Dad’s forehead sticks out as he grabs Lauren by the elbow and pulls him away from the counter. The glass doors slide apart, mirroring colors.

  “I hope someone burns down your stupid store,” he yells over his shoulder.

  “I only work here on weekends,” the girl says.

  As they cross the parking lot, Lauren looks back and sees her peering through the store window, shading the glass with her hands. He waves but she doesn’t wave back. He gets in the back seat and when he looks out the window, the girl is gone. There’s just the price of applesauce felt-tipped on the glass.

  “Pain in the ass.” Dad twists the key and flips the headlights on.

  He wraps his arm around the passenger seat and reverses out of the space. The back wheels bump against the edge of the tree island and the car goes spinning out of the lot. In the distance the town lights are as pretty as party lights. Dad passes the turn for the interstate, staying on the back roads.

  Lauren looks at his reflection in the glass with tree shapes flicking across it. Last week, a lady came to their school wearing gloves and a mask as if she was allergic to children. She checked them for cooties and practically all the kids in his class had them. Dad washed Lauren’s hair with special shampoo before shaving it off. The blond stubble looks sparkly in the dark window.

  “So,” Dad says, tipping his head back as he looks at Lauren in the rearview mirror. He seems cheered up. “What’s new?”

  “I had an ice-cream sundae with fudge and smashed Oreos.”

  “How nice,” Dad says. “They’re good people.”

  “Uh-huh, and we made a fort. Oh, and my tooth is more wobbly, see?” Lauren bares his teeth and pushes the wobbliest one out as far as he can with his tongue.

  Dad turns and grins at him. “Right on,” he says.

  Lauren beams and settles back in his seat.

  A deer shines in the headlights. Dad cusses and swerves. When he tries to right the car it skids, knocking Lauren against the window. They slide the other way and he flies across the backseat and hits his head on the door. Dad’s yelling at him and the car keeps swinging from side to side. Lauren grabs the back of the passenger seat and wraps his arms around it and the car starts to spin. He hugs as tight as he can but he’s slipping, something pulls him harder than he can hold. He goes out through the back window, the top of his head breaking the glass.

  There’s bottom-of-the-pool slowness and starry blue-green light. Tiny suns are burning in the water and there are strawberry plants growing from between the tiles. A mermaid swims toward him, her dark hair moving like smoke. She smiles with bubbles coming out of her mouth, and her face changes into his mother’s face. He tries to wave and call out, but it’s a movie, or a dream he’s not in. She’s naked like the last time Lauren saw her, but the cuts on her arms have all closed and her tattoos have come to life. Bluebirds perch on her collarbones and roses sprout from her wrists, the petals waving.

  He tastes metal. There’s a whistling sound coming from his cheek and when he tries to touch it, he touches bone. He lifts his head just in time to throw up on the grass. It takes a few tries before he manages to tug in a breath. He has a headache and his lungs feel wet and every time he coughs, something snaps. He spits and wipes warm black stuff from his eyes and he’s so cold. Light and metal glimmer through the long grass and he hears the engine purring. The sound is comforting.

  “Dad—” Lauren’s voice comes out in a wheeze, hurting his ribs. He presses them and breathes. When he tries to crawl his legs are shivery and strange, so he grabs fistfuls of the grass and drags himself toward the brightness. The blood on his PJs is thick as mud and helps him to slide. When he sees the car hood wadded like tissue, he punches his legs until he can feel them and tries to stand up. The car is tilted on the bank, pointing upward with the motor humming like it wants to take off. As he limps toward it, his tongue catches on a gap and he realizes his tooth has come out. The door’s at a weird angle and it takes all his strength to get it open.

  The turn signal’s ticking and there’s blood on the windshield. His father’s bunched against the driver’s door, glass sprayed all over his clothes. Lauren stands there, stunned. The sound of the motor had made him think his dad would be waiting impatiently, ready to drive away. The car tilts as Lauren climbs in and the door almost slams on his fingers. He climbs over the gearshift and looks at his father’s face. It’s a dark mash. He can’t find eyes or a mouth. It’s hard to understand and the trembling car and moaning engine and gas fumes are making him dizzy and sick. He kneels on the floor and puts his head on his dad’s knee to keep from passing out. His head is pounding and his cheeks feel cold and tight.

  He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there staring at the tiny pieces of glass stuck in his hands. Dad’s face is so bloody and broken. Lauren wonders if he’s dead. He holds his own wrist to check how a pulse should be. He tries to find it on his father’s wrist but it’s hard to feel what’s going on because of the vibrations of the engine.

  “We have to get him to the hospital,” his mom says.

  Lauren turns and there’s nothing there, but he knows what he heard. Although her voice is in his head sometimes, it’s only ever the shape of the sound, a colorful wavy line. This was her real voice. She always sounded like she had a sore throat. He closes his eyes.

  “Doctors can jumpstart people’s hearts with electricity. They
can do that.” Her voice is scratchy-soft. He feels her breath curl against his neck, and catches her scent of soap and skin. “He might have to wear a bandage. He’ll take us out for pancakes. We’ll pile them up high, and cut through the whole stack at once.”

  He breathes her smell again before he opens his eyes. He climbs onto his father’s lap and holds the steering wheel with both hands. The headlights are on, making the smash pattern on the windshield shine like a wet spiderweb.

  The way the car is pushed against the bank, it seems like it drove across the field by itself and got stuck trying to go uphill. Lauren looks at the gearshift. D is for Drive, so that’s probably good, and the engine’s chugging, so he doesn’t have to turn the key. His feet don’t reach the pedals unless he stands up and points his toes. He presses the left pedal and nothing happens, so he presses the right one. The car starts to creep forward, up the bank.

  The long yellow grass parts like hair in the headlights. As the ground flattens out, the car goes faster. This is OK. He eases up on the pedal and peers through the cracked glass, making a circle back toward the bank. He drives down the slope and across the field. Seeing the road up ahead on the right, he steers toward it, trying to find a comfortable speed.

  As the road swerves toward him, he leans on the pedal and tilts the wheel. The car skips over the ditch and sails onto the road. He’s doing it. It’s another thing he knows how to do, see? He grips the wheel tightly and follows the wave of the road, pressing up against it, hugging the curves. He drives down the middle, staying right on top of the two lines. His mother used to say there’s a tiny train that runs along them at night. Lauren’s always looking but he hasn’t seen it yet. Dad has, once or twice.

  Candy Glass

  BLACK SCREEN

  ALEXA (VOICE-OVER)

  Everyone calls her DC. It stands for Driverless Car, that’s her specialty.